Part 7 (1/2)

The first was from Ralph Ames. ”Hey, Beau,” he said. ”Sorry to say I struck out. I called Ron and let him know what the deal was. I offered to come over and be there to back him up, but he said thanks but no thanks. If he isn't interested in my help, there's not much I can do. I wanted to let you know that I tried.”

The second call followed Ralph's by a matter of minutes. It was from my colleague, Melissa Soames. ”Hey, J.P.,” she said. ”This is Mel. According to Harry, we need to talk. Give me a call ASAP.”

The third message came from Tracy Peters. She was crying. ”Uncle Beau? Mom's not here, and I can't reach her. I don't know what to do. Two people, a man and a woman, showed up a little while ago with a search warrant for Dad's car. When they left, they took him with them, and they didn't say where they were going. Now there's a big tow truck down in the driveway. Some guy is loading Dad's Camry onto it right now. Please call me back or else come by. We need you.”

The call had come in a good two hours earlier.

I immediately tried calling back, but there was no answer. This was hardly a surprise. No doubt Ron Peters's home and his family were in the midst of a full media onslaught. If they were smart, they would be hunkered down inside, not answering phones or doorbells. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket, ducked my chin into my chest, and ran up the hill.

Amazingly enough, I didn't slip and fall on my b.u.t.t, and I didn't have a heart attack or collapse before I hit Second Avenue, either, but it was close. I was still panting when I staggered up to the lobby at Belltown Terrace. Jerome opened the door to let me in.

”Hey, man,” he said. ”What's with you? You been running that four-minute mile again?”

”More like ten,” I gasped. ”But I need a car or a cab. With either four-wheel drive and snow tires or chains, I don't care which. And I need it now.”

”A good doorman is like a Boy Scout. We're always prepared,” he said with a grin. ”I have a friend who drives a cab, and he and I have an arrangement. He came to work today with his cab all decked out in chains. I've got his cell number right here, and I've been calling him all day long whenever any of my people need help. I'll give him a call.”

”Please,” I said. ”I don't know how long I'm going to need him, but tell him I'll make it worth his while.”

”He's been pretty busy today,” Jerome said. ”As you can well imagine. So why don't you go upstairs and wait. I'll call you just as soon as Mohammad Ibrahim shows up.”

”Thanks,” I said. ”I'll do that.”

While I was upstairs waiting for the cab, I switched on the TV. On KOMO a special early edition of the evening news was dis.h.i.+ng out wall-to-wall weather. ”The Counterbalance on Queen Anne Avenue is closed to all vehicular traffic, while kids, taking advantage of their snow day, turn it into a place for sledding. Reporter Megan Forester has a live report.”

Years ago, Seattle used to have a working trolley system, not just the current tourist-attraction-type outfit that runs back and forth along the waterfront without really making much of a contribution to ma.s.s transportation. Like similar trolleys in San Francisco, the old system required a counterbalance in order for cars to make it up and down the steepest part of Queen Anne Hill. The working trolleys are long gone, but on Queen Anne the word ”counterbalance” persists, and it is, as the name implies, very steep. Letting kids use it for sledding seemed like a recipe for disaster. I was surprised the city hadn't put a stop to it based solely on liability concerns.

Kamikaze sledders weren't my problem. Queen Anne Hill was. If the main drag up and down the hill was closed, Mohammad Ibrahim might have a tough time getting me anywhere near Ron and Amy's place. When Jerome called upstairs to tell me the cab had arrived, I rode down in the elevator expecting that the driver would be a newly arrived immigrant from some Middle Eastern country and that communication might be difficult.

It turned out Mr. Ibrahim wasn't exactly a newly landed immigrant. He had been driving cabs in Seattle for some time, but he hadn't gotten around to changing the name on his driver's license photo ID, where he was still listed as James L. Jackson, and the old country he hailed from was actually west Texas.

”You tell me where y'all want to go,” he said in a thick Texas drawl, ”and I'll be getting you there.”

I expected he'd drive like a madman. He didn't. Instead of tackling Queen Anne Hill straight on, he took a circuitous route that eased us up the flanks of the hill, the same way a highway zigzags back and forth climbing a mountain. When we reached Ron and Amy's street, however, we weren't the first to arrive. Not everybody in local television land was focused on the weather. Two television cam-vans were parked out front.

”Park here,” I told Mr. Ibrahim. ”If you don't mind, I'd like you to wait here with the meter running.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. ”This isn't on the meter, by the way,” I added. ”And there's more where that came from if you're still here when I get back.”

”Where y'all gonna be?” he asked.

”That house up there,” I said, pointing.

”The one with all the cameras outside?”

I didn't want to think about what Harry I. Ball would do if one of the television cameras happened to catch an image of me wandering up to Ron and Amy's front door. He would be p.i.s.sed. So would Ross Connors.

”That's right,” I said. ”And since they're out front, I'm going to try going in the back.”

Mohammad took the proffered bill and stuck it in his pocket. Then he leaned back in his seat. ”Well, good luck to you, mister,” he said. ”I don't know what you're up to, but it should be fun. I'll be right here waiting whenever y'all get done.”

Lame as it may sound now, I did have a plan. I knew that Tracy had managed to sneak out of the house the night before without anyone being the wiser, and she had told me that Heather often pulled the same stunt. I took that to mean that there had to be some way for the girls to come and go without being noticed. Hoping to stumble on their secret route, I went in through the front yard two houses up the street. After leaving a very obvious trail in the snow behind me and falling once or twice, I finally clambered over the last fence and landed in Ron and Amy's snow-clad but familiar backyard.

I was standing there reconnoitering when the back patio door slid open, and Molly Wright, Amy's older sister, stepped out onto the snow-covered deck. ”I don't know who the h.e.l.l you think you are, pal,” she said, ”but you'd better get your a.s.s out of here before I call the cops.”

I was astounded at Molly Wright's appearance. The last time I saw her, the woman had been dressed to the nines. She had definitely gone downhill since then. Out of the heady atmosphere of the public limelight and dealing with financial and marital issues, Molly had put on weight-lots of it. The tight sweats she wore made her look more like an overstuffed sausage than a fas.h.i.+on diva. Her hair flew in all directions like a fright wig, and her puffy white face was devoid of makeup.

”I am a cop, Molly,” I told her. ”It's me, J. P. Beaumont. Tracy called and asked me to come help out.”

She studied me narrowly for a moment or two. ”Oh, that's right,” she said. ”Beaumont. I remember you. Weren't you the designated drunk at Ron and Amy's wedding?”

The wedding reception hadn't been one of my finest hours. As Molly had so kindly reminded me, I had in fact tied one on at Ron and Amy's reception. In the process I had ended up injuring three of my fingers and had come away with no recollection of how or why it had happened. That humiliating incident-of being hurt and not remembering why-had been the so-called tipping point in my beginning to sober up. It's something I talk about in the privacy of AA meetings on occasion, but I resented the h.e.l.l out of having somebody outside the program feel free to bring it up. If this was Ron and Amy's star boarder's typical MO, no wonder Tracy wasn't fond of her stepauntie.

I could have said ”I seem to remember you weighed about a hundred pounds less back then than you do now.” But I didn't. My mother raised me to have better manners than that. Just because someone is rude first doesn't mean you have to be rude back.

”Yup,” I admitted. ”That was me, all right. Thank you so much for remembering. And, in case you're interested, I've been pretty much sober ever since. Now is Tracy here or not?”

At first I thought Molly Wright was going to tell me to get lost, and slam the door in my face. Finally she shrugged and emitted a resigned sigh. ”Tracy's here, but Amy's not.” She stood aside and reluctantly motioned me inside.

”Tracy's the one I came to see,” I told her. ”Where is she?”

”Upstairs in the family room with her brother, watching TV.”

”Good,” I said. ”Don't bother showing me. I know the way.”

CHAPTER 7.

AS SOON AS LITTLE Jared saw me in the doorway, he launched himself off the couch and clobbered me in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. ”Uncle Beau!” he exclaimed as I struggled to catch my breath. ”Are you here to help my daddy? That's what Tracy said-that you'd come help.”

My eyes stopped watering as I wrapped Jared in a tight bear hug and then s.h.i.+fted him onto my hip. ”I don't know how much I can help,” I said. ”But I'll do what I can. How's your sister doing?”

Tracy was sitting on the couch with a box of tissues in her lap and a pile of used Kleenex on the cus.h.i.+on beside her. She looked at me bleakly and shook her head. ”Not very well,” she said.

”You should have seen it,” Jared continued excitedly. ”It was just like Cops on TV. They came and put handcuffs on him and everything. Did they take him to jail, do you think? Will they let him out so he can come back home? I want him here. I don't want him to sleep over.”

Jared's five-year-old version of the unfolding family tragedy reminded me of Bonnie Jean's remembrances of that long-ago murder, and it wrenched my heart. This was far more serious than a simple sleepover. Thank G.o.d it wasn't up to me to tell him so. That tough job would fall to Amy.

Tracy cleared away the wad of used tissues so Jared and I could sit down beside her on the couch. ”Where's your mom?” I asked.

”As he was leaving, Dad told me to call Mom and have her get in touch with Ralph Ames. I called her and she called back a little later to say she was meeting him. She didn't say where.”

”How long ago was that?” I asked.

”A long time,” Tracy said. ”Hours.”

I was delighted to hear that Ron had come to his senses as far as calling Ralph Ames was concerned. As for where Mel and Brad had taken him for questioning? My best guess was that they would conduct their interview in the Squad B conference room. They sure as h.e.l.l couldn't question the second in command of the Seattle PD Internal Affairs Division in a cop shop interview room in downtown Seattle.

”That's good news,” I said. ”About your mom contacting Ralph, that is. He's about the best there is.”