Part 13 (1/2)
”When did I ever ask for a break?” Amy Peters asked.
Ron and I had been so locked in our nose-to-nose confrontation that neither of us had heard her enter the room. I have no idea how long she had been standing there or how much she had overheard. For the longest time after Amy asked her question, no one moved or even breathed. In the aftermath of the Escalade's cras.h.i.+ng into the 928, I had distinctly heard the tinkle of shattering gla.s.s. Now, in the stark silence that followed, I was convinced I could hear the shattering of broken hearts.
”Amy,” Ron began. ”I didn't mean...”
But it was too late. Amy didn't hang around long enough to listen. Instead, she fled back the way she had come. Her departure left me with absolutely nothing to say. I hadn't walked a mile in Amy's moccasins-or in Ron's, either, for that matter.
”Just go,” Ron said at last. ”That's enough damage for one day.”
I stopped in the doorway. ”What about the memorial service?” I asked.
”What about it?”
”You told Lujan it was private. Is it family only or am I invited?”
”Of course you're invited,” Ron said. ”Whatever made you think you weren't? Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. The Bleitz Funeral Chapel over by the Fremont Bridge.”
”Okay,” I said. ”See you there.”
It wasn't until I was back outside and standing in the rain that I remembered my car had been towed. I was about to call for a cab when a battered Ford Focus with British Columbia plates pulled into the driveway. The pa.s.senger door opened and Heather charged out of the car. She raced past me with her head bowed, without a glance or a word of greeting. The mascara running down her face had nothing to do with falling rain. I was standing looking after her when a voice asked, ”Need a lift?”
”Yes,” I said. ”As a matter of fact, I do.”
”Where to?” Dillon asked as I climbed into the cramped front seat. It was pulled so far forward I had to readjust it before I could fit my knees past the glove box.
”Belltown Terrace,” I said. ”It's at the corner of Second and Broad.”
The interior of Dillon's Focus was littered with a layer of fast-food wrappers and crushed soft-drink containers. When Heather and Tracy were little, Ron had tried his level best to turn them into vegans and to keep them safe from the evils of Coca-Cola. The strategy hadn't taken-at least not as far as Heather was concerned. If, as I suspected, she was experimenting with drug use, eating right wasn't the only lesson she had failed to learn at her father's knee.
I sniffed the air for telltale odors and glanced around for drug paraphernalia-a stray roach clip or a visible hypodermic needle-that would tend to confirm my suspicions, but nothing jumped out at me. All that really indicated, though, was that whatever was going on probably wasn't going on in the Focus.
As we started down Queen Anne Hill, I caught a glimpse of Queen Anne Gardens and realized that I hadn't talked to Lars in several days, not since he had told me my grandmother was a little under the weather. When my phone rang halfway down Queen Anne Hill, I thought it might be Lars and Beverly, even though they seldom try calling my cell. When I saw the s.h.i.+T office number in the caller ID window, I slipped the phone back into my pocket without answering. Whoever was calling to chew me out-Harry I. Ball or Mel Soames-I wasn't about to endure what would most likely be a severe dressing-down within earshot of a young punk like Dillon.
”What's going to happen?” Dillon asked as he drove. ”To Heather's dad, I mean. Do you think he'll go to prison?”
”Not if he didn't do it,” I said grimly.
”Heather's real upset about all this, you know,” Dillon continued. ”I mean, like, she's upset about her mother being dead and everything, too, but her dad...It's like he's her hero or something.”
He ought to be her hero, I thought grimly. He's willing to give up everything in order to save her hide.
”Heather says you're a cop,” Dillon continued. ”Do you think he did it?”
On the surface, it could have been an innocent comment from someone just making conversation. On the other hand, it could have been someone fis.h.i.+ng for inside information. I decided to turn the question right back on the questioner.
”What do you think?” I asked.
”Me?” Dillon stammered.
”Yes, you. You're evidently close to Heather. You're around the house a lot. Do you think Heather's dad is capable of doing such a thing?”
Dillon concentrated on his driving for a time before he answered. ”You mean, like, do I think he'd kill somebody?”
I nodded.
”He seems like a regular guy to me,” Dillon answered at last.
”And Heather?”
”What do you mean?”
”Is she capable of murder?”
This time his answer was as explosive as it was immediate. ”Of course not! No way!”
”Were the two of you together Friday night?”
”Sort of,” he said.
”What does that mean?”
”We were, but we weren't supposed to be. Heather told her parents she was going to a friend's house, but she came over to my place instead. We planned on going to a movie, but she was too upset. There was some big ha.s.sle with her family at dinner.”
”Her father got served papers in the custody dispute.”
Dillon nodded. ”That's right,” he said.
”What did you think about that?” I asked.
”About Heather maybe moving to Tacoma?”
I nodded and Dillon shrugged his shoulders. ”It wasn't that big a deal,” he said. ”I've got wheels. I can go where I need to go.”
”So you would have kept on seeing Heather even if she had gone to live with her mother?”
”Sure,” he said. ”Why wouldn't I?”
”And when did you bring her home on Friday?”
”I don't know.”
”Early or late?”
”Late, I guess.”
”How late?”