Part 29 (2/2)

”What now?” Mel asked me a few minutes later, after Amy and Heather had taken their leave. ”Did you ever talk to Wink Winkler's son?”

The way she asked the question made me feel defensive. After all, I hadn't exactly been lying around on the job. I was also smart enough to realize that general crankiness is a natural outgrowth of being too tired.

”Ran out of time,” I said.

”If you want to track him down this morning, I'd be glad to go along.”

I really wanted to go back to Belltown Terrace and put in a few hours in the sack instead of the recliner, but manly pride wouldn't allow me to admit such a thing, not with Mel Soames, bright as a new penny, sitting there smiling at me.

”I don't have his address info,” I said, more than half hoping that would dissuade her, but it didn't. Within seconds she pulled her phone out of her purse and was jotting down Bill Winkler's home address over on Magnolia as well as the corporate address for Emerald City Security on the far side of Boeing Field.

We drove to the address on Magnolia and found ourselves in front of a neat brick bungalow. A more than middle-aged woman answered the door. ”Bill's not here,” Mrs. William Winkler III told us in answer to our inquiry. ”He doesn't usually go in to work on Sat.u.r.days, but today something came up.”

”That would be at the Columbia City address?” Mel asked.

”Yes,” Mrs. Winkler said. ”It's an old warehouse. Not much to look at, but when it comes to rent, the price is right.”

”Have you set a time for Wink's services?” I asked.

”There won't be any. Once the body is released, we'll have it cremated and then Bill will scatter the ashes. It's Bill's father, after all,” she added after a pause, ”so it's his decision.”

We left the Winklers' house and returned to Mel's Beemer. I would have been happier being driven around in leather-interior luxury had it not been for Mel's unfortunate tendency to drive like a bat out of h.e.l.l. No wonder she could make it from Bellevue to Belltown Terrace in nothing flat, but I know better than to backseat drive. I just held on for dear life and kept my mouth shut.

”She sounded a little defensive about the 'no services' bit,” Mel said once we were inside the 740.

”We know Wink and his son have been estranged for years,” I replied. ”If you're p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l at the guy, I don't suppose you're interested in forking over big bucks for a major send-off to plant him.”

”No,” Mel agreed, ”I suppose not.”

We wheeled across the Magnolia Bridge and through downtown Seattle at a speed that should have required flas.h.i.+ng lights and sirens. Fortunately it was still early enough on Sat.u.r.day morning that there wasn't a lot of traffic. I was glad when we turned off onto South Myrtle, a short street nestled between Boeing Field and the Duwamish Waterway.

Surrounded by a chain-link fence, Emerald City Security sat at the far end of the dead-end street. The gate was wide open. Two vehicles sat next to the run-down, grubby-looking building. One was a white van with the Emerald City logo prominently displayed on either side. The second one was an unmarked Crown Vic that screamed Seattle PD.

”d.a.m.n!” I muttered.

”What?”

”I'd be willing to bet money that Kramer's here,” I said.

”Great,” Mel replied. ”The more the merrier.”

She parked on the far side of the van. The back gates of the van were open. As we walked past the back b.u.mper, we saw that the vehicle was loaded almost window-high with stacks of wood.

”Laminate flooring,” Mel announced. ”I'd call that a pretty high-cla.s.s floor covering for a dump like this.”

”Especially if you're renting,” I said.

The front door was standing open to allow for the pa.s.sage of an extension cord. A portable saw with a pile of damp sawdust next to it stood just outside. We were stepping up to the door when we heard the sound of voices.

”You've got no right to come charging in here like this without so much as a by-your-leave,” someone was saying.

”I just came by to talk to you,” Paul Kramer said. ”I wanted to go over some phone records with you. I knocked, but you must not have heard-” He stopped. ”Wait a minute. What's that?”

”What's what?”

”There on the floor.”

”Paint,” Bill Winkler answered. ”Red paint. One of my guys spilled it earlier this week. I decided covering it over would be easier than cleaning it up.”

”It doesn't look like paint to me,” Kramer said. ”It looks more like blood-a lot of it. I think you'd better come with me, Mr. Winkler. I'd say we have far more to discuss than phone records.”

”Like h.e.l.l!” Bill Winkler responded. I heard a dull thud-the kind of noise you hear on a football field when one player crashes into another, only I doubted anyone here was wearing protective padding. I looked at Mel. She was already reaching for her phone.

Inside, the sounds of a desperate struggle continued. We both had our backup weapons-lightweight Glocks that were fine up close but would be useless from a distance. That meant for our guns to be useful we had to be inside the building, but neither of us was wearing a vest. Mel's was probably in her trunk. Mine was at home.

”Go,” she told me in an urgent whisper. ”Once you're inside, you go left. I'll go right as soon as I'm off the phone.”

I stepped through the door and into the warehouse just as a m.u.f.fled gunshot ended the struggle. Only half the cavernous room was lit by the feeble glow of hanging fluorescent shop lights. Thankful for the dim lighting, I dodged forward between ranks of mostly empty metal shelving. Finally I was close enough that I could see the outline of a man standing still, breathing heavily, and looking down. I could also see the outline of the gun in his hand.

I caught a flash of movement off to my right as Mel Soames darted through the door and then disappeared behind a tall wooden counter. ”Drop it!” she shouted. ”We've got the place surrounded. Put down your weapon and get down on the floor, facedown.”

Surrounded? I knew she was bluffing. Mel knew she was bluffing. All we could hope was that Bill Winkler had no idea.

But he must have. ”h.e.l.l, no!” he exclaimed. With that he turned and set off at a dead run for the far side of the building, where only now I could see the outline of another door. He reached it, pulled it open, and then stood behind it, using it for cover as he sprayed the interior of the building with a barrage of automatic gunfire.

For a moment, after the door banged shut, I stood where I was. ”Kramer,” I shouted. ”It's Beaumont. Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

His response was more groan than anything else. ”Go get him. Don't let him get away.”

I turned and sprinted toward the door. Mel was there waiting. ”Here,” she said, and thrust a set of keys into my hand.

”They're from his van,” she said. ”I saw them and took them when I was making the call. Without your vest, we'll be better off in vehicles.”

”Right,” I said. And away we went.

CHAPTER 23.

AS WE EXITED THE BUILDING, the first of several squad cars came streaming through the gate. Those guys had weapons and vests and they were all a h.e.l.l of a lot younger than either Mel or me. While the young Turks went sprinting off toward the back of the building, Mel and I hurried back inside, with Mel redialing 911 and calling for medics as we went.

We found Paul Kramer lying faceup on the concrete floor. He looked so pallid in the yellow-tinged glow of the fluorescent lights that at first I was afraid he was already dead, but when we reached him, he was still breathing.

”Thank G.o.d!” I exclaimed.

He had been wearing a vest. Unfortunately, a single bullet had sliced through the edge at the bottom of the vest and veered into his ample gut. He was doing his best to maintain some kind of pressure on the b.l.o.o.d.y wound, but he was losing it and slipping into unconsciousness. I moved his hand aside and put my own in place of his. Kramer was a pain in the a.s.s, but I had never wished him this kind of ill.

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