Lying in Wait (9780061747168) (12 page)

Deanna closed her eyes as if remembering for a moment before she continued. “I was so shocked, I could hardly believe it. I mean, we all thought she was dead, but there she was, big as life.”

“You let her in?”

“Of course I did. Wouldn't you if your long-lost sister showed up when you'd spent years thinking she was dead and buried? Not only was she alive, she looked like a million dollars.

“She was all dolled up—healthy and tan. She's a brunette, not a redhead like me, so her skin al
ways turns—turned golden brown whenever she went out in the sun. She looked like one of the models you see in commercials for Caribbean cruises.”

“And?”

“She came in for a while. We sat down and talked.” Deanna Meadows frowned. “I guess I'm naive. I thought maybe she had changed. I hoped she had done the same thing I did—that she had grown up and become a responsible adult. But she hadn't. She said her boyfriend—she called him Gabby or Gebby—something like that—had just given her a new car, one of those little Cadillac convertibles. White and black with a white leather interior. Anyway, she had decided to take the car out for a spin and look me up while she was at it. I still don't know how she found me.”

Jacek leaned forward in his chair. “Was Gabby or Gebby the boyfriend's first or last name?” he asked.

Deanna frowned. “I don't know. I don't think she ever said. I did ask her if she and her boyfriend were, like, engaged or something. She just laughed and said she'd never marry him because he was too old for her.”

“Did she tell you anything else about him?”

“Not really, because she didn't stay for very long after that. And I was glad when she left. I didn't like being around her. It was almost like getting over being sick and then having a relapse. I felt like the whole time she was here she was making fun of everything I stood for and believed in. I think that's how my father must have felt, too, that time in the car.”

Deanna Meadows started crying again. For the next few minutes, there was nothing for Jacek or me to do until Deanna Meadows got herself back under control.

“It's so hard to understand,” she said finally, when she could talk again. “I loved her once. Denise was so cute when she was little. I used to like to dress her up and show her off to my friends like she was some kind of living, breathing doll. Much better than a Barbie. But then she changed, and I never knew how or why.

“Part of me still loves her, I guess. Part of me still misses the little girl she once was, but part of me hates her, too. For what she did to my parents. For what she did to me. I think I've hated her for a long time. If she's dead, I'm sorry. At least I cry like I'm sorry, but still…”

Once again Deanna broke off and couldn't continue. I understood. There's very little distance between love and hate, and often death obliterates the distance between the two entirely. They fuse into a paralyzing turmoil of opposing emotions, one that's almost impossible to bear.

“So after she left your house that day, did you see her again?” Jacek asked gently.

Deanna shook her head. “No,” she said. “I never saw her again, but I told my parents where to find her. I felt like they needed to know she was okay—that their daughter wasn't lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Detective Jacek nodded. “That's how we found you and your mother both,” he explained. “Through a letter your mother had written to Denise at the Camano Island house.”

As soon as he mentioned the word
mother
Deanna glanced down at her watch. “Oh, my God,” she wailed. “It's late. I've got to go get dressed and put on some makeup.”

“Just a couple more questions, if you don't mind,” Detective Jacek said. “When Denise was here, did she say anything more that you can remember about her boyfriend?”

“No, not really. Just that he had plenty of money and that he was willing to spend it on her.”

“Would your sister have been involved in something illegal?” Jacek asked.

“Of course,” Deanna answered at once. “Prostitution is illegal, isn't it? At least most places.”

“I mean besides that. It looks as though her house may have been searched before it was burned, as though someone was looking for something.”

“You mean like drugs?” Deanna asked.

“Possibly,” Jacek answered.

Deanna drew a sharp breath. “The guy on the TV news said something about a ‘torture killing.'” Deanna's tear-reddened eyes focused directly on Jacek's. “What exactly does that mean?”

Detective Jacek sighed. “I'm sorry that turned up on the news. It wasn't supposed to.”

“Are you saying someone tortured her because they wanted her to tell them where something was hidden, like cocaine or something?”

“That's one possibility,” Jacek said. “Whatever the killer was looking for, either your sister knew where it was or she didn't. Either she told them or she didn't. We can't tell which.”

“But even if she did know where and what it was, even if she told them where to find it, whoever it was still went ahead and killed her anyway.”

“Yes,” Detective Jacek agreed. “That's also possible.”

“You said ‘they.' Do you think there was more than one?”

“No. Not necessarily. That's just a manner of speaking. He. She. They.”

Deanna Meadows leaned forward in her chair, her eyes searching Detective Jacek's face. “Tell me,” she said. “Exactly how bad is it? I need to know so I can tell my parents so they can be prepared.”

Detective Jacek put down his coffee cup and stood up. “It's pretty bad, Mrs. Meadows,” he answered. “If I were you, I'd tell your folks to plan on a closed-casket service.”

The statement was simple, brief, and to the point, but it answered the question. It told Deanna Meadows what she needed to know.

I had to give Stan Jacek plenty of credit for the diplomatic way he pulled that one off. I don't think I could have handled it better myself.

Before Stan
and I finally left Deanna Meadows' driveway in Fairwood, Detective Jacek made arrangements to come back later in the afternoon to talk to her parents, John and Ellen Whitney, and to pick up Denise Whitney's dental records.

After putting in an all-nighter, both Stan and I were running out of steam. We didn't talk much as we drove back down off the plateau. When he suggested a lunch stop in Renton, it sounded like a good idea to me.

The place he chose was one of those cutesy-pie named-but-faceless joints that nowadays seem to litter freeway off-ramps everywhere. They're part of what I call the continuing Dennyfication of America.

Going from one of those standardized chains to another, it's impossible to tell them apart. Only the overhead signs outside are different. Inside they're all laid out in exactly the same manner. All the interiors look as though they were designed by the same silk-flower-crazed, California-based interior designer. The restaurants come complete with identical wood-grain Formica booths, colorful
see-and-eat picture menus, and limp, half-cooked hash-brown potatoes.

One bite of my leathery hamburger threw me into a fit of nostalgia for the Doghouse. Chewing on that tough, overdone, and tasteless chunk of mystery meat made me long for one of my old eat-at-all-hours standbys—a chili dog or a grilled tuna with potato chips and pickles on the side. And remembering that reminded me of something else from the Doghouse—a guy by the name of Dirty Dick.

He was one of the old band of Doghouse regulars. To the outside world, that group constituted an oddball collection from all walks of life, but inside the darkened bar and gathered around the organ, they formed an informal, tightly knit choral society.

Dirty Dick was one of the sing-along songfest directors. Each person had his or her own signature song; his own particular number. Dirty Dick's perennial favorite was a bawdy, fun tune called “Aunt Clara.”

It had been months since I last heard it, but with a little mental prodding, the words gradually surfaced. “Aunt Clara” is the story of one of those old-time “fallen women.” When caught in the act, Aunt Clara is driven out of town in disgrace. While everyone back home predicts a sorrowful, shameful end, Clara heads off for France, where she lives happily ever after and marries far above her station, not once but several times. Four dukes and a baron and maybe even an earl. I'm not absolutely sure about the earl part because I'm
not all that good on lyrics. Near as I recall, the chorus goes something like this:

It wasn't much of a stretch for me to make the mental leap from good old Aunt Clara to Denise Whitney. I wondered if a grieving John and Ellen Whitney had turned their younger daughter's picture to the wall. More likely, they still thought of her the same way Deanna did—as a beautiful, bright child who had nonetheless turned out badly and for no discernible reason.

A silent Stan Jacek was also lost in thought as he systematically forked his way through a slab of particle-board ground beef. He had ordered meat loaf, but the food on his plate bore little resemblance to that displayed on the colorfully illustrated menu.

“Denise Whitney reminds me of ‘Aunt Clara,'” I said between bites. Not privy to my meandering stream of consciousness, Stan Jacek assumed I was talking about a real person.

“Too bad,” he said. “I guess everybody has a kook or two hiding in the family closet. My first cousin Jim is undergoing sex-change therapy. As far as my aunt and uncle are concerned, he could just as well be dead.”

“Dead's permanent,” I said.

“According to Jimmy—that's what he/she wants us to call him now—so's the operation. But
don't tell me, tell my uncle. What's this about your aunt?”

Stan Jacek was talking real stuff. I felt foolish admitting to him that I didn't have an Aunt Clara at all, and that I was really referring to the heroine of a barroom ditty. When I finished telling him the whole story, though, Stan Jacek agreed with me.

“I can see why you thought of it,” he said. “Clara and Denise do seem to have a lot in common. Except it sounds as though the song has a much happier ending.”

“That's right,” I said. “I doubt Denise Whitney ever made it as far as the French Riviera.”

“Not even close.”

Jacek didn't need me hanging around while he picked up the dental records. Truth be known, I wasn't eager to talk to or meet Denise Whitney's bereaved parents. Talking to relatives of murder victims is one of the parts of this job that never gets any easier no matter how many times you do it. Parents are especially tough, no matter how old or screwed-up the children are.

Besides, I had the legitimate excuse of needing to go back to the office and put together a paper trail. I suppose reports do serve some useful purpose. When it's time to go to court, they help reconstruct who said what to whom, and when. But most of the time, they feel like a necessary evil that makes the departmental brass feel as though their grunts are actually working.

Sue Danielson was at her own desk when I walked by. “How'd it go?” I asked.

For an answer, she handed me a copy of an
Identi-Kit sketch. I studied it for some time and then started to give it back.

“Keep it,” she said. “That's your copy.” I folded up the piece of paper and put it in my pocket.

“Bonnie Elgin did a good job,” Sue continued. “We were through with the whole deal, prints and sketch both, by eleven o'clock. After we finished up, I went down to the Millionair Club to have lunch with a guy named Edward G. Jessup.”

The Millionair Club is a Seattle social service agency that provides meals, medical care, and temporary job placement to the homeless. I've eaten there on occasion as my part of the new police chief's policy of community outreach. Plain meals, made of donated food, and served cafeteria-style, don't make for a trendy luncheon-dining experience. But then, having just come from my boardlike burger in Renton, who was I to talk?

“Sounds like you're dining out in style,” I said. “So who's Edward G. Jessup? A new boyfriend? Does your son Jared know about this?”

Sue smiled slightly in response to my teasing, but her answer was serious. “Jessup is a former Magnolia Bluff resident who used to live on a box spring under a blue tarp.”

“Good work! How did you find him?”

“He found me. Or rather, his job-placement counselor did. The guy was there last night when the evidence van picked up his box spring. The crime lab tech told him it had something to do with a homicide investigation. He went into the Millionair Club for a job call this morning and talked to his job-placement counselor about it. The
counselor went through channels and tracked me down.

“The counselor was downright belligerent with me—said he was tired of Seattle P.D. picking on his clients just because they're homeless. He was ripped because we'd ‘illegally confiscated' Jessup's property. Not only that, he said Jessup was prepared to take a blood test, if necessary, to prove the blood wasn't his.”

“Did you schedule a blood test then?” I asked.

“Naw,” Sue Danielson said with a casual shrug. “I decided not to bother.”

That sounded like sloppy police work to me. “Why not?” I demanded.

“Because Edward G. Jessup wasn't home when Gunter Gebhardt's boat caught fire. The man has an airtight alibi.”

“And what would that be?”

Sue grinned. “He was in the King County Jail overnight,” she said smugly. “Drunk and disorderly. He was booked at twelve-oh-three
A.M
.”

You win some; you lose some. “That's airtight all right,” I agreed. “So what's next on your agenda?”

“I plan on spending the afternoon checking emergency rooms around town to see if anyone remembers treating Bonnie Elgin's hit-and-run victim. What about you?”

I gave her the
Cliff's Notes
summary of my morning with Detective Stan Jacek and Deanna Meadows, then I settled down at my desk and went to work. I checked voice mail for messages. There weren't any. I dialed Maxwell Cole's number at the
P.-I
.

“Leave your message at the sound of the tone,” Max's cheerful recording told me in his own voice. “I'll get right back to you.”

Like hell he would. He hadn't so far. I didn't bother leaving another message. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I'd called back.

As far as writing reports is concerned, my intentions were good. What was it my mother used to say? Something about the spirit being willing but the body weak. My body was weak, all right.

I started off like gangbusters, but the greasy lunch combined with serious sleep deprivation zapped me before long. By two-thirty, I had nodded off at my desk with my pen trailing aimlessly across and off the edge of the paper. I was dead to the world when Sergeant Watkins stopped by and woke me up.

“Maybe you ought to go home and grab some shut-eye,” he suggested. “I wouldn't mind, but you're snoring so loud no one else can concentrate.”

“Snoring? Was it really that bad?” I asked.

Watty shook his head and grinned. “Naw,” he said. “No louder than a buzz saw. How are you coming on your paper, by the way? Captain Powell wants a status report ASAP, particularly on the Maxwell Cole leak.”

“Tell him I'm working on it,” I said.

I pushed the reports I had completed across my desk. Standing in the doorway to my cubicle, Watty pulled out a pair of reading glasses and then scanned through what I had written. When
he finished, he took off the glasses and stowed them in his pocket.

“If I'm reading the time lines right, you must have spent most of the night up on Camano Island. I know for a fact you've been on the job since eight o'clock. You've had what, three hours of sleep?”

“Something like that, give or take.”

“No wonder you look like hell. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“But Sue and I were going to…”

My objection was strictly
pro forma
. Years ago, when I first came to work on the force, being up all night didn't faze me. Back then, a case would grab my attention and keep it. If I had to, I'd work round the clock, then sleep eight hours straight and be back on top of things again. I can't do that anymore. I'm like an aging rubber band that no longer bounces back to quite its original shape. I must be getting old, but come to think of it, I didn't recall ever seeing Watty use reading glasses before, either.

In any case, he cut me off in midsentence. “I said go home, and I meant it.”

With no further discussion, I swiped the remaining papers off my desk and stuck them in a drawer. Then I stood up and pulled on my jacket. “Middle age is hell, isn't it?” I said.

Watty shook his head. “It beats the alternative,” he replied. “Now get out of here before Captain Powell lays hold of you.”

Usually, I'll toss off some kind of smart-ass comeback, but this time I was too brain-dead. And I'm glad I didn't. Watty was well within his super
visory rights to send me home. I was too damn tired to be out on my own recognizance.

After I retrieved my 928 from the parking garage on James, it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to drive home, park the car, and stagger from my parking place to the elevator. I was so tired, I think I might have welcomed some company in the elevator—even an unaccompanied dog. It would have given me something to lean on.

I didn't bother to stop for the mail, and I barely glanced at the blinking answering machine in the living room. I left it to its own devices without hitting the playback button. The messages would have to wait. I headed straight for the bedroom, where, after a moment's contemplation, I pulled the telephone jack out of the wall, stripped out of my clothes, and fell into bed. I slept for twelve hours straight. If I had any dreams—good or bad—I was sleeping too hard to remember them.

When I woke up, I was totally refreshed—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as we used to say. I was also starved. The only problem was, it was three o'clock in the morning—not a good hour to discover that the cupboard is bare. A cursory inventory of the kitchen revealed that other than a bag of whole-bean coffee that I keep in my freezer, there wasn't a stick of edible food in the house.

When Karen and I split up, that was one of the first and hardest lessons I had to learn about living on my own. Food doesn't automatically transport itself from grocery-store shelves to refrigerator and cupboards or table. Someone has to go to the store and actually bring it home. And meals—especially
balanced ones—don't appear on the table magically. They require advance planning and preparation. When it comes to cooking, I'm a complete flop.

Food considerations, odd hours, proximity, and loneliness were the several factors that had caused me to gravitate to the Doghouse. At three o'clock that morning, I missed it more than ever.

I glanced outside. It was foggy again—foggy and cold. I pulled on some clothes and walked out to the living room. I hadn't taken the messages off the machine earlier, and there was even less sense in doing so now. You can't call people back at three o'clock in the morning. Closing the front door on the blinking light, I headed downstairs.

I think Donnie, Belltown Terrace's graveyard-shift doorman, was most likely snoozing at his desk, but he lurched to his feet as soon as the elevator door opened.

“Mr. Beaumont,” he said, a little too eagerly. “You're up and around early. Or is it late?”

“Early,” I said. “Do you know a good place to get breakfast around here at this time of day?”

“Here in the Regrade?”