More Perfect Union (9780061760228) (17 page)

Remembering the attractive young women scattered here and there around Martin Green's apartment the night I crashed his party, I suddenly saw that party in a far different and more ominous light. So that's what had been going on.

“And you were supposed to be part of the scenery?”

“Show up or else. That was the way Don Kaplan put it. We'd have drinks and dinner and guess who was supposed to be dessert.”

“Angie Dixon too?”

Linda nodded. “That's when she went crying to Logan about the tapes.”

“And what did you do?”

“I called Green on it. Told him I'd see him in hell before I'd do that. I turned in my union book and told him he could shove it up his ass.”

“So you quit, but you said Angie went crying to Logan?”

Linda bit her lip and nodded.

“Logan didn't know about the tapes before?”

“Nobody did except Angie. He thought he could put a stop to it. I told him he was crazy, that he should mind his own business, but he was determined.”

“Is that what you two broke up over, about his going after Green?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said quietly.

“What then?”

“Angie. Logan was too naive, too big-hearted and honest to see that she was making a play for him. He asked me to copy the tapes. When I found out we had copied them for her, that was the last straw.”

We were back to the tapes again. “But you did copy them.”

“I didn't. Jimmy did.”

“Jimmy!”

“I guess Sandy Carson over at the center is the one who actually did the copying. Logan had met her several times when we took Jimmy over to the center or went by to pick him up.”

“Sandy Carson, the one who runs the micrographics department?”

“That's the one. And that's where the tapes still are, in a file in her office. Not the originals. I'm sure Logan had those with him on the boat. But the copies are there, on microfiche. After Logan died, I told Sandy that if anything happened to me, she should turn them over to the police. Angie knew about the copies, not where they were, but that they existed. I tried to warn her that she was in danger, but she didn't want to listen any more than Logan did. They both thought as long as the copies were safe, so were they.”

“But she wasn't,” I added. “And neither was
Logan. Why didn't you come forward with this earlier, Linda? Why did you keep it quiet?”

“The cops insisted from the beginning that Logan's death was an accident. Martin Green has lots of money, lots of pull. I figured there was a payoff somewhere along the line.”

Linda Decker stopped speaking. For several moments I couldn't think of anything else to ask. I didn't like her all too easy assumption that homicide cops were on the take. “Stupidity, maybe,” I said finally. “Bullheadedness maybe, but not payoffs.”

Linda Decker nodded. I wasn't sure whether or not she was convinced until she spoke. “I really was wrong about you, wasn't I,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry,” she said again. “I know after what happened yesterday, I've got no right to ask, but you came here this morning because of…” She stopped and swallowed. “Because of Jimmy. You must care, or you wouldn't…” She paused again. “Will you help me, Detective Beaumont? I don't know where else to turn.”

For the first time, in all the while we had been talking, Watty's words reverberated in my head. Keep your goddamned nose out of it. Mind your own business. And here I was, back in it up to my neck.

Linda Decker was looking at me, pleading, waiting for my answer.

“I don't know what I can do,” I told her at last, “but I'll do what I can.”

It wasn't much, but what the hell. I've always been a soft touch.

A
s I went down in the elevator, I got off at four to see Peters. His bed was empty, and his roommate told me he was down the hall lifting weights in the gym.

“What's the matter with you?” Peters asked as soon as he saw my face. “Aside from the fact that you look like somebody beat you to a bloody pulp.”

“It's a long story,” I replied.

In a quiet corner of the small gym, Peters sat in his wheelchair and listened while I told him what Linda Decker had said.

When I finished, he nodded his head. “You don't have much of a choice, do you. Like it or not, you're going to have to talk to Manny and Kramer.”

“That's the way it looks.”

“Linda Decker doesn't have any solid proof?”

I shook my head. “Only the tapes.”

“That's not much to go on. Purely circumstantial.”

“Purely,” I agreed. “The problem is, if somebody doesn't start looking in the right places pretty damn soon, there's never going to be anything
but
circumstantial evidence.”

Peters looked thoughtful. “What about this Martinson guy, the one who disappeared in Alaska? Is anyone down at the department following up on that case?”

“I don't know. Missing Persons, maybe. Without a body, it wouldn't have come to homicide.”

“Did she say where in Alaska?”

“No.”

“It's a big place. Maybe I can do some checking on that from here.”

I got up.

“Where are you going?” Peters asked.

“To find Kramer and see if there's any way to eat crow and still keep my self-respect.”

Peters looked at me, his eyes serious and steady. “Sounds to me like you'll have to find a way to do both,” he said.

I nodded and started to leave, giving him an affectionate whack on the shoulder on my way past. “Thanks for the fatherly advice,” I said.

He grinned. “Anytime. Advice is freely and cheerfully given.”

Outside the hospital, the sky was a clear, unremitting blue. I was tired of summer, tired of blue skies, and tired of the sideways glances people gave me when they caught sight of my
face. I needed to go somewhere to think. In the end I sought out the shady serenity of the Japanese garden in the Arboretum. There, beside a small, quiet pool, I sat for a full hour, trying to marshal my thoughts into some sort of reasonable order.

According to Linda Decker, we were dealing with union fraud perpetrated by thugs who didn't hesitate at murder. There were four victims dead already, if you counted Wayne Martinson, the guy missing in Alaska. Four and a half, if you counted Jimmy Rising in the burn unit at Harborview.

Martin Green and whoever else might be involved had to be stopped, one way or the other, and I sure as hell wanted to be part of the process, part of the solution. There was a major barrier to my doing just that—my bullheaded, bullnecked nemesis, Paul Kramer.

And I couldn't very well go to Kramer with nothing in hand but a lame apology and some farfetched suppositions, wild-sounding accusations from Linda Decker, a lady who had lost big. Someone who has suffered that many losses is going to have a vested interest in seeing the situation resolved, in pinning the crimes on someone regardless of how remote.

I had to have something more solid than Linda Decker's unsubstantiated allegations. I had to come up with something powerful enough to jar Detective Kramer out of our juvenile rivalry and make him pay attention, take
action, preferably some action other than going straight to Sergeant Watkins and having my wings clipped.

That brought me back to the question of what was actually solid. The tapes. The microfiche copy of the tapes. And what else? In my mind, I went back over everything Linda Decker had said. What was it about the union? What all had she claimed they were doing? Selling union books, taking payoffs to let people bypass the apprenticeship program.

But those kinds of bribes only worked if the applicant had plenty of money available. For women, especially poor ones like Angie Dixon and Linda Decker, maybe the rats running the scam had been willing to take it out in trade, in services rendered, services that never made it onto Wayne Martinson's accounting tapes. Like being dessert at Martin Green's party for instance.

And what about Martinson's books, the journals themselves? Where were they? Despite what Angie and Linda had believed, the tapes themselves weren't that damning, not without the journal entries to go with them. But who had them? Had Martinson taken them with him on his ill-fated fishing trip, or were they still in his office somewhere? Or—and this was far more likely—had they been removed by person or persons unknown shortly after his disappearance?

I went back once more to what Linda had said
about the union. Something was bothering me—something I couldn't quite put a finger on kept nagging at me, scratching at the door to my subconscious, demanding admittance. The union books, the apprenticeship program, and something else, a third item. At last it came to me. Boomers. That was it.

Boomers from out of town paying to get put on the A-list, that top work list of members who got called out first. Every union on earth has those kinds of lists, and every union comes equipped with a whole catalog of by-laws to say what you have to do to get on that list.

Well, I just happened to know a boomer—Fred McKinney, Katherine Tyree's fiancé. He had dropped into the Seattle union hall and landed on the ironworker's A-list close enough to the top that he had worked on Columbia Center, Seattle's newest showcase high rise. Reason told me that work on that particular building would have been the private preserve of local hands no matter what trade union was involved.

Maybe, if Fred had paid bribe money, and maybe if he knew the same people had been involved in Logan Tyree's death, he would be willing to come forward and name names. Often, just knowing that we're nosing around in the right direction is enough to spook crooks into doing something stupid.

And there was Don Kaplan, the guy on the balcony at Martin Green's party. Unless I missed my guess, Angie Dixon's death had gotten him
where he lived. He had seemed nice enough. If I tracked him down, it might be that he could shed some light on the subject.

About that time a busload of camera-carrying tourists came wandering through the Arboretum and interrupted my reverie. I turned toward the water, keeping my face and black eyes averted from the clicking cameras. I heard some whispered gritching to the effect that I should have sense enough to move on so people could get a better shot of the pool. I refused to take the hint.

By the time they left, I found myself thinking about Angie Dixon. Linda Decker's comments were the first real link between Logan Tyree and Angie Dixon. I had theorized that there might be a connection, but now I knew for sure it existed. Logan and Angie had indeed known each other. Enough to make Linda jealous. Enough that Angie had confided in Logan about the tapes. Why did she find it necessary?

And if Linda was right, if Angie had been pushed, who had pushed her? Suddenly, the haunting picture from the paper came back to me as clearly as if I were holding it in my hand. In my mind's eye, I once more saw Angie Dixon plunging to her death. A comic-book light bulb clicked on over my head as I realized the picture might hold the key to the puzzle.

Adrenaline coursed through my body—adrenaline and questions. How many pictures were on that roll? How often were the pictures
taken? And was there a chance, even a remote one, that another shot, taken earlier or later, might provide a clue as to what had gone on in the minutes before and after Angie's fatal plunge?

Getting a look at that film, prying it loose from whoever owned it was something only officialdom could accomplish, and officialdom would go to work on it only if I filled Manny Davis and Paul Kramer in on what was happening. It was time to straighten up and fly right, no matter how much I didn't want to do it.

I left the Arboretum and drove back downtown, conscious as I drove that it was after lunch and I had eaten nothing since Ralph Ames' midnight fettucini. The 928 headed for the Doghouse on automatic pilot.

The Doghouse is disreputable enough that no one raised an eyebrow at my purple bruises. It's the kind of place that says “Breakfast Anytime” and means it. That's what I had—bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. Plenty of coffee. I didn't try calling the department until after I had finished eating. I believe it's called avoidance behavior. When I finally couldn't think of another plausible excuse to put it off any longer. I used the pay phone near the pinball machines.

I asked for Manny Davis. He wasn't in. I asked for Paul Kramer. He was. Too bad.

“Detective Kramer speaking.”

“Hello, Paul. This is Beaumont.”

Behind me some guy was racking up a huge
score on the Doghouse's primo pinball machine. A group of enthusiastic buddies was cheering him on.

“Who?” Kramer demanded. “I can't hear you. There's too much noise in the background.”

“Beaumont,” I repeated, raising the volume. “I need to talk to you.”

He paused. A long pause. “So talk. I'm listening.”

At least he didn't hang up on me. I took a deep breath. “Not on the phone. I want to talk in person. To both you and Manny.”

“Manny's busy. He's in court this afternoon.”

“Well, to you then.”

Behind me the pinball crowd cheered again.

“What's that? I can't hear you.”

“To you then. Can you meet me?”

“Where?”

“Do you know where the Doghouse is at Seventh and Bell?”

“I know it,” he answered. “What are you doing, out slumming, Beaumont?”

So that's how it was. He hadn't hung up on me, but we hadn't exactly kissed and made up, either. I didn't say anything.

“When?” Kramer demanded.

“As soon as you can get here.”

He hung up and I went back to my table. My plate and dirty silverware had been cleared away. Left were a freshly poured cup of coffee and a newspaper with the unworked crossword
puzzle folded out. The waitresses at the Doghouse take good care of me. That's one of the reasons I go there. It's got nothing to do with gourmet cuisine.

The crossword puzzle contained only three unfinished words by the time Detective Paul Kramer strode up to the table twenty minutes later.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, easing his sizable frame into the booth across from me.

I set the nearly finished puzzle aside. “Wanting is probably overstating the case,” I said. Kramer made as if to rise. “Sit,” I ordered. He sat.

Jenny, the waitress, came to the table just then and offered him coffee which he accepted with a grudging nod. We sat without speaking until she finished pouring it and walked away, leaving us alone.

“What do you want? This ain't no pleasure trip for me, Beaumont, and I'm damned if I'm going to sit here while you dish out insults.”

For some strange reason, the situation reminded me of the time years before when, at Karen's insistence, I had taken Scott to a local diner to administer the obligatory birds and bees talk. My son had been full of teenage resentment, angry and embarrassed both. In the end, the talk could in no way be called an unqualified success. We both went home frustrated and neither of us mentioned it again.

Now, with Detective Paul Kramer sitting across the table from me, I felt the air charged
with the same kind of irritation and arrogance, the same counterproductive determination to miscommunicate. But that was where the similarity ended. With Scott and the birds and the bees, adult complacency had been on my side. I had known I was right and that time would bear me out. With Kramer I had no such delusions. He was right and I was wrong, and he didn't waste any time beating around the bush before he let me know it.

“Who the hell do you think you are that you can go messing around in my case?”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

It wasn't what he expected. My two-word apology didn't derail him altogether, but it threw a real monkey wrench in his attack.

“Logan Tyree's our case,” he went on. “Manny's and mine. You've got no business screwing with it.”

“I know.”

Kramer stopped and sat with his head cocked to one side, like someone who's afraid he's been suckered too far into enemy territory. “What did you want to see me for then?” he demanded.

Biding my time, I took a careful sip of my coffee. “Why'd you become a cop, Kramer?” I asked evenly.

“What is this, an occupational aptitude test?”

“Just tell me.”

He shrugged. “It's something I have to do, that's all.”

“You want to make the world a better place to live in?” I suggested.

“Something like that.” He frowned. “What kind of deal is this, Beaumont? I'm here because I'm pissed as hell, and you sit there making fun of me.”

“I'm not making fun of anybody, Kramer. I've never been more serious in my life.”

Reluctantly, Kramer settled back in the booth, holding his cup while he studied me warily. He said nothing.

“And how long do you plan to be in homicide?” I asked.

“Me? As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what?”

“To be promoted out.” At least we had cut through the bullshit. He was being honest.

“So you see homicide as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things?”

“There's nothing wrong with the,” Kramer said defensively.

“I never said there was. What were you doing seventeen years ago?”

“Seventeen years ago?” He laughed. “I was thirteen and in the eighth grade down in Tumwater. What does that have to do with the price of peanuts?”

“Because seventeen years ago, I was just starting out in homicide. Fresh up from robbery, same as you are now.”

“So?”

“It's my life's work, Kramer. I've never
wanted to do anything else. I never saw homicide as a springboard. I do the job. I like it. I'm good at it.