Until Proven Guilty (22 page)

S
ome days are forever etched in your memory. Three of them come to mind right off the bat—the day my mother died, the day I married Karen, and the day I married Anne Corley. Anne had assured me there was no need to set an alarm, that she would be awake long before five o’clock, and she was. She kissed me and set a cup of coffee on the table beside my bed.

There was no question of fooling around. She was all business. She had finished in the bathroom, leaving it clear for me. I showered and shaved carefully, critically examining myself in the mirror. I hadn’t thought about my looks in years, but I was reasonably happy with what I saw. There was a sprinkle of gray around the temples. Anne liked it, said it gave me an air of authority, liked a seasoned anchorman. I managed to put aside my antimedia prejudices long enough to accept that as a compliment. There would have been a lot of gray in the beard if I’d let it grow. The point was, if all the gray didn’t matter to Anne, it didn’t matter to me.

I wrapped a towel around me and went into the bedroom. Anne stood before the dresser in her slip and bra, piling her hair on top of her head. The result was a gentle framing of her face that reminded me of the late 1890s. It was old-fashioned and attractive.

“You look lovely,” I said, running my finger along the soft curve at the top of her lacy slip.

She caught my finger and held it to her lips. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

I lifted her chin and looked at her. Her eyes were quiet, subdued. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine. Just a little nervous.”

“I’m a lot more than a little,” I told her. That brought a trace of a smile.

Ralph Ames came by the Royal Crest and drove the Datsun. Anne and I took the Porsche. She drove. The minister arrived in a pea green Volkswagen bus. Those were the only three cars in the parking lot at Myrtle Edwards Park when we got there about ten to six. The sun was just putting in an appearance over the hills behind us, while a fresh breeze blew off the water. I worried that Anne might not be warm enough in the shimmering blue suit with its flimsy blouse.

Anne introduced me to the minister. I don’t know where she found him. He didn’t push any creed, and it may well be that marrying people was his whole ministry. That was okay by me. When the minister asked, “Who giveth this woman?” Ralph stepped forward and said he did. I thought he had a hell of a lot of nerve, but since he was giving her to me, I didn’t complain. The ceremony took exactly six minutes. We were in the Four Seasons for breakfast by six-fifteen.

Anne was radiant. I could have slit my throat for not having a camera along, but once more Ralph rode to the rescue. He took pictures of both of us together, and each of us separately. He had even made last-minute arrangements with the hotel for them to produce a tiny three-tiered wedding cake with all the trimmings. It was a nice gesture. It pissed me off. I would have preferred him to be not quite so thoughtful or indispensable.

It was time for Ralph’s plane before we finished breakfast. I told Anne I’d take him to the airport in the Datsun. She could take the Porsche back to the apartment, and I’d meet her there later. We rode down the escalator together. The parking attendant brought the Porsche first. I could hardly blame him for that. I opened the door and gave her a hand inside. I leaned down so our heads were even. “I love you, Anne Corley Beaumont,” I said.

She smiled. “I love you too.” With that, she drove away.

Ralph Ames was standing beside me when I straightened up. “Ready?” he asked. We said little as we drove to the airport. We had nothing in common but Anne. “Did she give you the last chapter to her manuscript?” I asked as we pulled under the airport awning.

He patted his briefcase. “Last chapter? I’ve got the whole book right here. She’s been working on it for so long I can’t believe I’m finally going to get a look at it.”

“You mean you’ve never read any of it before? I thought she had already given you everything but the revised last chapter.”

“Not before today. I’m planning to take a peek at it on the plane.” He dragged his luggage out of the backseat and hustled off toward a waiting skycap with a brief salute to me from beside the car. “Best of luck to you,” he said.

I drove back out to the freeway, a little edge of worry gnawing at me. I could have sworn Anne had said the manuscript was already in Phoenix, that was why she couldn’t show it to me. Had I somehow misunderstood?

I was halfway back to Seattle when a state patrolman pulled me over. I got out of the car in a huff, ready to show him my I.D. and give him a piece of my mind. I knew damned good and well I hadn’t been speeding.

“You J. P. Beaumont?” he asked as he reached the car.

“What of it?”

“We’ve got an APB out for you. Captain Powell has been trying to get you at home since seven o’clock this morning. Get in. I’ll patch you through to Seattle P.D.”

I got in, and the patrolman made a connection to the Seattle dispatcher. “Get down here right away. Powell is waiting. He’s hot!”

“What the hell do you mean, get down there? I just got married. I’m supposed to be off duty.”

“He said to tell you your leave is canceled. He needs you now.”

I got out of the patrol car and slammed the door. “Sorry I pulled you over,” the patrolman said. “If I’da known the circumstances, I never would have seen you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “For nothing,” I added under my breath.

I drove to the Public Safety Building. Powell was in the fishbowl on the phone as I came in. “What the fuck is going on?” I growled as he hung up.

“We’ve got another homocide. This one’s down in Auburn. It was in the paper this morning.”

“I hate to mention this, but I don’t work in Auburn. I work for the city of Seattle.”

Powell went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “A guy came tearing in here at seven o’clock looking for you. He says it’s about the Auburn case. He refuses to talk to anyone but you.”

“Where is he?”

Powell nodded in the direction of one of the interview rooms. “He’s in there. His name is Tom Stahl.”

I didn’t recognize the name right off the bat, and the slightly built, crewcut young man who paced nervously back and forth in the tiny interview room didn’t ring any bells either. From the delicate sway of his hips, I guessed he was a little light in his loafers, one of Seattle’s more obvious gays. I let the door slam shut behind me. “I’m Detective Beaumont,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Everybody connected with this case is getting killed. I’m sure I’m next. When I read the newspaper this morning, I almost had a heart attack. I knew right away it was the same man; I mean, how many Charles Murray Kincaids can there be?” His words came in a breathless lisp.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Stahl had been clutching a newspaper in his hand. Now he dropped it on the table like a hot potato.

“It happened right after I tried to call you, the night before last or yesterday morning, too late to make it into the paper until today. I always read the paper early, before I go to church.”

“What happened? For God’s sake, make some sense, man.”

Without meaning to, I was yelling at him. He pushed the paper in my direction and scurried to the far side of the room.

“Read it yourself. I demand some protection.”

I read the article. It was simple enough. An Auburn resident, Charles Murray Kincaid, had been found shot to death in an automobile outside his home early Saturday morning. Police were investigating. He had been shot once in the back of the head. There was nothing in the article to explain Tom Stahl’s extreme agitation. “So what?” I asked.

“Look at the address.” I looked. “It’s the same address I gave your wife.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said, trying to modify my tone. He was obviously frightened. “Let’s get this straight. I didn’t have a wife until six-fifteen this morning. Why don’t you tell me the whole story, from the beginning.”

He took a deep breath. “It’s about Angela Barstogi,” he said. “She ran up a big long-distance bill talking to some guy down in Auburn. Her mother called to complain about the bill. Said she wouldn’t pay it because she didn’t make the calls. I did some checking. Kincaid had an easy telephone number, 234-5678. It’s long-distance from Seattle. Kids called him all the time. As soon as they learned their numbers on ‘Sesame Street,’ they’d string numbers together and call him: 1-234-5678. We tried to get him to change his number, vacate it so it would be a disconnect. But he wouldn’t. Claimed he loved talking to little kids.

“Anyway, I called one morning to talk to the mother, Mrs. Barstogi. She was asleep, so I ended up talking to Angela. I told her she shouldn’t call him anymore, that her mother would have to pay the bill. She said she liked talking to Uncle Charlie on the phone, so when—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Did you say Uncle Charlie?”

He nodded. “So after I heard she was dead, I tried to call you and tell you, just in case it was important. I only wanted to give you his name and phone number. It’s illegal for me to do that, you know. I could be fined and lose my job, but I didn’t want to go through security when it was probably nothing. The guys in security don’t like me.”

“You work for the phone company?” The name came back to me, the messages I had ignored and thrown away. He nodded again.

“When I couldn’t reach you at the office, I finally got your unlisted number and called your house. I could be fired for that too.”

“My house?”

“Yeah. I called Friday morning. I went to a two-day training session out in Bellevue on Wednesday and Thursday, so I didn’t try calling again until I got back to the office on Friday. The woman I talked to said she was your wife, said she’d give you the message. I left Kincaid’s name and address with her.”

My stomach turned to lead. Just then Powell tapped on the door. “A detective from Auburn is here with their preliminary report. I thought you’d like to talk to him. He says Kincaid drove a black van. You think maybe there’s a connection?”

“I’d bet money on it,” I said grimly. “Where’s the detective?”

“He’s taking some stuff down to the crime lab.”

I picked up the phone in Powell’s office. Some numbers you know by heart. I dialed the crime lab. Janice Morraine answered. I recognized her voice. “Hi, Jan,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Beaumont here. Did they bring you a slug from that Auburn case?”

“I think so,” she replied.

“Run a comparison with the Faith Tabernacle slugs and call me back.” I put down the phone, fighting the urge to heave it across the room.

Powell was looking at me, puzzled. “What have you got, Beaumont?”

“Just a hunch, nothing more.”

Tom Stahl came to the door of the interview room. “What next? Protective custody? Do I go, or stay, or what?”

“First we’ll need to get a statement. Hang on a minute. You want a cup of coffee?” I couldn’t handle being locked up in a small room taking a statement, not when my mind was flying in a dozen different directions.

“Coffee would be fine,” he said. “Black.”

I walked past my desk on the way to the coffeepot. I stopped and dialed my home number. I got a busy signal. There was a stack of messages on the desk, too. The top one was from Peters, clocked in at seven-twenty that morning. The number was different from the hotel I had tried the previous day.

I dialed and was connected to Peters’ room. “Thank God you caught me. I was just heading out to catch a plane. I’ve booked an earlier flight from Tucson. Where’d they find you?” he asked. “When the operator said your phone was out of order, I took a chance and called the department. They were looking for you. I told them you might be driving the Datsun.”