the Seattle Police Department. I’m surprised he’d set foot in that place, even to pick up his grandson.”
“But why?”
“Who knows?” she returned. “I gave up trying to figure out men years ago. There’s no percentage in it.”
The reverse is also true, I almost told her, but I didn’t. Because Emma Jackson had what kids playing tag used to call King’s-X so they couldn’t be caught by whoever it was. Her son was dead and mine wasn’t. She had full permission to say any damned thing she pleased and get away with it.
After dropping her off at her place, I headed back home. It was close to noon. I’m too old to work all day, all night, and all the next day without stopping long enough for a nap. There was plenty to do, but nothing that wouldn’t wait until I caught a couple of hours’ worth of shut-eye.
I walked into my apartment and went straight down the hall to my bedroom. Kicking off my shoes, I flopped across the bed fully dressed while my back and feet heaved heartfelt sighs of relief.
Tired as I was, I didn’t fall asleep instantly. There was too much about this case that hit close to home, too many crossed and recrossed connections—Ben Weston and Big Al Lindstrom, Emma Jackson and Doc Baker. Everyone involved seemed to be involved twice over, and at least one of the people who had killed Ben Weston had tried to kill me as well. The slug that had smashed into the wall behind me had come far too close for comfort.
Then, just as I was telling myself I was being jumpy for no good reason, I heard the door of my apartment open and close. My heart pounding, I eased my way off the bed, gasping at the pain in my feet. I limped across the room to the closed bedroom door and stood there listening.
“You’re sure he won’t come in and catch us?” a woman’s voice asked.
Relief flooded through me when I heard Ralph Ames’s answering laughter. “He won’t, not when he’s busy working a case. We’ve got hours. Come on. Let’s get started. Can I get you something to drink?”
The voices moved away from the entryway into the front end of the house, the living room, dining room, and den. Every once in a while I could hear the sounds of low voices and muffled laughter. I was uncomfortably aware that Ralph and his female companion were under the erroneous impression that they had my apartment all to themselves. No telling what they were up to.
There I stood, trapped in my own bedroom, while the impeccable Ralph Ames carried on with a lady friend just down the hall. I didn’t know if I should be more embarrassed for him or for me, so I finally gave up, undressed, and crawled back on the bed. Into it this time, covers and all.
If I was going to have to take an enforced nap anyway, I might just as well be comfortable.
CHAPTER 9
MY PAGER WOKE ME UP AN HOUR OR SO later. Lack of sleep left me feeling as rummy and miserable as any honest hangover I’ve ever encountered. The call, when I returned it, was from none other than the Weston Family Task Force commander, Sergeant Watty Watkins himself.
“Beau, where are you?”
“In bed. Asleep actually. I was up all night, remember?”
“You and everybody else. You’re not the only one whose tail is dragging. I’m headed home myself in a few minutes, but I wanted to touch bases with everyone first. I heard from Doc Baker that you got the positive IDs handled. Good work. Anything else turn up that I should know about?”
I tried to sweep some of the cobwebs out of my poor, befuddled brain.
“Did Doc Baker mention the two separate hair samples and the possible dog bite?”
“He told me about both of those,” Watty acknowledged. “Anything else?”
Only one other item stood out in my mind as being important enough to mention. “Emma Jackson, the one boy’s mother, believes Ben Weston might have been screwing around on the side. She thinks his death may be somehow related to that.”
There was a pause while Watty mulled over what I had told
“But why?”
“Who knows?” she returned. “I gave up trying to figure out men years ago. There’s no percentage in it.”
The reverse is also true, I almost told her, but I didn’t. Because Emma Jackson had what kids playing tag used to call King’s-X so they couldn’t be caught by whoever it was. Her son was dead and mine wasn’t. She had full permission to say any damned thing she pleased and get away with it.
After dropping her off at her place, I headed back home. It was close to noon. I’m too old to work all day, all night, and all the next day without stopping long enough for a nap. There was plenty to do, but nothing that wouldn’t wait until I caught a couple of hours’ worth of shut-eye.
I walked into my apartment and went straight down the hall to my bedroom. Kicking off my shoes, I flopped across the bed fully dressed while my back and feet heaved heartfelt sighs of relief.
Tired as I was, I didn’t fall asleep instantly. There was too much about this case that hit close to home, too many crossed and recrossed connections—Ben Weston and Big Al Lindstrom, Emma Jackson and Doc Baker. Everyone involved seemed to be involved twice over, and at least one of the people who had killed Ben Weston had tried to kill me as well. The slug that had smashed into the wall behind me had come far too close for comfort.
Then, just as I was telling myself I was being jumpy for no good reason, I heard the door of my apartment open and close. My heart pounding, I eased my way off the bed, gasping at the pain in my feet. I limped across the room to the closed bedroom door and stood there listening.
“You’re sure he won’t come in and catch us?” a woman’s voice asked.
Relief flooded through me when I heard Ralph Ames’s answering laughter. “He won’t, not when he’s busy working a case. We’ve got hours. Come on. Let’s get started. Can I get you something to drink?”
The voices moved away from the entryway into the front end of the house, the living room, dining room, and den. Every once in a while I could hear the sounds of low voices and muffled laughter. I was uncomfortably aware that Ralph and his female companion were under the erroneous impression that they had my apartment all to themselves. No telling what they were up to.
There I stood, trapped in my own bedroom, while the impeccable Ralph Ames carried on with a lady friend just down the hall. I didn’t know if I should be more embarrassed for him or for me, so I finally gave up, undressed, and crawled back on the bed. Into it this time, covers and all.
If I was going to have to take an enforced nap anyway, I might just as well be comfortable.
CHAPTER 9
MY PAGER WOKE ME UP AN HOUR OR SO later. Lack of sleep left me feeling as rummy and miserable as any honest hangover I’ve ever encountered. The call, when I returned it, was from none other than the Weston Family Task Force commander, Sergeant Watty Watkins himself.
“Beau, where are you?”
“In bed. Asleep actually. I was up all night, remember?”
“You and everybody else. You’re not the only one whose tail is dragging. I’m headed home myself in a few minutes, but I wanted to touch bases with everyone first. I heard from Doc Baker that you got the positive IDs handled. Good work. Anything else turn up that I should know about?”
I tried to sweep some of the cobwebs out of my poor, befuddled brain.
“Did Doc Baker mention the two separate hair samples and the possible dog bite?”
“He told me about both of those,” Watty acknowledged. “Anything else?”
Only one other item stood out in my mind as being important enough to mention. “Emma Jackson, the one boy’s mother, believes Ben Weston might have been screwing around on the side. She thinks his death may be somehow related to that.”
There was a pause while Watty mulled over what I had told
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