Long Time Gone

CHAPTER 11

I drove straight from Kramer’s office to Amy and Ron’s place on Queen Anne Hill. I did not pass Go. I did not collect two hundred dollars. What Ralph Ames had surmised made perfect sense. Ron Peters was going to sacrifice himself in an effort to save his daughter.

And had Heather done it? Not the Heather I had known-not the sweet little girl who had sold me Girl Scout cookies and wrapped my heart around her little finger. But the Heather I had seen the other night? That teenager with all her piercings and her bare midriff, with her hennaed hair and pouty lips covered with black lipstick had been another Heather entirely-a stranger. And with the possibility of drug use involved? There was no way for me to fathom what she might do or how far she might have gone in order to have her own way.

There were two clearly marked media vehicles parked on the street outside Ron and Amy’s house. A bright red two-year-old Cadillac Escalade was parked directly behind Amy’s Volvo wagon. Yes, Harry I. Ball had told me to stay the hell out of the Peters situation, but at that point in the proceedings his prohibition had fallen completely out of my head. I parked directly behind the Escalade, jumped out, hurried up to the front door, and rang the bell. I was relieved when Amy herself, rather than her grump of a sister, answered the door.

“Oh, Beau,” she said. “Thank God you’re here!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“In there.” She motioned toward a pair of French doors that opened into the living room. Through them, I heard Ron’s voice raised in anger.

“I don’t care if you’re the damned Second Coming himself!” Ron was saying. “The memorial service is for my girls, and I’m the one making the arrangements. As far as I’m concerned, Bread of Life Mission is having nothing to do with it!”

When I stopped in the doorway I saw that Ron was seated in his chair. A well-dressed but immense Hispanic man-six-six or six-seven at least and as broad as a wall-stood next to the fireplace.

“I don’t think you understand what a mainstay Rosemary was to our church and to the mission,” the man was saying.

“And I don’t care!” Ron retorted. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Mr. Lujan, a hell of a lot of nerve! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t started messing around in the child-custody situation. We were all doing fine until you stuck your nose into it. And now you think you should have a hand in the memorial service? Not on your life! Have your own memorial service if you want to, but the one we’re having tomorrow is strictly private. Now, I think it’s time you showed yourself out.”

When Michael Lujan made no move to leave, I decided it was time for me to interject the voice of sweet reason into the conversation.

“Hi, Ron,” I said. Approaching the man by the fireplace, I held out my hand. “How do you do. I’m Ron and Amy’s friend, J. P. Beaumont.”

Michael Lujan looked straight through me as though I didn’t exist. “Trying to regain custody of her children was no reason for Rosemary Peters to die,” he said tightly. “Being a mother and wanting to have your child with you isn’t a capital offense, Mr. Peters, but Rosemary is dead nonetheless. You and I both know that you deserve to be in jail awaiting trial right now instead of sitting here in the comfort of your own home. If you weren’t a cop, you would be.”

“Whether or not I’m in jail is up to the agency investigating the case,” Ron answered. “It isn’t up to me, Mr. Lujan, and it isn’t up to you, either.” His voice was tense. White knuckles showed in the fingers that held a death grip on the armrests of his chair. In all the years I had known him, I had never seen Ron Peters so angry. Fortunately, there were no pizza boxes within easy reach.

“Perhaps not,” Michael Lujan agreed. “But the investigating agency is answerable to the court of public opinion. Ross Connors may be the Washington State attorney general now, but he was a politician before that, and he’ll be a politician long after he leaves office.”

“Fine,” Ron said. “Do your worst. Now get the hell out of my house before I call the cops.”

Without another word, Lujan stalked from the room. Leaving the house, he slammed the front door hard enough to make the windows rattle. I should have realized what was coming, but I didn’t, not until it was too late. He fired up the Escalade and slammed it into reverse-directly into the front end of my poor little 928, which was parked behind him. I heard the crunch of sheet metal and the tinkling of falling glass and knew at once that my beloved Porsche, which had been totaled and rebuilt once before, would never be the same.

By the time I got outside, Michael Lujan was standing beside the wreckage, surveying the damage and cussing under his breath. When Lujan had hit the gas pedal, his Cadillac had simply run up and over my Porsche’s Guards’ Red hood, flattening the aluminum body as it went. The Escalade came to rest with the ball of a trailer hitch and much of its rear bumper protruding into the 928’s shattered wind-shield. The force of the collision had been enough to move the Porsche backward, and the vehicles had come to rest in the middle of the street.

“Where the hell did this piece of junk come from?” he demanded. “I didn’t even see it.”

Piece of junk? My 928’s connection to Anne Corley was a little like George Washington’s ax-a new head and three new handles, but George Washington’s ax in spirit. This wasn’t the exact same 928 Anne had given me originally, but it was one just like it, and in my mind the two were one and the same. Seeing the crumpled remains, I felt as though a final and mystical connection had been severed. Had Lujan been even a little apologetic, it might have been different, but having him blame me for his accident definitely rubbed me the wrong way. And it didn’t help that other than a smashed rear bumper, the Escalade was fine, while my poor Porsche looked like a squashed bug.

“And who the hell issued you a driver’s license?” I demanded in return. “It’s not my fault you’re obviously blind. Ever hear of using your rearview mirror?” So much for the voice of sweet reason.

Lujan was already reaching for his wallet. He was probably under the assumption that we’d simply exchange insurance information and settle the situation later. Even then, though, I knew from the amount of damage inflicted on the Porsche that a police report would be necessary. Besides, the media guys, bored silly with being parked outside Ron Peters’s house while nothing much seemed to be happening, had already called 911. Seconds later, a blue-and-white Seattle PD patrol car with two baby-faced uniformed officers in it-a man and a woman-appeared on the scene, along with a small crowd of neighborhood onlookers.

As the two uniforms approached, clipboards at the ready, I could already tell how this was going to play out with Harry I. Ball. To say nothing of Mel Soames. The next time I had nerve enough to appear in person at SHIT’s east side office I could expect the atmosphere to be more than a little frosty.

While the patrol officers began gathering necessary information, Jared somehow escaped his mother’s grasp. He shot out to where I was standing and wrapped himself around my leg. I picked him up and held him on one hip while I answered questions. I was focused on the questions-and on what I was sure would turn out to be my totaled Porsche. I wasn’t focused on the fact that the guys in the media vans were busy the whole time snapping photos and videos of Jared Peters and me. I didn’t notice the cameras at the time, but I’ve been around the news media long enough to know that I should have.

The rain let up for a while, but by the time the police reports had been taken and a tow truck had come to haul off the shattered remains of my Porsche, it was pouring again. Jared and I were both soaked when we finally went into the house. Amy took Jared off my hands and then handed me a towel. Ron sat with his chair parked in the entry into the living room, watching me dry off.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I know how much that car means to you.”

“Meant,” I said. “I think it’s a goner now, but don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh? Seems to me everything is my fault these days,” Ron said in a ragged voice. He turned his chair and wheeled himself back into the living room, with me right behind him.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Ron,” I ordered. “And get off your cross. A little while ago, when you were dealing with Mr. Lujan, you were all pissed off. Great. I can handle pissed off, but when you’re busy feeling sorry for yourself and drowning in self-pity, you can be downright pathetic. I have a hard time with pathetic.”

Ron swung his chair around and faced me from the far side of the room. “Screw you,” he said.

“Good,” I told him. “That’s more like it.”

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You work for SHIT. I should think you’d be giving me a wide berth about now.”

“I’m supposed to be giving you a wide berth, but at the moment maybe I’m a better friend than I am a cop. Why did you fire Ralph? What the hell got into you?”

Ron paused for a moment before he replied. “None of your business,” he snapped back finally. “And if Ralph told you that about me, he may have violated my attorney/client privilege. I should probably sue him.”

“Sure you should,” I retorted. “And maybe you’re dumb enough to represent yourself while you’re suing him just like you’re planning to represent yourself at that preliminary hearing. How come, Ron? Tell me.”

Ron shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Well, then, let me take a crack at explaining it myself,” I said. “I think you’re going to cop a plea in hopes of protecting Heather.”

The color drained from Ron’s face. I might as well have slapped him. Instead of answering, he turned his chair away so he was facing the empty fireplace instead of me.

“If Heather did this and you let her get away with it,” I continued, “you’re going against everything you’ve ever stood for, worked for, or believed in.”

“Nobody gave you the right to judge me,” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “But I think I’ve earned the right to be your friend.”

We were silent for a long time. Finally, his shoulders heaved. “If you repeat any of this, I’ll say you’re lying, that it’s my word against yours.”

“Repeat what?”

Ron turned to face me at last. His eyes were red-rimmed and desolate. “The ballistics tests came back this morning, Beau,” he said quietly. “That’s why I fired Ralph. Rosemary was shot to death with one of my weapons-with my very own Glock. I let your friends from SHIT, Mel Soames and Brad Norton, think I kept the Glock in my car, but I didn’t. The last I knew, it was locked in my desk in the den. Somebody had to have access to both the desk and my Camry. Rosemary’s missing shoe was found in the trunk, and so was her blood.”

“But why would Heather do such a thing?” I asked.

Ron shook his head. “She’s been a handful lately,” Ron admitted. “Missing school, hanging out with the wrong crowd. In a way-if I could have been rational about the whole thing-it might have been easier for Amy and me if she had gone to Tacoma to live with her mother. But after everything Rosemary had done, I couldn’t stomach it, and Heather hated the idea. She must be the one who did it,” he added bleakly after a pause. “Who else would there be?”

Had I been dealing with anyone else, it would have been natural to bring up the possibility of Heather’s being involved in drugs, but friendship trumped my being a cop right then, and so I didn’t mention it. The burden on Ron Peters already seemed to be more than his wide shoulders could bear. Still, I didn’t fold entirely.

“Look, Ron,” I argued, “you can’t just let her off the hook. If she did this-if she committed a murder-she has to pay for it. Admittedly, Heather’s your daughter and not mine, but I love her, too. No matter what, you and I both have to make her accountable for her actions.”

“But she’s just a kid,” Ron returned. “She has her whole life in front of her.”

“Yes,” I said. “Precisely. What’s the worst that can happen to her-Juvie until she turns twenty-one? If you take the rap for this, you’re probably looking at nothing less than life in prison.”

“I’m already serving life in prison,” he said bitterly. “I’m in prison every damned day I’m stuck in this chair. What’s the point? What difference does it make if I’m in a cell or out of it?”

“It’ll make a hell of a difference to Amy and Tracy,” I said. “And what about Jared?”

I had told Ron I could handle anger, but what he delivered surprised me.

“What about Jared?” he demanded in return. “He’s a little boy. Who’s going to take him on his father-son camp-out when it comes time for Cub Scouts? Who’s going to teach him to swim or ski or hit a baseball or even drive a car, for that matter? Oh, sure, I can do what I’ve done with the girls and teach him to drive whatever handicapped conversion vehicle I happen to be driving at the moment, but what about a regular car or one with a stick shift? That’ll all be up to Amy, won’t it. Just like everything else is up to Amy. When does she get a break?”

“When did I ever ask for a break?” Amy Peters asked.

Ron and I had been so locked in our nose-to-nose confrontation that neither of us had heard her enter the room. I have no idea how long she had been standing there or how much she had overheard. For the longest time after Amy asked her question, no one moved or even breathed. In the aftermath of the Escalade’s crashing into the 928, I had distinctly heard the tinkle of shattering glass. Now, in the stark silence that followed, I was convinced I could hear the shattering of broken hearts.

“Amy,” Ron began. “I didn’t mean…”

But it was too late. Amy didn’t hang around long enough to listen. Instead, she fled back the way she had come. Her departure left me with absolutely nothing to say. I hadn’t walked a mile in Amy’s moccasins-or in Ron’s, either, for that matter.

“Just go,” Ron said at last. “That’s enough damage for one day.”

I stopped in the doorway. “What about the memorial service?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“You told Lujan it was private. Is it family only or am I invited?”

“Of course you’re invited,” Ron said. “Whatever made you think you weren’t? Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The Bleitz Funeral Chapel over by the Fremont Bridge.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you there.”

It wasn’t until I was back outside and standing in the rain that I remembered my car had been towed. I was about to call for a cab when a battered Ford Focus with British Columbia plates pulled into the driveway. The passenger door opened and Heather charged out of the car. She raced past me with her head bowed, without a glance or a word of greeting. The mascara running down her face had nothing to do with falling rain. I was standing looking after her when a voice asked, “Need a lift?”

“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Where to?” Dillon asked as I climbed into the cramped front seat. It was pulled so far forward I had to readjust it before I could fit my knees past the glove box.

“Belltown Terrace,” I said. “It’s at the corner of Second and Broad.”

The interior of Dillon’s Focus was littered with a layer of fast-food wrappers and crushed soft-drink containers. When Heather and Tracy were little, Ron had tried his level best to turn them into vegans and to keep them safe from the evils of Coca-Cola. The strategy hadn’t taken-at least not as far as Heather was concerned. If, as I suspected, she was experimenting with drug use, eating right wasn’t the only lesson she had failed to learn at her father’s knee.

I sniffed the air for telltale odors and glanced around for drug paraphernalia-a stray roach clip or a visible hypodermic needle-that would tend to confirm my suspicions, but nothing jumped out at me. All that really indicated, though, was that whatever was going on probably wasn’t going on in the Focus.

As we started down Queen Anne Hill, I caught a glimpse of Queen Anne Gardens and realized that I hadn’t talked to Lars in several days, not since he had told me my grandmother was a little under the weather. When my phone rang halfway down Queen Anne Hill, I thought it might be Lars and Beverly, even though they seldom try calling my cell. When I saw the SHIT office number in the caller ID window, I slipped the phone back into my pocket without answering. Whoever was calling to chew me out-Harry I. Ball or Mel Soames-I wasn’t about to endure what would most likely be a severe dressing-down within earshot of a young punk like Dillon.

“What’s going to happen?” Dillon asked as he drove. “To Heather’s dad, I mean. Do you think he’ll go to prison?”

“Not if he didn’t do it,” I said grimly.

“Heather’s real upset about all this, you know,” Dillon continued. “I mean, like, she’s upset about her mother being dead and everything, too, but her dad…It’s like he’s her hero or something.”

He ought to be her hero, I thought grimly. He’s willing to give up everything in order to save her hide.

“Heather says you’re a cop,” Dillon continued. “Do you think he did it?”

On the surface, it could have been an innocent comment from someone just making conversation. On the other hand, it could have been someone fishing for inside information. I decided to turn the question right back on the questioner.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Me?” Dillon stammered.

“Yes, you. You’re evidently close to Heather. You’re around the house a lot. Do you think Heather’s dad is capable of doing such a thing?”

Dillon concentrated on his driving for a time before he answered. “You mean, like, do I think he’d kill somebody?”

I nodded.

“He seems like a regular guy to me,” Dillon answered at last.

“And Heather?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she capable of murder?”

This time his answer was as explosive as it was immediate. “Of course not! No way!”

“Were the two of you together Friday night?”

“Sort of,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“We were, but we weren’t supposed to be. Heather told her parents she was going to a friend’s house, but she came over to my place instead. We planned on going to a movie, but she was too upset. There was some big hassle with her family at dinner.”

“Her father got served papers in the custody dispute.”

Dillon nodded. “That’s right,” he said.

“What did you think about that?” I asked.

“About Heather maybe moving to Tacoma?”

I nodded and Dillon shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t that big a deal,” he said. “I’ve got wheels. I can go where I need to go.”

“So you would have kept on seeing Heather even if she had gone to live with her mother?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“And when did you bring her home on Friday?”

“I don’t know.”

“Early or late?”

“Late, I guess.”

“How late?”

“Five-thirty,” he said. “Or maybe six.”

That stopped me. “In the morning? She spent the night?”

“We fell asleep,” he said. “No big deal. Nothing happened.”

Right, I thought. And the pope ain’t Catholic!

“So how do you get along with Heather’s folks?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said. “We get along just fine.”

That was the first straight-out lie I had caught him in. I might have caught him in more, but we pulled up to Belltown Terrace right then. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Don’t you worry about Heather,” he said as I got out and started to close the door. “Whatever happens, I’ll be there for her because that’s the kind of guy I am.”

“Good,” I said. “Glad to hear it.” But of course that was a lie on my part, too, because I didn’t think for a minute that this little weasel was a stand-up kind of guy.

As Dillon drove away, I realized that I had no idea what his last name was or where he lived, but I’m a cop. Years of habit came into play. I noted the number of his license plate and jotted it down.

When I turned to enter the building, Jerome was there to open the door. “Where’s your pretty little Porsche, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked. “I thought for sure I saw you drive it out of the garage this morning.”

“Somebody wrecked it,” I said. “A guy put a big old SUV in reverse and drove right over the top of it.”

“You’re kidding,” Jerome said.

“I only wish I were.”

“I’m real sorry to hear it,” he said. “It’s a crying shame.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “In fact, I’m going upstairs right now to see if my insurance company will set me up with a rental.”

Except I didn’t. Instead, I went up to my apartment and paced back and forth, trying to sort things out. Who had killed Rosemary Peters? I knew for sure that Ron hadn’t done it. He was convinced Heather had done it. And maybe Dillon was, too. No wonder he had given me that phony and most likely unverifiable alibi for Heather’s whereabouts on the night in question.

But what if everyone was wrong? What if, in focusing on the complicated family aspects of the murder, we were missing someone else-someone who was using the custody dispute as camouflage for getting away with murder? Michael Lujan, for example? What was his relationship with Rosemary Peters? Involvement on Lujan’s part might explain why the body had been moved from the Bread of Life parking lot. Or maybe she had been killed by one of her coworkers at the mission. Had anyone looked into that? Of course, the problem with all of those possibilities came back to the use of Ron’s gun as well as his vehicle.

Whom did that leave as possible suspects then? Ron or Amy or maybe, God forbid, Heather’s big sister, Tracy. That was another thought that was too awful to consider. The point was, if Mel and Brad could be suckered into accepting Ron’s claim of responsibility, then the real killer-maybe Heather or maybe someone else entirely-might well get away with murder.

The big question for me was whether or not I was going to go along with the program-and the cover-up. Ron was thinking of Heather. I was thinking of everyone else-of Ron and Amy, of Tracy and Jared.

Four to one, Heather, I told myself finally. You lose.

Cops make judgment calls all the time. So do friends. I picked up the phone and called Mel Soames’s cell number.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered when she answered. “If you aren’t about the last person in the universe I expected to hear from about now.”

“Why would that be?” I asked.

“Because I just saw a picture of you on the evening news, holding Ron Peters’s little boy, Jared. Looked like a really cozy photo op. I’m guessing Harry will be livid when he hears about it, and so will Ross Connors. I’m not too happy about it myself.”

“Want to talk about it?” I asked.

“Is there something to talk about?” I heard the stir of interest in her voice.

“Possibly,” I said. “We could have dinner somewhere.”

“Not out in public,” she returned. “You were on the evening news tonight, and so was I. Seattle’s not that big a town. If we’re seen having dinner together, someone’s bound to report it. Do you have any food in that penthouse bachelor pad of yours?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll pick up something on the way. What about wine?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Well, I do,” she said. “Do you mind if I bring some along, too?”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “I’ll see you when you get here.”