Name Witheld

Nine

Half an hour later, I skulked back down to my fifth-floor cubicle. I had been feeling pretty cocky when I checked off Find Latty. I wasn't nearly as chipper when I put the little check mark next to number four, Find Wheelchair Lady. Somehow, the possibility that Ron and Amy Peters might lose permanent custody of Heather and Tracy had taken the blush right off my little investigatory rose.

I studied the remaining items on my list. There wasn't anything on it that I couldn't do at home. The big-screened TV-useful for reviewing the tapes and also for watching the news if I managed to make it all the way to ten o'clock-was right there in my den. And as for working on reports, including the almost completed ones the computer had eaten, that could be done on my laptop-assuming I could get the damned thing running again-while sitting in my very own recliner.

Gathering things into a wad, I was about to switch off the overhead light when Detective Kramer stuck his head in the doorway. "There you are," he said, "I thought you were still here."

Caught, I thought.

"With any luck, I wouldn't have been," I told him cheerfully. "What's up? If you're going to brief me on what you and Arnold found out this afternoon, couldn't it wait until morning? I'm beat."

"One of your star witnesses just stopped by to pay a visit," Kramer said. "I told her to wait in my office while I tried to track you down."

Kramer's cat-eating-shit grin as he spoke warned me that something wasn't quite right. "What star witness?" I asked.

"Her name's Johnny," he said. "Johnny Bickford. And she particularly asked for Detective Beaumont. She wasn't the least bit interested in talking to anyone else, even though I tried to assure her that we were working the same case."

Groaning inwardly and wondering how long Johnny Bickford had been traipsing around the fifth floor, I followed Kramer down the hall to his cubicle, which happens to be two doors away from Captain Powell's fishbowl. Parked next to Kramer's desk sat Johnny Bickford in 100-percent full-dress drag, complete with frosted wig, impossibly high heels, dark-colored panty hose, and a tightly belted trench coat which emphasized that Johnny's Wonder-Bra was still performing its figure-producing magic. A massive leather purse sat on the floor next to his feet, which were demurely crossed-at the ankle.

Looking at him made me think of that old 1950s classic Some Like It Hot with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon. I remember seeing the movie back then and being pretty much mystified by all those men running around in women's clothing. And although I'm supposedly older and wiser than I was in Ballard back in 1959, I have to admit that I still don't understand it. Nor, would I venture to say, do most of my Homicide colleagues on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building.

"Hello, Johnny," I said without enthusiasm. "You wanted to see me?"

Chirping with glee, Johnny leaped to his/her feet the moment I appeared in the doorway. "Why, there you are, Detective Beaumont. I was about to give up hope that this nice Detective Kramer would ever be able to find you. He's been so helpful."

"I'll just bet he has," I said. "Come on, we'll go down to my office to talk."

"You're more than welcome to talk here if you like," Detective Kramer offered genially.

"No," I said, giving Kramer a black look. "I don't think so."

"Detective Beaumont is right," Johnny added. "I've already taken too much of your time, but I do appreciate your visiting with me. Detective Kramer and I were just sitting here chatting. You police officers do lead such interesting lives."

"Yes," I agreed grimly. "We certainly do."

While Johnny groped for his purse, Kramer planted himself in the doorway, blocking our exit. "Johnny here seems to have a very high opinion of your skill as an investigator," Paul Kramer said with a deceptively bland smile. "She dropped by the department to ask you to sign an autograph for her mother back in Wichita."

"Another one?" I asked.

"Another one?" Kramer repeated. "You mean you've signed autographs before? Sounds more like a major-league baseball player than a cop. You don't charge for it, do you?"

"No," I said. "No charge."

Kramer shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "Nobody's ever asked me for my autograph."

Now it was my turn to smile. "I'm sure Johnny here could remedy that. As far as your mother is concerned, one detective's signature should do just as well as any other's, shouldn't it?"

"I suppose," Johnny agreed dubiously, "but the truth is-no offense, Detective Kramer-I really did have my heart set on Detective Beaumont's. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no," Kramer said. "Not at all!"

That's what he said, but it wasn't what he meant. On the face of it, the whole idea of someone wanting a detective's autograph was more than slightly ridiculous. Still, I knew enough about Kramer to understand that he was feeling slighted. And jealous. I could see that for myself in the involuntary twitch that was tweaking the corners of his thin mouth. The twitch, combined with the humorless glower in Kramer's eyes, warned me that both Johnny Bickford's request for an autograph, along with his outrageous appearance, would be a hot topic around Homicide for months to come. Detective Kramer would see to it.

"Let's go, Johnny," I repeated. "I'm sure Detective Kramer has work to do."

Hoping we wouldn't meet too many of my fellow detectives along the way, I herded Johnny down the hall and into my cubicle. Once seated at the chair next to my disaster of a desk, my visitor began fumbling in the purse. What he finally excavated was an envelope containing a carefully folded newspaper article.

"A reporter called me this morning from The Seattle Times," Johnny said. "She interviewed me about finding the body. The article came out in this afternoon's edition. Since my name actually appears in this one, I thought I'd rather send it home to Mother instead of the first one where I'm only the nameless jogger."

JOGGING INTO HEALTH AND HOMICIDE

Johnny handed me the article, and I scanned the first several lines:

When Johnny Bickford went jogging down along Alaskan Way on New Year's morning, she was only keeping a New Year's resolution to take better care of herself. Trying to get into better shape has now embroiled the lower Queen Anne resident in a homicide investigation. She has spoken to police detectives in regard to one of the two violent deaths and several assaults that marred Seattle's New Year's celebration.

As Ms. Bickford rested on Pier 70, catching her breath, she spotted a body floating facedown in the waters of Elliot Bay. Seattle police investigators have since stated that the victim, a white male in his late thirties, died as a result of a gunshot wound. The victim has been tentatively identified, but his name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.

I looked up at Johnny Bickford, who was watching me with rapt attention. "Where do you want me to sign this thing?" I asked.

"Right under the headline, I suppose," Johnny said. Shaking my head, I started to comply. "You didn't tell me he died of a gunshot wound," Johnny continued reproachfully.

"It wasn't something you needed to know," I returned. "As a matter of fact, the newspapers weren't supposed to know it, either."

Johnny Bickford mulled that last statement while I finished signing the article and passed it back to him. "I suppose you think it's morbid, my wanting you to sign the articles," he said.

"It's none of my business one way or the other," I answered.

"You see," Johnny went on, "I've always secretly wondered what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation, and now I am."

"Excuse me," I returned. "You discovered a body, but that doesn't mean you're involved."

"But couldn't Seattle P.D. use someone like me?" Johnny asked. "As an informant or something? Believe me, I could get into places a regular cop could never dream of going."

"I'm sure that's true, but I don't think the department is in the market for that particular kind of information."

"But Detective Kramer said…" Bickford stopped.

"What exactly did Detective Kramer say?"

"That each detective develops his own network of informants. I thought maybe I could work for you. On a voluntary basis, of course. I wouldn't expect to be paid anything. I just think it would be utterly fascinating."

The phone rang at my elbow. In order to answer it, I had to unearth it from beneath a mound of loose paperwork. "Detective Beaumont, here."

A brisk female voice came on the line. "This is Sally Redding, with Yellow Cab. I understand you were looking for some information?"

"Just a sec," I said into the phone. Then I turned to Johnny. "This is private," I told him. "You'll have to go."

Nodding, Johnny picked up the purse and started toward the door. "But, if you change your mind…"

"If I do," I said, "I'll be in touch." Johnny left my cubicle, and I turned my attention back to the phone. "Sorry," I said, "someone was here in my office, and yes, I did need some information."

"The owner of the company has authorized me to tell you what you need to know," Sally Redding said. "The car you were asking about is number eleven forty-eight. On that particular night, the twenty-eighth, it was driven by Norm Otis. He picked up a fare from thirty-three hundred Western at approximately twelve-twenty A.M. and drove her to a building on Main Street in Bellevue. The number there is one zero two eight five Main."

"Is that a house or an apartment?" I asked, jotting the information in my notebook.

"I can't tell that from the record," Sally Redding answered. "We have building information for pickups, but not for dropoffs."

"When can I talk to Norm Otis?"

"He came on duty at six tonight, but he's off on a call right now. Do you want me to have him get back to you when he's available?"

"Please," I said. "The sooner the better." I gave her my collection of possible phone numbers.

"I'll see what I can do," Sally returned, but she didn't sound exactly overjoyed at the prospect.

"I appreciate your help, Ms. Redding" I said. "I really do."

"Right," she said, sounding unconvinced.

"And be sure to have him try the home number first. I'm leaving the office as soon as I finish gathering things up. I should be there in just a matter of minutes."

I parked the 928 on the P-4 level of the Belltown Terrace garage and took the elevator as far as the lobby, where I stopped off to pick up my mail. As I headed back toward the elevator, the lobby door opened and in came Gail Richardson and her Afghan hound, Charlie.

A renter of one of the larger upper units, Gail is some kind of bigwig on a Seattle-based sitcom that had just been renewed for a second season. She's a tall, good-looking woman in her late forties. Her hair is snow white, without, as she tells it, the benefit of any chemical enhancements. She is one of the few people I know who can manage the difficult feat of appearing totally dignified while holding a leashed dog in one hand and a plastic bag of still-warm dog crap in the other.

When I stepped aside to allow her and the dog aboard the elevator first, however, she looked decidedly harried. And knowing that some of her holiday company had been staying with her for the better part of three weeks, I guessed at the problem.

"When do you finally get your life back?" I asked.

She flashed me a woebegone smile. "Maybe never. I'm sure you heard all about it."

"All about what?"

"My mother took Charlie for a walk today and forgot how to get back to the building. Luckily, one of the Denny Regrade security officers spotted them and knew where they belonged. I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn't come to the rescue."

I had been introduced to Gail's mother, Nina Hopper, at a Belltown Terrace pre-Christmas party. Nina, a birdlike woman in her mid-to-late eighties, had seemed bright enough when I talked with her, but we had spoken for only a matter of minutes.

"She forgot where the building was?" I asked.

Gail nodded. "My sister had mentioned her growing forgetfulness and that it was becoming more and more worrisome. She had talked about getting one of those bracelets for her, so other people could help her find her way home if need be. Here in a strange city, her getting lost like that could have been disastrous. And then after that mess with the hot tub…"

"What mess with the hot tub?" I asked.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear about that. It even made the news. Mother thought she would help me out by cleaning the bathroom. She must have put half a bottle of liquid soap in the tub. Then she turned on the water and the jets and shut the bathroom door. By the time I realized what was happening, the bathroom was floor-to-ceiling bubbles. I guess it made a terrible mess in the party room." The door opened and Gail and Charlie stepped off.

"You mean your mother did that?" I asked, holding the door open.

"Yes."

"Did you know that Dick and Francine blamed Heather and Tracy?"

Gail nodded. "It's an understandable mistake, I suppose. I didn't have a chance to tell them about it until late last night, after I finished cleaning up the mess in my own apartment."

I tried not to let my face betray the smug relief I felt now that the girls had been totally exonerated. "I'm sorry things are so bad with your mother, Gail," I said sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do?"

She looked at me and smiled. "You already did it," she said. "You gave me a way of letting off steam before I walk back into the apartment. Believe me, that's a big help. Good night."

I rode on up to my own floor. It struck me that Dick Mathers, Belltown's resident manager, ought to go on TV and make a public apology for accusing Heather and Tracy of the hot tub bubble caper, but that didn't seem likely. Dick Mathers isn't the apologizing type.

Once in the den, I pored over the tapes on my big-screen TV. Unfortunately, it didn't make any difference. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make out the license number on the back of the Crown Victoria. I'm enough of an expert to know that enhancing a video image is possible, but I didn't have either the technical skill or the equipment to do so, not there in my apartment at nine o'clock at night.

The phone rang about then, offering a welcome interruption. "Detective Beaumont?" a man's voice asked uncertainly.

"Yes."

"This here's Norm Otis with Yellow Cab. I know I was supposed to call you earlier this evening, but it's been real busy tonight. This is the first chance I've had."

"That's all right, Mr. Otis. Did Sally Redding tell you what I wanted?"

"She sure did. About that poor girl from last week. I'm glad to hear someone's doing something about it. I felt really sorry for her, just as sorry as I could be. I don't think I've ever heard anybody cry as hard as that. Like her heart was broken. But she didn't hire me for my advice-only to drive the car-so all's I could do was take her where she wanted to go."

"Where was that?"

"Main Street in Bellevue, number one zero two eight five Main Street."

"Sally Redding already gave me that," I told him.

"If you already knew where I dropped her, why do you need to talk to me?" Norm asked.

"Is that a house? An apartment?"

"Neither. A business," Norm answered. "Looked to me like a china shop. It worried me that she was getting out at such a strange place in the middle of the night, so I made sure she was safely inside before I drove away."

"Do you remember the shop's name?"

"A woman's name, but I don't remember any more than that."

"It wasn't open, was it?"

"Are you kidding? This was the middle of the night. Sometime after midnight. No, but she had a key. She let herself in, and I saw her monkeying with a keypad right by the door, so she must have been turning off an alarm."

"It's probably where she works," I surmised.

"I'd say," Norm Otis agreed.

"Did she mention anything at all about what had gone on before you picked her up?"

"No, but you could sort of figure it out. I mean her clothes were torn half off. She had a cut on her lip. And the asshole who did it had nerve enough to walk her out to the curb. Had to be him, because he was in his shirtsleeves, and she was wearing a man's jacket. He tried to open the door for her like a gentleman, just as nice as can be. As if nothing in the world had happened. But she wouldn't have nothin' to do with him."

"And she didn't say a word about what had put her in that state?"

"Nope. Not a word. Like I told you. She gave me the address and then cried her eyes out the rest of the trip, from downtown Seattle right on across the I-Ninety bridge." Norm paused a moment and then added, "Are you going to get that guy, Detective Beaumont?"

"I don't have to," I told him.

"Why not?" Norm asked.

"Because somebody else already has. He's dead."

"Dead?" Norm repeated.

"Murdered," I said.

"Hot damn!" Norm replied. There was another pause. "Who did it?"

"I don't know. I'm the detective assigned to the case. I'm working on it."

"It wasn't her, was it?"

All too clearly I remembered what Latty had said to Don Wolf on the tape and in the heat of absolutely understandable anger: If you touch me again, I swear to God I'll kill you.

"It could have been," I said carefully.

"Jesus," Norm Otis whispered. "I hope not. She was a real pretty little girl. Looked just like a young Marilyn Monroe. Isn't there such a thing as justifiable homicide in cases like that?"

"There is," I said, "but it's hard to prove. Besides, I'm just a cop. All that legal crap is up to the prosecutor's office and the defense lawyers."

"Maybe she'll find herself one of those smart lawyers who'll get her off," Norm Otis said wistfully. "But let me give you my home number just in case somebody needs it. I mean if it would help for someone to know what kind of shape that poor girl was in that night, I'll be glad to go to bat for her."

"We'll see," I said. "Go ahead and give me your number. We'll need to get a statement from you anyway. Just in case."

Ten

I fell asleep some time before the news came on, and slept like a log. One phone call at a time, I was making progress, and my evening's worth of phone calls made me feel as though I was on track. I woke up early, rewrote the several reports the computer had eaten the day before, and then headed for the office. I was sitting in my cubicle using the Ethernet card on my computer to send files to the printer on our local area network when Watty poked his head in at the doorway.

"The captain wants to see you," he said. "He's looking for your paper."

"He can have my reports," I said, "just as soon as I finish printing them."

I never should have said it aloud. The words were no more than out of my mouth when a message decorated with a tasteful stop sign flashed on the screen. PRINTER IS OFF

LINE OR OUT OF PAPER it said. PLEASE CHECK YOUR PRINTER AND TRY AGAIN.

"Damn!" I exclaimed, heading down the hallway toward Captain Powell's office. "If Henry Ford's Model T's had been this undependable, we'd still be using the horse and buggy."

"Aren't you going to try to fix it?" Watty asked after me.

"No," I told him. "That's not my job. I'm a detective, not a nerd."

Captain Powell was waiting in his fishbowl office. A brass plaque on his desk gave his name and rank. On the front of it, someone had attached a Post-it that announced, "This is a computer-free zone." My sentiments, exactly, I thought, as I dropped into a chair in front of the cluttered desk.

"Any reports for me this morning, Detective Beaumont?" Captain Powell asked. "Or are you too busy handing out autographs these days to bother doing mundane things like actually writing reports?"

Even though I had figured Kramer would try to make the most of Johnny Bickford's visit, I guess it still surprised me to have the first derogatory comment come back to me from Captain Larry Powell. Gritting my teeth, and trying not to let on how much that bugged me, I went into my lame 1990s version of "My dog ate my homework. Twice."

Powell listened impassively to my sad story. Because he doesn't actually use computers, I think he considers himself above the fray. "I want those reports," he said, when I finished. "I want them on my desk ASAP. You realize, of course, that this is turning into a very sensitive case."

Double homicides are always sensitive, I thought, but I didn't say it aloud. Powell's glower as he sailed a piece of paper toward me was enough of a warning that this was no time for one of my typically smart-mouthed comments.

I caught the paper in midair. On it was a list of four names-names and nothing else: Carrol Walsh, Crystal Barron, Martin Rutherford, and DeVar Lester.

I read through the list. None of the names belonged to people I knew personally, but they were nonetheless names I recognized. These were all high-profile people. You couldn't live in Seattle without knowing something about them.

Carrol Walsh was a newly made software multimillionaire who had created a media splash by donating a mountain of money to Fred Hutch cancer research. Crystal Barron, an heiress from back East, had taken up life on a Lake Union houseboat after divorcing her fourth hubby, an aging Hollywood star. Martin Rutherford was a corporate free spirit who had been cut loose in an acrimonious buyout by one of Seattle's premier family-owned and — operated coffee roasting companies. DeVar Lester was an ex-football player who had made a bundle on an outrageously overpriced rookie contract with the Seahawks only to end up blowing his knee in a preseason workout without ever playing a single pro game.

I dropped the paper back on Captain Powell's desk. "What about them?" I asked.

"Those are the people Detectives Kramer and Arnold are off to interview this morning."

I picked up the list and studied it again. "Interview them?" I asked. "How come?"

Powell leaned forward in his chair. "Because these people are recent major investors in D.G.I., or did you already know that?"

"No," I admitted. "I had no idea."

"And you probably also have no idea that Martin Rutherford, the ex-coffee-bean guy, is dating the mayor."

Seattle's mayor, Natalie Farraday, is a divorced single mother who, since her election, has gone through several boyfriends at the rate of about one a year.

"I guess I had heard that," I said, now understanding the implications and how this had suddenly become such a sensitive case. "I'd heard it, but I think maybe I'd forgotten."

"So what exactly are you doing to solve it?" Powell asked.

Hurriedly, I gave Captain Powell a shorthand version of what I had learned so far. He seemed even less impressed with that then he had been with my tale of computer woes. When I finished, Powell sat looking at me, drumming on the surface of his desk with a pencil eraser.

"I spoke to Detective Kramer at some length before he and Detective Arnold hit the bricks," Powell said thoughtfully. "Based on this new information," he said as he gave the list of names a meaningful tap, "I was going to assign another pair of detectives to the case, but Kramer asked me not to. He said that pulling in more people at this point would probably do more harm than good. He says he thinks the three of you will be able to pull it out of the fire. What do you think?"

The public seems to like the "task force" approach to major crimes. Unfortunately, from my point of view, when it comes to effective investigations, less is usually more.

"Kramer's probably right, Captain Powell. I think we're making progress."

"And you don't think you need any more troops?"

"Not at this time."

Captain Powell glanced at his watch. "All right, then," he said. "I'm giving the three of you twenty-four hours to bring this case to some kind of order. If I don't have really solid progress by tomorrow morning at this time, the head count goes up. Understood?"

Nodding, I rose to my feet. "Is that all?" I asked.

"Not quite," Powell answered. "There's one more thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Let me remind you, Detective Beaumont, complacency can be a dangerous thing." While he spoke, the captain's steady gaze held mine. "When cops lose their edge-when they stop being hungry-that's about the time they get careless. The next thing you know, somebody gets hurt."

I paused in the doorway. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do yourself a favor," Captain Powell returned. "You're a cop, not a professional ball player, Beau. Until further notice, no more autographs. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly!" I said.

I stormed back to my office, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the great outdoors. "Hey, Beau," Watty said as I charged past his desk. "Where are you going? You forgot to sign out."

Initially, I headed for the motor pool. I think if I had run into Paul Kramer along the way, I would have punched his lights out. Halfway to the motor pool, I changed my mind-not about cleaning Kramer's clock but about taking a company car.

"Hell with it," I muttered under my breath, startling a sweet young thing clerk headed downstairs with a cartload of file folders. Kramer could be pissed off about where and how I lived, and Captain Powell could order me to not sign autographs, but if I wanted to drive my Guards Red Porsche on my trip to Bellevue, then I would, and nobody-including Captain Lawrence Powell-was going to stop me.

The 928 didn't exactly observe the speed limits as I crossed Lake Washington on the I-90 bridge. Fortunately, the state patrol didn't spot me or pull me over. That would have been tough to explain. By the time I turned off on Bellevue Way, I had cooled down a little.

For someone who has lived downtown for years and who often walks from home to work, the problem of going from Seattle to Bellevue isn't so much a matter of geography as it is one of mind-set. Seattle has a city feel and smell and look to it. Office workers and tourists, drunks and bums mingle on sidewalks on multilane one-way streets filled with traffic.

Bellevue, on the other hand, a city one quarter the size of Seattle proper, is an alien kind of place where, although high-rise buildings dot the skyline, Main Street is still a narrow, two-lane cow path. For some strange reason, North East Eighth, the real main drag, is several blocks to the north.

Downtown Seattle seems intent on banking and commerce while downtown Bellevue is more inclined toward serious shopping. It's a place where Mercedes-wielding, Nordstrom-bound matrons have been known to run down any fellow shoppers who have nerve enough to try to reserve a parking place without benefit of a four-wheeled vehicle. Seattle's largely liberal, pro-Democrat citizenry see Bellevue as a suburban hotbed of rich, recalcitrant Republicans-a questionable place to visit and one where you certainly wouldn't want to live.

I arrived on Main Street in what is quaintly called Old Bellevue, with all my Denny Regrade, dyed-in-the-wool Seattleite prejudices still firmly intact.

It turned out to be easy to find the address I'd obtained from Yellow Cab. Dorene's Fine China and Gifts-complete with a woman's name-was right where Norm Otis had said. Finding the place was simple. Getting in wasn't. Dorene's was closed. A sign on the door said they supposedly opened at nine-thirty. My watch read nine-fifteen.

Like Seattle, Bellevue seems to have an espresso cart stationed on every corner. The one outside Dorene's was no exception. I figured the price of a latte and biscotti would give me the right to ask the cart's long-haired proprietor what, if anything, he knew about Dorene and company.

He shrugged his grunge-clad shoulders and shook his purple-tinged locks. "I think Latty goes to school in the morning. She usually doesn't come to the shop until after noon," he said. "The old lady usually opens up, but she more or less gets here when she gets here, earlier or later, depending."

It was an answer, although not a very definite one. I hung around for a few more fruitless minutes. Finally, it made sense for me to try seeing Eddie at Northwest Mobility first and come back to Bellevue about the time Latty herself was due to show up for work.

I headed off toward Snohomish, threading my way through the maze of suburbs with the help of my faithful companion, The Thomas Guide. Since Ron had told me that Eddie and his wife had started out as hot-rodders, I headed for Rich's Northwest Mobility with a whole headful of preconceptions. I expected a run-down garage with derelict vehicles scattered behind it, maybe an aging, marooned motor home of an office, and a motley collection of worker-bees whose grease-covered clothing went far too many overhauls between washings.

Turning left off Maltby Road onto a narrow paved track that ran through a thicket of towering trees, I was sure my worst suspicions would be confirmed, especially when I saw the ominous sign that warned, in no uncertain terms: STAY ON PAVED ROAD. That generally means if you wander off, you'll be caught in mud up to your hubcaps before you can say Triple-A Towing.

My first inkling that I was mistaken came when I saw the second Rich's sign, the one sitting in the middle of an ornate bricked entryway. I rounded a corner and found myself looking at a collection of several neat, low-built buildings, all painted an inviting pale yellow, nestled at the base of a grass-covered hill. I counted three separate garages on either side of a central paved area. At the far end of that central courtyard was a well-maintained house and yard. Taken together, the garages and house formed a U-shaped outline, the interior of which was parked full of wheelchair-accessible vans. Some of them looked brand new. Others were obviously older and waiting for service at one of the stalls in the various garages, all of which seemed to be fully occupied at the moment.

I parked my 928 out of the way as best I could. At the near end of the U was a sign that must have been a holdover from the old hot-rod days: STREET ROD ALLEY. Unnoticed, I walked toward a group of people gathered around one of the shiny new vans where a heavyset man in a wheelchair was laughingly rolling himself up a gentle ramp into the vehicle. Once inside, he turned around and gave his audience a triumphant thumbs-up. While they responded with a rousing burst of applause, the man headed, chair and all, toward the driver's side of the car, where he seemed to clamp his chair in place.

Looking down at the ground clearance of the Aerostar van, I noticed that it was no more than three or four inches off the ground. That might be fine for getting the wheelchair in and out, I thought to myself, but how the hell is he going to get over the major speed bump between here and Maltby Road?

As if in answer to my question, the man switched on the engine. Without the slightest hitch, the ramp retracted and the outside door closed. Then, with a pneumatic sigh, the van's fender began to rise. When it quit moving, the van sat on ordinary tires, with the floor level and frame the exact same level as any other minivan. Meanwhile, the guy in the chair put the van in gear and began backing out of the lot. I stepped out of the way to let him pass. When he drove by me, he was grinning from ear to ear and waving in every direction, like the marshal of a Fourth of July parade.

"Sorta gets to you, doesn't it?" a tall, green-eyed man said, stepping over to where I was standing. "Watching 'em drive off the lot on their own that first time always puts a lump in my throat."

He paused for a moment, watching the van disappear from view. Then he turned to me, holding out his hand. "By the way, I'm Eddie Riveira," he added. "Is there something I can do to help you?"

"Yes," I answered, pulling out a card and handing it over. "My name's Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. I'm looking for some information."

Eddie smiled. "Most people are," he said.

"A friend of mine owns one of your units, one of those Braun Chair Toppers."

"Really, who's your friend?" Eddie asked.

"Ron Peters."

"Oh, that's right. The young cop from Seattle P.D., the one who wiped himself out by going off one of those unfinished freeway interchanges that used to be down by the Kingdome?"

"That's the one," I said.

"I had a message from him a little while ago, but I haven't had time enough to return the call. How's he doing?"

"Fine," I answered. "He and his wife are expecting a baby. In April sometime."

"He already has kids, doesn't he?"

"Two," I told him.

Obviously, Eddie Riveira took a very personal interest in the people who were his clients, because he clearly remembered Ron Peters. "Last time I saw him he had wrecked his car. We moved that old Topper of his from one vehicle to another-to a Buick, I think-and modified the brakes and accelerator. With two kids already and a baby on the way, he's going to have to break down and get himself one of my vans. He'll love it. Is that what you came to talk to me about?"

"Actually, it isn't. I'm working a case that may involve somebody with a Chair Topper a lot like Ron's. Only this one is on a 1988 lavender Crown Victoria."

Eddie frowned. "Lavender?" he said. "I only know of one eighty-eight Crown Victoria, but that one's powder blue."

I shrugged. "I saw it at night. I could be mistaken about the color."

"Virginia, then," Eddie said. "It belongs to Virginia Marks."

"Do you know where she lives or how I could get in touch with her?" I asked.

"Sure. If you'll come into the office for a minute, I can probably give you her number."

We started toward the office-a real one, not a makeshift motor home. Along the way, where once converted hot rods must have sat, now at least a dozen spanking new vans were parked, side by side, showroom style. Eddie Riveira must have been reading my mind.

"It's the same technology we used to utilize raising and lowering hot rods. We just put it to a little higher use, that's all."

Once in the office, Eddie called up Virginia Marks' name on a computer screen. "Here it is," he said. "This may be an old address. She used to live in a little complex over in Kirkland. I don't know if she's still there or not. At one time, she had talked about moving to downtown Bellevue. From what I can tell, she probably spends more time working out of that car of hers than she does at home."

"You say she works out of her car? What does she do, run a vending machine route? Work as a sales rep?"

"She's a detective," Eddie Riveira told me. "Same as you."

Except Virginia Marks wasn't just like me. I'm a cop. Virginia was a freelancer, a private eye. Eddie fumbled through a plastic holder and ended up showing me Virginia Marks' business card. AIM RESEARCH, it said. Those few words and two phone numbers were the only things printed on the card.

"The bottom number is a cell phone," Eddie said. "That's the one where you're most likely to catch her."

"What can you tell me about her?" I asked.

Eddie shrugged. "A little rough around the edges. Personally, I don't have that many dealings with her. Usually, Nancy or Amanda handles her. Virginia doesn't like men, and she doesn't make any bones about it. We're in business to service the customer. If she doesn't want to talk to me, that's fine with us."

"What's wrong with her?" I asked.

"Wrong?" Eddie repeated.

"How did she end up in a chair?"

"Pulled out in front of a Suburban right here on State Route Five Twenty-two. The car she was driving back then was a little one, a Honda, I believe. The accident barely dented the Suburban, but it creamed Virginia's car and sent her to the hospital for six months and rehab for six months after that. She came out a paraplegic at age forty-eight. According to Amanda-that's my wife, by the way-one of the reasons Virginia Marks likes that old Crown Victoria of hers so much is that it's big. Maybe sitting inside all that sheet metal helps make her feel safe."

A worker, a young man in startlingly clean coveralls, hurried up to where Eddie and I were standing. "Sorry to interrupt, Eddie, but could you come look at something for a minute?"

Eddie excused himself and went away. I stood looking around. Behind the house and the one garage was a minipark with broad sidewalks that ran through a carefully manicured grassy area to two separate gazebos. In the middle of the plot of grass was a complex, fortresslike jungle gym built over a bed of freshly spread bark. On the sidewalk next to the play area, a woman bundled in coat and gloves sat in a wheelchair, watching while two little girls whooped and shrieked from the top of the jungle gym's slide.

Eddie came back. "Sorry. Is there anything else?"

"Just one other thing. How much does one of these vans set a guy back?"

"About forty thou," Eddie answered. "About the same as one of your basic luxury cars.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for the help. By the way, where's the nearest cup of coffee?"

He pointed east. "Coffee you can have here, but if you want something to go with it, I recommend the Maltby Cafe," he said. "Go to the end of the road and turn left. It's not far."

"And the food?" I asked.

"Their breakfasts are great."

I treated myself to French toast and tried calling Virginia Marks of AIM Research at both numbers listed on her card. I tried several times. Each time I hung up just as the voice mail recording came on. I wanted to talk to Virginia in person. I had no interest in leaving a message at the sound of the tone.

Voice mail is fine, but only up to a point.