A more perfect union

CHAPTER 15

I didn't go to the department the next day. I didn't have to. The mountain came to Mohammed. Sergeant Watkins turned up on the security phone downstairs at ten after eight. Once Watty was inside my apartment, Ralph Ames stayed around only long enough to say a polite hello and then made himself scarce while the sergeant and I retreated into the den.

"Coffee?" I asked.

Watty shook his head. "It's not a social visit. Just what the hell do you think you're pulling, Beau? Since when do homicide detectives go out and investigate any damn case they please? Since when did I stop making the assignments?"

"I didn't do it on purpose. It just happened. You know how that Tyree case started. He floated up right under my nose while I was working on the movie set. I know I wasn't assigned, but I was involved. I couldn't help it."

"That's bullshit, Beau, and you know it. ‘I couldn't help it' is an excuse a little kid uses on his mother after he wets his pants. You didn't try to help it. You got a wild hair up your ass that Kramer and Manny had it all wrong, and you set out hell-bent for leather to prove it."

"Maybe," I said.

"Maybe nothing! What's going on between you and Kramer anyway? He's been in my office twice this week complaining that you were messing around in his case. Bird-dogging him. I told him he was full of it, that you were working on the movie and later that you were on vacation. Obviously I was wrong. The shit is really going to hit the fan when he finds out about what happened yesterday."

"I think he already has. He called here last night before I got home."

"But you didn't talk to him?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

"If I were you, Beau, I'd do some pretty serious thinking before I called him. He's pissed as hell, and he has every right to be. So's Manny. The homicide squad's based on teamwork, remember? We're supposed to work together, all of us. I don't need some loose cannon rolling around on deck screwing up the works for everybody."

There wasn't a damn thing I could say, because I knew Watty was right, and he was only warming up.

"We've worked together for a long time, Beau, been through the wars together, but you left me with my ass hanging out on this one. I spent all day yesterday dodging bullets in every direction. Calls from upstairs, calls from the press, and yes, goddamnit, calls from some of my own squad. All of 'em asking the same thing. All of 'em wanting to know what the hell was going on and how the hell you ended up in that woman's basement without any clothes on."

"Shorts," I put in lamely. "I still had my shorts on."

"Big fucking deal. Tell me about it. What happened?"

I took a deep breath. "I was convinced that Logan Tyree's death wasn't an accident."

"That's no answer," Watty interrupted. "Harbor Patrol disagrees with you. So does the Coast Guard. And the same goes for Manny Davis and Paul Kramer. Logan Tyree's their baby, and don't you forget it."

"But you asked me how it happened and I'm telling you. I was interested, so I talked to people-his friends, his ex-wife, people he worked with. They all said the same thing, that Tyree was careful, exceptionally careful, that he wouldn't have been out in a boat without the fume sensors and the blower working properly."

"That's it?" Watty demanded. "That's all you had?"

"Then there was the fight with his girlfriend. One of the neighbors said they had a serious quarrel and that they broke up a week or so before it happened."

"Breaking up with his girlfriend days before he died doesn't tell me Logan Tyree was murdered."

"There was something else as well. Tyree told his neighbor that he had to take some kind of action. I forget the words exactly, but something about a man doing what a man has to do."

"And this neighbor…"

"His name's Corbett, Red Corbett."

"What else did he tell you?"

"He gave me Linda Decker's name. Told me how to get in touch with her."

"How come, Beau? Why'd this Red Corbett character spill his guts to you and not to Manny and Paul? I've got their reports. I remember seeing Corbett's name. He told them some of this, but not all."

"Can I help it if Paul Kramer's an asshole?"

"Leave personalities out of this, Beau."

I went on. "Corbett offered to give Manny and Kramer Linda's name, but they said they didn't need it. That since the death was an accident, the ex-wife's name was enough."

Watty was shaking his head before I finished. "So they made a mistake. Kramer's new to homicide. He's entitled to some mistakes, but by the time they decided they did need to talk to her, Linda Decker was already gone. Not even her mother knew where she was. How'd you manage to find her when they couldn't?"

"I talked to her brother."

"The retard? The one who's in the hospital?"

"Is that what Kramer told you about Jimmy Rising, that he's a retard?"

"Developmentally disabled. You like that better?"

"Look, Watty, whatever's wrong with him, Jimmy Rising is one hell of a nice guy. He would have told Kramer and Manny just what he told me if they had bothered to listen. They ran right over him, ignored him, treated him like shit."

"And you didn't?"

"That's right."

Watty leaned back on the couch and looked at me, his arms folded over his chest. I had worked with Sergeant Watkins for a long time, but I had never seen him so thoroughly steamed.

"You're out to lunch on this one, Beau. This case, accident or not, is none of your goddamned business."

"So I'll leave it alone," I said.

"You'd by God better!"

"What about the woman who fell off the building?"

"What about her?"

"Is that classified as an accident, too?"

"Are you saying the two deaths are related?"

"Can you prove they're not?"

After this exchange we sat there for several long moments with neither one of us speaking. Finally, abruptly, Watty stood up to go.

"I came over here to tell you to mind your own business, Beau. It's not an official warning. Kramer hasn't filed a grievance yet. If he does, then it will have to be official, go across desks, through channels, and end up in your file. But just because it isn't official yet, don't get the idea that you're home free. You're not.

"I've known you for years, Beau. This isn't like you. I know you're a good cop. I can't believe you'd pull such a dumb-ass trick. With you down there by yourself, if that crazy broad in Pe Ell had blown you away, it wouldn't have done anybody a damn bit of good.

"I don't usually pay much attention to departmental gossip. Neither do you, but I think it's time you did. This is a hell of a nice place you have here. That 928 you drive is a sweet little piece of machinery. I happen to know where all of it came from, but you're getting a whole lot of notoriety both inside and outside the department. People are starting to talk about the playboy cop. When you go around pulling fool stunts like this, it sure as hell adds fuel to the fire."

I must have winced when he said it. The words "playboy cop" had hurt badly enough when I heard them from Paul Kramer. Coming from Watty, from someone I've worked with for years, someone I respect, they cut clear to the bone.

He didn't miss my reaction. "So you have heard it then," Watty said.

I nodded.

"Being a cop isn't something you do when you feel like it. It isn't something you do now and then just to keep your hand in. It's not a goddamned part-time job. It's something you do because you have to, because it's in your blood. But you do it by the rules. If you're tired of those rules, if you're tired of taking orders and being on the team, then quit. Get the hell out.

"Your net worth doesn't mean a damn thing to me, Beaumont. It doesn't make you sergeant. I'm still calling the shots. I assign the cases, and my people answer to me. I don't need any goddamned Lone Ranger on my squad. I won't tolerate it, and if you've got a problem with that, then maybe you'd better make this vacation permanent or put in for a transfer. You got that?"

"I've got it," I said.

I followed Watty to the door. He opened it and stepped into the hallway, then he turned back. "If I were you, I'd have someone take a look at that nose. It looks broken to me."

I watched him go. Watty had just climbed all over my frame, but he still worried about my goddamned broken nose. That hurt almost as much as the ass-chewing.

Ralph Ames came out of the guest room with an empty coffee cup in one hand and a fistful of papers in the other. He had told me that as long as he was in Seattle he could just as well do some work for the Belltown Terrace real-estate syndicate and save himself another trip later.

"How was it?" he asked, refilling his cup.

"Pretty rough," I said. "Watty told me to shape up or ship out. Either get back on the team or get the hell off it altogether. From the sound of it, he doesn't much care which way it goes."

"I see," Ames said and let it go at that. He took the fresh cup of coffee and disappeared into the guest room, leaving me to stew in my own juices.

There was plenty of stewing to do. Over the years, I've been in varying degrees of hot water on occasion, but that's not unusual among detectives. As a breed we're the ones who ask the questions, who ferret out information people often don't want us to have. It's a world that attracts pragmatists-self-starters with strong streaks of independence.

I had been reprimanded before, called on the carpet and brought back to heel, but never anything like this. Watty's words had gutted me, hit all my professional cop buttons, and left me empty, with nothing to say in my own defense because I knew damn good and well he was right. I had been out of line, off the charts.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I took it out on the balcony and stood looking down at the street far below, hoping the sound of morning commuter traffic hurrying down Second Avenue would help lessen the sting of Watty's departing words, but it didn't. Nothing could. Because for everything Watty had said, I could add three more burning indictments of my own.

Of course I should have gone to Manny Davis and Paul Kramer and told them what I had found out, what I suspected. Of course I shouldn't have driven to Pe Ell to question Linda Decker alone. Going without a backup was stupid. Inexcusable.

The personality conflict between Kramer and me was like a couple of little boys duking it out on a playground, fighting over who ruled a small square of gravel turf or who got the biggest swing. But I had let that little-boy game overshadow my professional judgment.

Professional? Who the hell was I to call myself a professional?

The phone rang, interrupting the self-flagellation. I was sure it was Kramer, and I started rehearsing my apology as I went to pick up the receiver. Instead it was Peters, calling from the hospital.

"So you made it back all right after all." He sounded relieved.

"Yeah," I said. "I should have called you last night, but it was too late. Sorry."

"Don't worry about that. How are things?"

"Watty was just here and reamed me out good. I deserved it."

"One thing to be thankful for, though. At least the papers didn't name names this morning. They called you an ‘unidentified off-duty Seattle Police officer.'"

"So it's in the paper today?"

"Front and center."

"Great. Did the article say anything about Linda Decker's brother?"

"The one who got burned? Only that he's in the burn unit down here at Harborview. Critical condition. Intensive care. You know what that's like."

"One step away from the Spanish Inquisition."

Peters laughed ruefully. "Something like that," he said. "I assume Watty told you hands off?"

"In a manner of speaking," I allowed.

Peters knew me well enough to sense that what I said was only the tip of the iceberg, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he went on to something else. "Has Maxine gotten hold of you to arrange a schedule for Bumbershoot?" he asked.

I had forgotten all about the outing I had promised Peters' girls. "No," I said guiltily. "She hasn't caught up with me. I've been a moving target."

"Maxine called here yesterday and said that she heard that kids get in free on Friday. She wondered if it would be possible for you to take them then. She's got a doctor's appointment in the early afternoon. Otherwise, she'll have to locate another sitter."

"Tell her that'll be fine. By tomorrow afternoon, I'm sure time will be hanging heavy on my hands. Tell her to send them up here about eleven. We'll eat lunch over at Seattle Center."

"Okay," he said, "I'll let her know." He paused. "Don't kick yourself too much, Beau. You never would have done it if I hadn't been egging you on from the sidelines, remember?"

"Sure," I said, and we hung up.

I know Peters was trying to make me feel better, but it didn't work. When you've been flat on your back in bed for six months, you're allowed some lapses in judgment. When you're still supposedly dealing with a full deck, when you're still walking around upright, carrying a badge and packing a loaded. 38, it's a whole different ball game.

Ames came out of the bedroom again. He was dressed in a suit and tie, briefcase in hand. He found me sitting in the chair by the telephone, staring off into space. He set the case down on the table for a moment and stood there looking at me.

"You could always quit, you know," he said.

"Quit?"

"The force. You don't need to work if you don't want to."

The realization that Watty might fire me had shaken me to my very core, but the idea of quitting had never crossed my mind.

"It's what I've always done," I said.

Ames shrugged. "Maybe that's reason enough to make a change. Lots of men your age do, you know," he added quietly. He picked up the briefcase again and started toward the door. "What are you going to do today?"

"I don't know yet," I said. "I'm going to have to think about it."

After Ames left, the silence in the room was oppressive. I felt restless, ill at ease. Unbidden, Jimmy Rising came to mind. I remembered how much he had wanted to go to work the day he missed the bus, how proud he had been of the thermos and the lunch pail. Well, he wasn't going to work now. The micrographics department at the Northwest Center would have to do without him for awhile. Maybe forever. The burn unit at Harborview is good, but they can't always work miracles.

I wasn't conscious of making the decision. Like an old war-horse that doesn't have sense enough to quit, I got up, put on my holster and my jacket. With my hand on the doorknob I paused. Would going to the hospital to see Jimmy Rising be considered meddling in Paul Kramer's case?

No, goddamnit. Sergeant Watkins could fire my ass if he wanted to, but I was going to go to the hospital and pay my respects to Jimmy Rising come hell or high water.