Payment in kind

Chapter 11

I sat there for some time thinking about that mysterious C-less fuck, and wondered idly if it was related to Erica Jong’s zipless one. I had meandered on into some self-pitying woolgathering and was mulling about how long I had done without same, with or without the zip or the C, when my phone rang.

“Beaumont? This is Kramer. I’m down in the garage. I finally got us a car. Come on down so I don’t have to turn loose of it. Hurry up, will you?”

Nobody had told me we were scheduled to go touring that morning, but I decided to be agreeable. “I’ll be right there. By the way, where are we going?”

“Back up to the school district office. To see Andrea Stovall.”

Another new person at the Seattle school district. “Who’s she?” I asked.

“Just get down here, would you? I told them we’d be there by nine and we’re going to be late. I’ll tell you about her on the way.”

I threw my notebook into the first available pocket, locked the school district’s bomb-threat file folder in my desk, and made my way down the stairs, bypassing the building’s more and more glitchy elevators. Detective Kramer was pacing the floor of the garage near an idling Reliant, hands planted belligerently on his hips, an impatient frown imprinted across his broad forehead.

“So who’s Andrea Stovall?” I asked again as I got in the car.

“I got her name off the logbook sheets,” he answered.

“Logbook sheets?” I asked. “We’ve got those back already?”

“I thought I told you about them last night.”

“You told me Doc Baker had preliminary autopsy reports ready for us to pick up this morning. I don’t remember anything at all about the logbook.”

Kramer fastened his belt with a shrug. “No kidding. You mean I didn’t tell you about that? I meant to. It must have slipped my mind or maybe it happened after you called. Mark Fields brought them up from the crime lab last night.” He tossed a manila envelope across the seat at me.

“They’re in there, copies of the logbook sheets, an unofficial copy of Doc Baker’s findings, and whatever the crime lab has done so far.”

“Slipped my mind” my ass! Fighting to control my anger, I opened the envelope and thumbed through the three separate sets of papers I found there. I focused first on the cleanly typed forms from Doc Baker’s office. There’s nothing like reading autopsy and crime lab reports to help whittle your own troubles down to size and make you count your blessings. The impassive technical terminology condensed Alvin Chambers’ and Marcia Kelsey’s brutal deaths down into dry, bare-bones anatomy class specifics.

Doc Baker estimated Chambers’ time of death as somewhere around midnight, although he had probably been shot well before that. He had been shot in the back and then dragged, still alive but possibly unconscious, into the closet, where he had bled to death. A. 25-caliber CCI-Blazer slug, shot at point-blank range, had severed his spine and then inflicted surprisingly terrible damage as it ripped through vital internal organs and exited near his belly button. People who don’t want to think about outlawing handguns haven’t seen firsthand the kind of damage they do.

It took a second for the information to sink in. I looked over at Kramer. “The gun we found was a. 38, but this says a. 25.”

“That’s right.”

“So we’re dealing with two weapons, not one.”

“Right again.”

I continued reading. There were signs of a blow to the head on Chambers, but it was Doc Baker’s assessment that although the blow may have rendered him unconscious, it had in no way contributed to the victim’s death. From the lividity of the body, he had been dead for some period of time before Marcia Kelsey’s body dropped on top of him.

Unlike Chambers, Marcia Kelsey had evidently died instantly, falling where she was shot. Hers was not a self-inflicted wound, although someone had gone to a good deal of trouble to make us think so. The lack of powder particles ruled out suicide once and for all.

Baker’s preliminary tests showed no sign of drugs or alcohol in either victim, but a final determination on that score would have to wait on the toxicology reports. Those take time.

“It says here Chambers was shot somewhere else and then dragged into the closet.”

Kramer nodded. “That’s right. That shows up in the crime lab report. The crime-scene team found trace evidence of blood in one of the floor seams in the entryway, near where his table and chair were set up. Liz, from the crime lab, told me they were really lucky to find it, because whoever did it stuck around long enough to do a pretty good job of cleaning up.”

“So we’re dealing with a real cool customer.”

“And somebody who’s compulsively neat,” Kramer put in with a malicious smile. I knew he was thinking about Pete Kelsey’s pristine garage. So was I.

“Did you get to the part where it says no semen?” Kramer added.

I scanned the page to where Doc Baker had detailed his sexual findings. Just as Kramer had said, there was no sign of sexual intercourse. No semen in the vagina or elsewhere.

“What about it?”

Kramer shrugged. “It’s too bad, that’s all. To get killed for nothing. I mean, if you knew you were gonna die, wouldn’t you want to go out with a bang?”

“You’re an incurable romantic, Kramer, with a real way with words,” I said sarcastically. He grinned. I think he thought it was a compliment.

It occurred to me then that Detective Kramer, who was driving the car rather than studying his own copy of the reports, had a nearly total recall of everything written there. “What did you do, memorize the reports on the way down here this morning?”

“Not this morning. I changed my mind and picked ‘em up on my way home last night after all, just in case there was something that needed our attention right away.”

I had no delusions that if something had needed “our” attention, I wouldn’t have heard word one about it until after the fact. Kramer would have handled it on his own. His silence about the logbooks was anything but the innocent oversight he claimed it to be. It’s hard to like working with somebody like that, someone you can’t afford to turn your back on. The book says you’re supposed to be able to trust your partner. With your life. Fat chance.

Letting it go, I returned to the issue of two guns. That didn’t make sense. “I still don’t understand why we have two separate weapons.”

“Who knows? Maybe the killer thought that if one gun was good, two were better.”

Convinced there was nothing more to be gained right then by rereading either one of the two official reports, I turned to the third batch of papers. These turned out to be surprisingly good copies of the Seattle Security logbook pages for December thirtieth and thirty-first and January first.

I glanced down at the second page, the one for the first of January. It had been a holiday after all, and there were only two entries on the entire page: Marcia Kelsey had checked in at eight P.M. There was no check-out time following her name. Andrea Stovall had signed in at eleven and out again at eleven-fifteen.

That certainly answered one question. No wonder we were on our way to see Andrea Stovall. The presence of her name in the register on the same day at around the time of the killings made her a person of interest, someone we needed to interview.

Without further comment, I gathered the pieces of paper together and shoved them back in the envelope. We rode in silence for several blocks, with Kramer driving and me steaming. The pattern behind his behavior was beginning to emerge. He had known about the logbook sheets being ready when he called me the night before. He had known about the logbook sheets being ready when he called me the night before. He had known the autopsy reports were ready as well and had lied to me about them on the phone. He had picked them up on the way home and must have spent much of the night studying them. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for him, the vital information he’d been searching for, details that would have given him a crack at being a Lone Ranger hero, hadn’t been there.

I was learning the nature of the beast. Look to thy butt, Beaumont, I warned myself firmly. This guy’s a weasel who’ll kick ass and take names later if you give him half a chance. I didn’t like the idea of being pitted against both a murderous crook and an untrustworthy partner at the same time. That didn’t make for very good odds. The only way to win in a situation like that is to be smarter than everybody else, cagier, so I bit back any number of caustic comments and got back to the job at hand.

“So tell me. Who’s this Andrea Stovall?”

A self-satisfied smirk lit up Kramer’s face before he answered, and I wanted to backhand him. “The head of the SFTA,” he answered.

“What’s that?”

“The Seattle Federated Teachers’ Association.”

“The union? She’s head of the teachers’ union.”

Kramer smiled. “I thought you’d like that touch.”

“So why are we meeting her at the school district office?” In fact, we were just then pulling into the parking lot on Lower Queen Anne.

Detective Kramer glanced at his watch. “You’re right. Her office is up in Greenwood, but her secretary told me she has a meeting here at nine-thirty. We’re supposed to see her before that.”

As we got out of the car, I could see I was dealing with another instance of Detective Kramer’s behind-the-scenes machinations. The district office was probably a whole lot more convenient meeting place for all concerned, but it had taken a hell of a lot of arranging. I said, “You must have been one busy little beaver this morning.”

Everywhere I turned, I could see Kramer was deliberately holding out on me, keeping me in the dark, but if I complained about it to Sergeant Watkins or Captain Powell, they would laugh themselves silly. How could I complain about a partner so willing to work, so eager to take on extra jobs and lessen my burden, right? Right. I didn’t give Kramer the satisfaction of saying a word about it. Instead, I went along with the program and acted as though everything was on the up and up.

“Were they here together? And if so, why would the head of the teachers’ union be cozying up to the district’s head of labor relations in a secret midnight meeting?”

“Why don’t we ask her?” Kramer responded.

Jennifer Lafflyn-Ms. Lafflyn, if you will-the previous day’s miniskirted number, was seated demurely at the large reception desk in the school district office. A thick cloud of flowery perfume tainted the atmosphere ten feet in any direction from her desk. She seemed totally recovered from the previous day’s emotional roller coaster.

“Good morning, Ms. Lafflyn,” Kramer said with oily deference when she looked up from her switchboard and saw us standing there. “We’re here to see Mrs. Stovall. Her secretary said that you’d know where to find her.”

I don’t know if Kramer actually remembered Jennifer Lafflyn’s name and preferred salutation or if he had taken his cue from the nameplate on her desk, but his underscored use of the word “Ms.” earned him a warm smile from the lady in question. The guy walking three feet behind him, me, that is, was totally invisible.

Jennifer rose quickly to her feet. “Of course,” she said. “One moment. Please wait right here.”

She turned and disappeared down a long hallway. Her slight but well-built figure was poured into a tightly belted, short black sheath over black panty hose. She may have thought of her basic black getup as appropriate mourning attire, but it was short, exceedingly short.

Kramer leered after her, watching her every move. “Maybe when we’re done here, I’ll offer to give her a lift downtown so we can get those fingerprints we need. And I’ll throw in an early lunch.”

He wasn’t just talking about lunch, either. “You’d better watch that stuff, Kramer,” I warned him. “She looks like she could blow all your fuses and never turn a hair.”

Ms. Lafflyn came tripping back down the hallway right then. “They’ll be meeting in the conference room. Mrs. Stovall’s in the room next door, fourth door on your left.”

I’ve always had this image of union presidents as tough-talking, cigar-chewing guys in baggy pants and rolled-up shirtsleeves who negotiate heavy-duty secret deals in smoke-filled rooms. With my introduction to Andrea Stovall, that particular stereotype was about to be pleasantly shattered.

The woman sitting in the small office was a tiny, immaculately dressed blonde with her hair cut in the short, free-falling style preferred by figure skaters. She had pixielike features combined with the solid handshake of a born politician. She would have been pretty had it not been for the deep shadows under her eyes, ravages of sleeplessness that even the most deftly applied makeup couldn’t entirely obliterate.

“Sorry we’re so late,” Kramer said as she motioned us into chairs. “We had trouble getting transportation.”

She shrugged. “That’s all right, but we’d better get started right away. What can I do for you?”

“This won’t take long,” Kramer assured her. “It’s about Sunday night. We noticed that you were signed in and out on the logbook.”

Andrea Stovall nodded. “That’s correct. You said as much on the telephone. What about it?”

“The only other person we have any record of working that night, other than the security guard, the only other person who signed in, was Marcia Louise Kelsey, a woman who died under mysterious circumstances that same night.”

“I know all about that,” Andrea said wearily. Her whole body sagged and the smooth veneer of her face contorted with grief. “Marcia Kelsey and I were friends. I can’t get over what happened. It’s such a terrible tragedy.”

“Actually, Mrs. Stovall,” Kramer said, “that friendship is one of the things we wanted to ask you about, as well as what you were doing at the district office the night before last. Isn’t it odd for the head of the union and the head of labor relations to be buddies, as it were?”

“We started out teaching together years ago, and we became friends then. Through the years our jobs grew in different directions, but the friendship stayed.”

“What about Sunday night?” I asked.

“I came down to check on her.”

“You knew she was going to be working that night?”

“Not really, but…”

“But what?”

“I just thought she might be, that’s all.” Andrea Stovall dropped her eyes and wiped imaginary dust off the desktop in front of her. Even though we were treating her with kid gloves, this line of questioning was making Andrea Stovall very nervous. I wondered why and decided to get a little tougher.

“Look, Mrs. Stovall,” I said gruffly. “It was the middle of the night on one of the worst night we’ve had in years. The streets were a mess, yet you expect us to believe that you came all the way down here on the off chance that Marcia Kelsey might be here as well? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not. That’s what happened. I was worried about her and came to check on her. She wasn’t here, nobody was. I thought…” She paused.

“You thought what?”

“Since her car was still in the lot, I thought maybe Pete had come by and given her a ride home.”

“Was the guard on duty?” I asked.

“Probably, but I didn’t see him or anyone else, not a soul.”

“What time was that?” Kramer asked.

“I don’t remember exactly. Around eleven. I wrote it down in the logbook, both the time in and the time out. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Rex.”

She broke off and bit her lower lip while an embarrassed flush crept up her neck and across her cheeks. Clearly she had blurted out something she hadn’t intended to.

“Who’s Rex?” I asked.

“Rex Pierson, the manager of my building.”

“What building is that?”

“I live at the Queen Anne. It’s just up the hill from here.”

The Queen Anne wasn’t a building I recognized by name. Next to me, Detective Kramer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. There was a good deal the two of us didn’t agree on, but he was getting the same reading from Andrea Stovall that I was.

“How exactly did you get into the building, Mrs. Stovall?” I asked. “You said you couldn’t find anyone, not even the security guard. Weren’t the doors locked?”

Andrea Stovall clasped her hands and placed them on the desk in front of her, but not before I noticed a sudden, uncontrolled trembling.

“Are you cold, Mrs. Stovall?” I asked, feigning sympathy. “Your hands are shaking.”

“No,” she said quickly, “I’m fine.” But under her makeup, the color of her skin had paled.

“You still haven’t told us how you got into the building,” I prodded.

She swallowed. “I have a key,” she said in almost a whisper. “I used that to let myself in.”

Detective Kramer’s jaw dropped, and so did mine. Giving the head of the teachers’ union a key to the district offices sounded downright crazy, like giving the Big Bad Wolf his own private key to the henhouse.

“You mean the head of the teachers’ union has a key to the building?” Kramer demanded.

“I probably shouldn’t have,” Andrea Stovall conceded, “but I do. I’ve had one for years. I still sign in and out, the way I’m supposed to. Remember, that’s how you found me, from the sign-in sheet. Besides, I was sure Marcia was still here, because her car was parked in the lot outside, but when I couldn’t raise the guard with the bell, I let myself in.”

“There’s a bell?” Kramer asked.

“A night bell, so that if the guard is in some other part of the building, he can still hear that someone’s at the door.”

“Tell us about the car,” I said, switching gears. “You said it was still parked in the lot?”

“She drove a Volvo, a green Volvo station wagon,” Andrea Stovall answered gratefully, relieved to move away from any more questions about her unauthorized possession of a building key. “It was right there in the lot when we drove up.”

“We? You mean you and this Rex person?” Kramer asked.

She swallowed. “That’s right.”

“And he’s your apartment manager, right? How did he get dragged into this?”

“He offered me a ride, and I accepted.”

“In the middle of a snowy night? To come check on someone you didn’t know for sure would be here?”

Andrea nodded.

“Why?”

Suddenly Andrea Stovall dissolved into tears. “Because I was worried about her. Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That something might happen to her. And I was right, goddamn it! I was right to be afraid.”

Some women cry daintily and prettily. Andrea Stovall wasn’t one of them. Her nose and eyes turned red while her face puffed up instantly.

There was a gentle knock on the door just then, and Doris Walker poked her head into the room, looking questioningly from one face to another. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said apologetically, “but Dr. Savage and the others are waiting. Would it be possible for you to finish this later?”

Without waiting for us to answer, Andrea Stovall reached down and scooped up both a purse and a briefcase that had been sitting on the floor beside her. “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve got to fix my face.”

With that, she bolted from the room and Doris closed the door behind her, leaving Kramer and me alone. I’m sure we could have stopped her, told Doris Walker that Andrea Stovall was unavoidably detained and kept the interview going, but the interview had raised some interesting questions, disturbing questions.

What exactly was the relationship between Marcia Louise Kelsey and Andrea Stovall? More than Andrea had let on, of that I was sure. She had said she was “afraid” for Marcia. Why? It hadn’t been just a general fear of someone working late and alone in an otherwise deserted office building. The fear had been more specific than that, and strong enough to make Andrea enlist her apartment manager’s help when she went to check.

We’d be talking to Andrea Stovall again, but before we did, we’d need to do some checking on our own. When homicide detectives ask questions, it’s always a good idea to have some idea in advance what the real answers ought to be. It keeps you from being suckered quite so badly.

“What’s with her?” Kramer asked, still staring at the closed door.

“She’s hiding something,” I said. “Something that happened the night of the murders, and she’s scared to death we’re going to find out what it is, which we’d by God better do before we talk to her again.”

Kramer nodded and we both rose to go. At least we had found one point we could agree on, and in this case, that counted for progress.