Trial By Fury

CHAPTER 10

There's only one thing to do with that many Girl Scout cookies-take them to the office and share the wealth. So I drove to the Public Safety Building and parked the Porsche in the bargain basement garage at the foot of Columbia. I've noticed that my 928 commands a fair amount of respect from parking garage attendants.

This one held the door open for me as I got out. Then I crawled back inside and dredged out the two cartons of cookies. When the kid handed me my parking ticket, I gave him a box of cookies.

"Hey, thanks," he said, grinning.

"Just handle my baby with care," I told him.

"We always do," he replied.

I was halfway up the block when I heard squealing tires as he jockeyed the Porsche into a parking place. There was no accompanying sound of crumpling metal, so I didn't worry about it.

Peters glanced up from his newspaper as I put the cookies on my desk. "Want one?" I asked.

"Are you kidding? That much sugar will kill you, Beau. What are you doing, peddling them for one of your neighbors?"

"Peddling, hell! I'm giving this stuff away, all in the line of duty."

"Don't tell me you bought that many cookies last night when you were talking to that little girl about the Ridleys."

"She's a terrific salesman."

"And you're an easy mark."

For the remainder of the morning, while Peters and I valiantly worked at running a check on Joanna Ridley and tried to dredge a copy of the check out of a combination of Girl Scout and bank bureaucracy, our two desks became the social hub of the department. Word of free cookies spread like wildfire, and everyone from Vice to Property managed to stop by with a cup of coffee. Including Captain Lawrence Powell.

He wasn't above taking a cookie or two before he lit into us. "Whenever you two finish socializing, how about stopping by my office for a little chat."

Larry Powell's glass-enclosed, supposedly private office offers all the privacy of a fishbowl, which is what we call it. It isn't sound-proofed, either. You don't have to be a lip-reader to know everything that's going on behind Powell's closed door.

"You're out of line, Beau," he said. "Dr. Baker has sent a formal complaint to the chief."

"That jerk," I said.

"Detective Beaumont, this is serious. Just because you can literally buy and sell city blocks in this town doesn't give you the right to run roughshod over elected public officials."

"Look, Larry, we're not talking net worth here. Baker demanded information before I had it. Then he pitched a fit because I wouldn't give it to him."

"This is a sensitive case, Beau. If you're going to go off half-cocked, I'll pull you two off it and give it to someone who isn't as hot-headed."

"It wouldn't be such a sensitive case, as you put it, if Peters and I hadn't figured out who he was. Darwin Ridley was just an unidentified corpse by a garbage dumpster until we got hold of him, remember?"

"We're making progress," Peters put in helpfully, hoping to defuse the situation a little.

Powell turned from me to Peters. "You are?"

"We've been working one possibility all morning."

"Well, get on with it, then, but don't step on any more toes. You got that?" Powell had worked himself into a real temper tantrum.

"You bet! I've got it all right." I steamed out of the fishbowl with Peters right behind me. Making a detour past our cubicle, I grabbed up our jackets, tossed Peters his, and shrugged my way into mine.

"Where are we going?" Peters asked.

"Out!" I snapped.

It took a while for the attendant to free my Porsche. It had been buried among a group of all-day cars as opposed to short-term ones. Once out of the garage, I hauled ass through Pioneer Square, driving south.

"I asked you before, where are we going?"

"Any objections to letting Joanna Ridley know we know she's a lying sack of shit?"

"None from me."

"Good. That's where we're going."

"Do you think it'll work?" he asked.

"She's no pro. She's not even a particularly good liar. It won't take much to push her over the edge, just a little nudge, especially in her condition."

Peters nodded in agreement.

By the time we got off the freeway, fast driving had pretty well boiled the venom out of my gut. It wasn't the first time I'd heard sly references to the fact that having money had somehow spoiled J. P. Beaumont. Money doesn't automatically make you an asshole. Or a prima donna, either. Damn Doc Baker anyway.

We drove across Beacon Hill, one of the glacial ridges that separates Puget Sound from Lake Washington. When we stopped in front of Joanna Ridley's house, there were no cars there at all. I was disappointed. I had geared myself up for a confrontation. Now it looked as though it wasn't going to happen.

We had turned around and were heading back to the department when we met Joanna Ridley's Mustang GT halfway down the block. She was alone in the car.

"We're in luck," I said.

I made a U-turn and parked in the driveway behind the Mustang. When we stepped onto Joanna's front porch, she greeted us with what could hardly be called a cordial welcome. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

She stood looking up at us questioningly, one hand resting on the small of her back as though it was bothering her. "What about?"

"About last Friday."

"I've told you everything I know."

"No, you didn't, Joanna. You didn't tell us you had gone to the Coliseum and talked to your husband. In fact, you told us you never went near his games."

Defiance crept across her face. "So I went there to talk to him. What difference does that make?"

"Why did you lie to us? You said the last time you saw him was at breakfast."

She dropped her gaze. With eyes averted, Joanna turned to the front door. She unlocked it, opened it, and went inside, leaving us standing on the porch. Peters and I exchanged glances, unsure whether or not we were expected to follow.

"After you," Peters said.

We found Joanna Ridley sitting on the couch. Her face was set, full lips compressed into a thin line, but there was no sign of tears. Peters sidled into a chair facing her, while I sat next to her on the couch.

"How did you find out?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It doesn't matter. The point is, we know you were there. We have a witness who saw you there. You signed a piece of paper."

She looked at me for a long minute. "The cookies," she said. "I forgot about the cookies. I wrote a check."

Putting her hand to her mouth, she started to laugh, the semihysterical giggle of one whose life has been strung so tight that the ends are beginning to unravel. The giggle evolved into hysterical weeping before she finally quieted and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I don't know why I'm laughing. I went to tell him I wanted a divorce, and I didn't even do that right," she said finally. "I ended up paying for all those damn cookies."

"You didn't mention a divorce to us before."

"I didn't tell anyone. Why tell? If Darwin was dead, what did it matter?"

"But it could have some bearing on how he died, Mrs. Ridley. Do you mind if I ask why you wanted a divorce?"

"Mind? Yes, I mind."

"But we need to know," Peters insisted. "It could be important."

She sat silently for what seemed like a long time, looking first at Peters then at me. At last she shook her head. " Darwin was screwing around," she whispered. Once more Joanna Ridley began to cry.

Suddenly, I felt old and jaded. It didn't seem like that big a deal. Husbands screw around all the time. And wives put up with it or not, divorce them or not. And life goes on. In most cases.

Darwin Ridley had not survived his indiscretion, however. I wondered if we might not be treading on very thin Miranda ice. We had not read Joanna Ridley her rights. I was beginning to think maybe we should have.

Peters and I waited patiently, neither of us saying a word. Eventually, she quieted, got control of herself.

"Does it have to come out? About the divorce, I mean."

I did my best to reassure her. "We'll try. If it has nothing to do with the murder itself, then there's no reason for it to go any further than this room."

She got up and walked away from us. She stood by a window, pulling the curtain to one side to look out. I knew what she was doing-distancing herself from us while she waged some ferocious internal war. Finally, she turned to face us.

"I guess I could just as well tell you," she said softly. "You'll probably find out anyway. I had a phone call that afternoon, about three-thirty or a quarter to four. From a man. He said I'd better keep that motherfucking son of a bitch away from his daughter."

"Talking about Darwin?"

She nodded.

"That's all he said?"

"No, he said I could tell that black bastard that his daughter wouldn't be at the Coliseum to meet him, that she wouldn't be at the game, and that if Darwin even so much as spoke to her again, he was a dead man."

Stopping, Joanna looked at me, her eyes hollow. "That's the other reason I went to the Coliseum. To warn him."

"I don't suppose the caller left his name and number," I said.

Joanna shook her head. "This came yesterday." Like a sleepwalker, she rose, crossed the room into the little study, opened a desk drawer, and extracted a large manila envelope, which she brought back to me. Her name and address were typed neatly on the outside. There was no return address in the upper left-hand corner. The postmark was illegible.

When I opened it, a single photograph fell out.

At first glance, it seemed to be a picture of a man embracing a woman in what appeared to be a motel room. Closer examination revealed the man to be Darwin Ridley, but the woman wasn't a woman at all. She was a girl. A blonde girl. She was still wearing a bra, but the camera had caught her in the act of slipping out of her skirt. A short, gored, two-toned skirt.

A cheerleader's skirt.

I shook my head and handed the picture over to Peters. He looked at it and dropped the picture on the coffee table like it was too hot to handle.

Captain Powell's sensitive case had just turned into Maxwell Cole's dynamite. I wondered briefly if it was too late to get the captain to put two other detectives on the case instead of us. I didn't think I wanted to be anywhere within range when this particular shit started hitting the fan.

I looked at Joanna Ridley then, standing there with her pregnant silhouette framed against the curtained window, with the muted sunlight filtering through her backlit hair. She was a picture of totally vulnerable, abject despair.

And in that instant, I knew what she was feeling.

She had lost the man she loved, and now even her memories of him were being shredded and torn from her. I knew all too well that sense of absolute loss.

I got up and went to her. Somebody needed to do it, and Peters wasn't going to. He didn't understand what was happening. I reached out for her and held her. She fell against my chest, letting my arms support her, keep her from slipping to the floor. Everything that stood between us, every conceivable barrier, disintegrated as I cradled her against me.

"Did you kill him, Joanna?" I asked, murmuring the question through her hair.

"No, I didn't."

From that moment on, I never doubted for a minute that she was telling the truth.