Trial By Fury

CHAPTER 28

When I walked back to the Porsche, old man trouble himself, Maxwell Cole, stood slouching against the door on the driver's side.

"Get away, Max. You'll scratch the paint," I told him.

He didn't move. "Hey, there, J. P. How's it going?"

"Get out of the way. I don't have time to screw around with you." Bodily, I shoved him aside far enough so I could put my key in the lock.

"I'll bet it is Peters, isn't it? That's the rumor, anyway," he said, grinning slyly under his handlebar mustache. "I mean, he's not here, and you are. Same thing happened last night, over in Fremont, or so I hear."

"Will you get the fuck out of my way?"

"And what's the teacher's name? Candace Wynn, isn't that it?"

"I'm not talking. Leave me alone, Max."

"I won't leave you alone. I want to know what's going on. Why won't they release any names? All Arlo Hamilton does is read prepared speeches that have nothing to do with what's going on. I want the scoop, J. P., the real scoop."

"You won't get it from me, asshole. Besides, it sounds to me like Hamilton is giving you guys just what you deserve."

"What do you mean?"

"What Arlo tells you is bullshit. What you write is bullshit. Sounds like an even trade to me."

Max took an angry step toward me, but thought better of it and stayed out of reach. He glared at me for a long moment before dropping his gaze, his eyes watery and pale behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "You're not going to tell me about Peters, then?"

"You're damn right."

I flung the Porsche's door open, bouncing it off Cole's ample hip for good measure. Just to make the point. He finally moved aside.

The problem with Max is that I'm so used to avoiding him that in the crush of worrying about Peters I had forgotten I needed to talk to him. Instead of starting the car, I got back out. Max moved away from me.

"You leave me alone, J. P."

"Where'd you get the picture, Max?"

"The picture? What picture?"

"The one you wrote about but didn't print. The one of Darwin Ridley and the cheerleader."

He smirked then. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

I didn't have time to mess around with him. I turned on my heel and got back in the car.

"All I want to know is if it's Peters or not."

"Fuck you, Max."

He looked offended. "I have other ways of confirming this, you know," he whined.

"So use 'em," I told him. "Be my guest, but you'd damn well better keep your facts straight, because I'll cram 'em down your throat if you don't!"

With that, I started the engine and laid down a layer of rubber squealing out of the parking lot.

I took a meandering route to the Mercer Island Denny's through the maze of interminable road construction that has screwed up traffic there for years. Surprisingly, lots of other people had evidently done the same thing.

The restaurant was busy, jammed with the after-church/Sunday-brunch crowd. I waited almost fifteen minutes before they finally cleared out the line and showed me to a table, a short-legged two-person booth in the center of the room.

During the few minutes I was there alone, I couldn't help reflecting. The last time I had been in the room I was with Peters and Andi Wynn together, that afternoon when we finished questioning the students. That time seemed years ago, not days. Since then, my life had been run through a Waring blender. Fatigue and worry weighed me down, threatening to suck me under and drown me.

Then Ned Browning entered. He rushed through the door and stopped abruptly by the cash register to look for me. Now, starting forward again, he slowed his pace, walking deliberately and with some outward show of dignity, but nothing masked the agitation that remained clearly visible on his face.

My transformation was instantaneous. Adrenaline surged through my system, pulling me out of my stupor, putting every nerve in my body on full alert. By the time he reached the booth, my mind was honed sharp. I was ready for him.

He held out his hand in greeting, but I ignored the empty gesture. Instead, I motioned for him to sit down opposite me. If he thought I had invited him over for a nice social chat, he was wrong. The sooner Ned Browning understood that, the better.

He paused and looked down at his hand, first comprehending and then assessing the message behind my refusal to shake hands. Maybe he had convinced himself that he had mistaken the meaning in what I had said about the cheerleaders.

My insult wasn't lost on him. Ned Browning was caught, and he knew it. Flushing violently to the roots of his receding hairline, he sat down.

"What do you want?" he asked in a hoarse, subdued whisper.

It was time for poker. Time to play bluff, raise, and draw. I happened to have a pretty good hand. "What did you use?" I asked obliquely for openers.

"I beg your pardon?" He frowned. He may have been as genuinely puzzled as he looked, or he may have been playing the game.

"What did you use to smash the locker, Ned? A sledgehammer? A brick? A rock?"

He drew back in his chair as though I'd slapped him squarely across the face. His unhealthy flush was replaced by an equally unhealthy pallor. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Yes, you do. You know very well."

He stood up. "I've got guests waiting at home. I didn't come here to play games."

I caught the sleeve of his jacket and compelled him back into the booth. "Fuck your guests," I snarled. "Believe me, this is no game."

His eyes darted warily around the room, checking to see who was within earshot, to see if there was anyone nearby who might know him or who had overheard my rude remark.

He made an attempt to retrieve his old stuffiness. "I don't think it's necessary to use that kind of language, Mr. Beaumont."

Once upon a time I had been briefly impressed by his outward show of high-toned values. That was no longer true. His high-toned values were a sham.

"Don't pull that bullshit on me. I'm not one of your students, Ned," I reminded him. "I'll talk to you any damn way I please."

His hands dropped to his lap, but not before I caught sight of a nervous tremor. An involuntary tic touched the muscle of his left jaw. A rush of gleeful satisfaction passed through me. I was definitely making progress. Visible progress.

Just then, our waitress appeared. "Can I get you something?" she asked.

"No, nothing for me," Browning murmured shakily.

"Toast," I said. "Whole wheat. And two eggs over easy." I nodded as the waitress offered and poured coffee. Browning refused that as well. When the waitress left, I picked up my spoon and began stirring my coffee with slow deliberation. Ned Browning was already nervous. Any delaying tactic, anything that would make him sit on his powder keg a little longer, would work in my favor.

Carefully, I put down the spoon, took a long sip of coffee, then leaned forward, thrusting my face toward his, invading the body space, the distance, he had created around himself.

"Let's get down to brass tacks, Ned. When did you find out about the list?"

"What list?" He was determined to play dumb. I was in no mood to tolerate it.

"The one with you on it, Ned. The pep squad scorecard. As I recall, your name is on it more than once."

In the previous few minutes, a little color had returned to his face. Now it drained away again, leaving him a pasty gray. That took the fun out of it for me, calling a halt to the game. I prefer someone who offers a little more of a challenge, a worthy adversary who fields the questions and makes me work for my answers. Ned Browning caved in so easily, I almost laughed out loud.

"You know about that?"

"Lots of people know about it. More than you'd expect. They also have a pretty good idea what it took to get on it."

"But…"

"When did you find out about it?" I insisted. "And how?"

"But she said…"

"Who said?"

"Candace. Mrs. Wynn."

"What did she say?"

"That if I destroyed the locker, no one would ever know."

"Right. And why do you suppose she told you that?"

"I don't have any idea."

"When did she tell you?"

"Saturday morning. She called me at home."

"What time?"

"It must have been around ten. I was out working in the yard when she called and asked me to meet her at school"

"And you did?"

"She said it was urgent, something I needed to know."

"Where did you meet? In the locker room?"

"No. In my office."

"All right, so after you met, what happened then?"

"She told me about the list. Said she'd just found out about it the night before, at Darwin Ridley's memorial service."

The little orange warning light in the back of my head started flashing. I had a vivid memory of Candace Wynn looking at the list in the locker after Peters and I found it. She had known about it for sure since then, and maybe even before that. Why had she lied to Browning about when she found out, and what had made it so urgent?

"So what happened?" I urged impatiently.

"Go on."

"She said if anyone else found out about it, it would be awful for everyone. She thought the best idea would be to get rid of it, both for the girls' sakes and for the men as well."

"My, my, a concern for public relations. A little late for that, wouldn't you say?"

He frowned and said nothing. The waitress brought my food and set it in front of me. Browning stared miserably at my plate as though the very idea of food sickened him.

"So you got rid of it," I commented after the waitress walked away. "Pounded the locker to pieces. Right then or later?"

"Right then. She said she had a sledgehammer in the back of her pickup. I used that."

"You used it. She didn't? Did she go with you?"

"No. She waited in my office while I got the hammer from the truck and did it."

"Where was it?"

"The hammer? I just told you, in the back of her truck."

"Not the hammer. Where was the truck?"

"Parked in front of the school. Right where it is now."

"She hasn't moved it since then?"

"I can't tell for sure, but I don't think so. It looks to me like it's in the same place."

"Who left first and when?"

"I did. About eleven-thirty or so. She said she needed to pick up something from her office. She was still at the school when I drove away."

"And there was no one with her?"

"I didn't see anybody. There wasn't anyone in the truck when I got the hammer out or when I took it back, either. I didn't see anyone else on the grounds the whole time we were there."

"Any other cars parked in the area?"

"No, just her pickup and my Olds."

"How did she leave there, then?"

Browning shrugged. "I don't know."

I stirred my coffee again, trying to make sense of what he had told me. It didn't work. Finally, I said, "Candace Wynn worked for you for several years. Did you know anything about her personal life?"

Again he shrugged. "Nothing much. She was divorced. Her father died a year or so back. Her mother's been sick for several years."

"I remember seeing a bumper sticker on her truck. Something about sailing. Do you know anything about that?"

"She's supposed to be part owner of a boat over on Shilshole. I don't know the name of it or the names of any of the co-owners."

"And her mother's sick."

"She has cancer."

"I already knew that. Do you know where she is?"

"A hospital somewhere around here. A cancer unit, I believe."

"What's her mother's name? Any idea?"

"No."

I paused for a moment, wondering if there was any easier way to track down Candace Wynn's maiden name. "Is there a blank on the school district's employment form that calls for a maiden name?"

Browning shook his head. "No."

"What about the group insurance form? If she wasn't married and didn't have any children, she might have listed her mother as beneficiary."

"That's possible, but all that information is confidential. It's in the district office."

"Can you get it for me or not?"

"Not on a weekend. I could probably get it tomorrow morning. Why do you need it?"

"Because I've got to find Candace Wynn before she kills someone else," I said.

I pushed my plate aside, picked up the bill, and stood up. Ned Browning sat motionless, shocked by my words. He stared up at me. "Kills?" he repeated.

Obviously, none of the Mercer Island Police Force had chosen to clue him in on what was happening.

"And because tomorrow may be too late," I added.

I left him sitting there in Denny's, a man frozen in stunned silence. His past had just caught up with him, and his guests waiting at home were long forgotten.

As I started the car, I didn't feel sorry for Ned Browning. Whatever disgrace was coming to him wasn't undeserved. After all, he had been on the list twice, not once. Once was once, but twice was twice.

I did feel sorry for Mrs. Browning, however. She was probably a nice enough lady, one I would never meet even though I was changing her life forever. Whoever she was, wherever she was, her world, like Joanna Ridley's, was about to fly apart. She didn't have the foggiest idea it was coming, but J. P. Beaumont was sending trouble her way.

It was just as well we would never meet.