"Damn!
I hurried around to the driver's side and opened it with my key. I shoved the key into the ignition and turned. Nothing happened. Not even so much as a click.
"Damn, I said again. "Damn, damn, damn.
CHAPTER 17
By midnight I was back in line waiting for a ferry. Again. This time, I was on the Winslow side, trying to return to Seattle. The ferry had been pulling away from the dock just as I came roaring down the hill into Winslow. The ferry schedule isn't like horseshoes. Near misses don't count. The score for the day stood at Washington State Ferry System-two; J. P. Beaumont-zip. Had there been a blood-pressure measuring device in my car, I'm sure I would have registered off the charts.
I'm not any kind of mechanical genius, and I make it a point never to fiddle around with the complicated equipment under the hood of my flashy 928. I let someone else do it, preferably a tried-and-true Porsche specialist.
On this Friday night in Port Angeles, it had taken Triple A more than an hour to send out some jerk in a tow truck. He tried using a set of jumper cables, turned the key, and nothing happened. Then he had poked around under the hood with a flashlight, finally discovering that the battery cable had been neatly clipped. Whoever did it had made sure that the break in the wire was well out of sight.
So the damage was repairable, but everything took time, and I knew that with every passing moment, Clay Woodruff was slipping farther and farther beyond my grasp. While the tow truck guy was looking for a replacement battery cable, I walked across the street to the Port Angeles Police Department and attempted to swear out a complaint against Clay Woodruff, accusing him of vandalizing my car. The Port Angeles cops treated the whole situation as an enormous joke.
How did I know it was Woodruff who had vandalized my car? Had I actually seen him do it? What was it he had gone to get when he left me waiting in Davey's Locker, and where had he gone when he left there? My complaint that every passing moment was giving Woodruff more time to get away fell on deaf ears. Get away from what? Was Woodruff under suspicion for some crime? Was the Seattle Police Department looking for him for a specific reason? Woodruff had been a law-abiding citizen in Port Angeles for a number of years. Who the hell was I?
I'm a slow learner, but eventually I got the picture-small-town cops stonewalling big-city cop. On the small-town cop's turf. At the city cop's expense. They laughed at first, but finally, reluctantly, they put out an APB, but by then Woodruff was nowhere to be found.
Recrossing the street, I went back inside Davey's Locker long enough to hassle the bartender. I told him his friend was in a whole shitload of trouble, and he invited me to leave. Point/counterpoint. Mexican standoff. I took the hint and left, convinced that the city of Port Angeles had revoked every welcome mat in sight.
Back on the street outside Davey's Locker, beneath the black lifeless windows of the Ritz Hotel, I was forced to kibitz, peering over the tow truck driver's shoulder until he finished installing the new battery cable and had my 928 purring again. By then it was almost ten o'clock, too late to go driving around the Olympic Peninsula looking for Clay Woodruff. Even had I known where he was going, he had a several-hour head start. I never would have been able to catch up.
Much later, sitting in the car at the ferry dock, I tried my best to be philosophical about having lost Clay Woodruff and also about having missed the ferry. My eyelids were getting heavy and I was dozing off when the phone rang, startling me awake. It was Ames, calling from my apartment.
"Where are you? he asked. "I've been trying to raise you on the phone all night.
"I've been out of range. Right now I'm stuck in Winslow, waiting for the ferry. Why? What's up?
"The phone's been ringing off the hook all night. Doesn't anybody ever call you at work?
"Hardly ever. What's going on?
Ames was his unflappable best. "In order of priority, I suppose the call from Dana Lions is the most important.
"A call from Dana Lions? What about?
"They found her father. Ames paused. "He's dead.
With those two words my worst suspicions about David Lions and his traveling Visa Card were confirmed. There was no elation in being right, only a grudging acknowledgment that I had seen it coming. I thought of Dana Lions, waiting by her phone in Kalama. At least I hadn't told her so, although maybe it would have been kinder if I had given her some hint, some warning.
"Who found him? I asked.
"A group of Cub Scouts from Seattle on a camp out over near Lake Kachess. Dana's on her way to Seattle right now. According to what the state patrol told her, he was found just inside the King County Line, and they're bringing the body to the medical examiner's office here.
"How do they know for sure it's Lions? I asked. "We've already been through one false alarm when everybody thought he'd been found in Chicago.
"His dog tags from Vietnam. They got his name off them.
I remembered Dana mentioning the dog tags then, so there was probably no mistake, and the body really was that of David Lions.
"If Dana calls back, tell her I'm on my way and that I'll meet her at Harborview as soon as I can. What else?
"A call from Alvin Grant in Illinois. He said it's too late for you to call him back tonight. He says he'll talk to you in the morning.
"Anything else?
Ames paused. "Well, actually, there was one other call.
"Who from?
"A Dr. Blair. He sounded a little crusty. And serious. He says that he checked with Dr. Wang and that you didn't do as you were told and go see him. Blair wants to know if you have another doctor in mind. If so, when do you plan on making an appointment? What's this all about, Beau?
"No big thing, I answered. "Dr. Blair's the guy who took care of my fingers.
"So who's Dr. Wang?
"An internist, somebody Blair wants me to go see for a second opinion.
"For a second opinion on your fingers? Do broken fingers call for an internist?
Ames didn't get to be where he is or what he is without being an astute judge of human behavior. He is also a consummate asker of questions. He can sniff out and demolish one of my puny smoke screens from miles away.
"Not exactly.
"What then?
I hesitated. Unable to find a plausible fib, I was forced to answer without one. "Blair seems to think my liver's enlarged. He wants me to go see this Wang character for a complete checkup.
"Wants? It sounded more like he gave you strict orders to go and you didn't bother.
"I'll go, I'll go, I said irritably.
"When?
"When I get around to it, dammit. This case has me tied up in knots right now. I'll go when I have time.
I could hear the defensiveness in my voice and it made me even angrier. I hadn't wanted to discuss the subject of my enlarged liver with Ralph Ames in the first place. Now, here he was, in it up to his eyeteeth. I knew that if I tried dropping the subject, old "Aimless was far too cagey to let it stay dropped. I made the attempt anyway.
"Let's just forget it for the time being, I suggested. "How was your trip to Colfax?
"Fine, fine, Ames replied. "Archie and Machiko are getting along famously. You might be interested to know that he speaks what I understand to be passable Japanese.
"That would be useful, I said.
"Incidentally, Machiko came back here to Seattle with us this afternoon. She has a meeting scheduled with Dr. Yamamoto in the morning.
My yellow mental warning light came on. Ralph Ames was venturing into dangerous territory, talking casually about an ongoing police investigation over a mobile phone. Cellular phones are notorious for allowing casual eavesdropping under even the best of circumstances. That was without having had an electronics wizard break into the car and do God knows what.