"Well, get her down off my window seat."
When ordered to get down, Charley complied, but not without a baleful look at me. She sighed, disdainfully shook her footlong ears, and then flopped down at Heather's feet.
"Have you ever met Charley before?" Heather asked.
"Only once. In the elevator. Is that where you found her?"
"Oh no, I'm taking care of her for the whole weekend. I told Amy and Dad that I'm taking her for a walk, but I need your help."
I come from an era when people who owned dogs usually had yards to go with them. When the dog needed to be walked, the owner simply opened the door, and the dog walked itself. No one carried pooper-scoopers and plastic bags back then.
"I don't walk dogs, Heather," I said, stopping in the kitchen long enough to pour the first cup of coffee from the morning's second pot. The last statement sounded grouchy, even to me. When Heather's face fell in disappointment, I modified my position some. "At least I never have up till now," I added.
Heather brightened instantly. "Did you know it's Amy's birthday today?"
Amy Peters is Heather's stepmother. "I had no idea."
"I know what I want to get for her birthday present-Frangos. You know, those chocolate things?" Heather prattled on. "She just loves Frangos. I've got enough money, but my dad's too busy to take me to the Bon. I could walk there by myself, if I had Charley along to look out for me, but then what would happen to her when I went inside the store?"
What indeed? Forty-five minutes later, I was cooling my heels on the corner of Fourth and Stewart outside the Bon Marche, one of Seattle's premier department stores. I stood there hoping to God none of my fellow police officers would see me doing dog-sitting duty with that arrogant, snooty animal. Charley and I seemed to be of the same mind-we were both pretending we'd never seen each other before, which is hard to do when you're on opposite ends of the same leash.
Much as I hate to admit it, Charley was an exceptionally well-behaved dog. Although nearly as tall as Heather, the dog obeyed all instructions issued by her diminutive keeper. Head held high, Charley pranced along beside Heather when we walked, or sat with her narrow nose high in the air while we waited for lights to change at intersections.
Heather is a cute kid in her own right; always has been. Charley is a beautiful dog, and the two of them were a winning combination. Just like any ordinary regular uncle, I got a boot of pride out of the way passersby craned their necks to take a second look.
We spent some time window-shopping downtown and sauntering through the Saturday morning throngs at the Pike Place Market. I told myself I was just minding my grandmother-taking the time to stop and smell the flowers. Along the way, I picked up some groceries. With the gourmet cook Ralph Ames due to arrive the next day, I couldn't afford to be caught foodless in Seattle.
Back at Belltown Terrace, I said good-bye to Heather and Charley in the elevator, put away the groceries, then picked up the phone and dialed Ashland, Oregon. Jeremy Todd Cartwright III, my recently acquired son-in-law, answered the phone.
"Kelly's outside with the kids. Want me to go get her?"
Kelly runs a day-care center out of their newly remodeled home, so she is often "outside with the kids." One of those kids, Kayla-short for Karen Louise-is my only grandchild.
"Don't bother. I can talk to you. Do you and Kelly have any plans for Thanksgiving?"
Jeremy paused. "We had talked about going down to Cucamonga, to visit Dave and Karen, but Dave called the other day and says he doesn't think Karen will be up to having company."
Karen Livingston, my first wife and Kelly's mother, has been battling cancer for more than two years now. Dave, her second husband, is a good guy, one I've come to respect more and more over the years. But the fact that Karen didn't want company for Thanksgiving, not even her new granddaughter, was not good news.
"Besides," Jeremy added gloomily, "I'm not all that sure the old van would make it that far. The clutch may be on its last legs."
"How about coming up here?" I suggested.
"Kelly would probably like that, but I still don't know about the van making it over the passes between here and Eugene."
"Talk it over with her," I said. "I don't need an answer right this minute, but if you want to come, we can see about flying you up from Medford."
Jeremy's reply was interrupted by my call-waiting signal.
I make it a point not to switch calls when I'm on the phone with someone long distance. That seems rude to me. When call-interrupting starts buzzing in my ear, that's the time when I long for the good old days when a dialed telephone offered only one of three uncomplicated results-an answer, a busy signal, or no answer. Life was simpler back then, in more ways than one.
"…expensive?" Jeremy was asking, when I could hear him again.
"Don't worry about the money," I told him. "What matters is whether or not you want to come."
"I'll check with Kelly right away," Jeremy assured me. "We'll get back to you with an answer as soon as we can."
Even though we didn't rush in finishing up the call, as soon as I put down the phone, it rang again. Whoever was calling was persistent enough to stay on the line for far longer than I would have.
"Hello," I said.
"Beau?"
"Yes."
"Detective Stan Jacek here. What do you think of the latest?"
"The latest what?"
"The autopsy results, of course. I faxed them down to Seattle P.D. about half an hour ago."
"Look, Stan, it's Saturday," I pointed out. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I have no intention of going into the office today. I'm trying to learn how not to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I've already put in a helluva long week, and the Seattle Police Department's new chief isn't all that keen on sanctioning excess overtime. I figure Monday should be time enough for me to take another crack at all this."
"Are you saying you'd rather I hang up now, then, so you don't get the news until after you've actually punched in on the time clock Monday morning?"
It seemed to me Stan Jacek was being a bit testy. "Cut the sarcasm, Stan. We're already on the phone. Go ahead and tell me. What autopsy results?"
"It's not her."
Now I was completely baffled. "Who's not her?"
"Denise Whitney," he answered. "The dead woman isn't Denise. The dental records don't even come close to matching the ones her parents brought down from Anchorage."
That blew me away. Once again my none-too-limber mental rubber bands were being stretched to the limit. One minute I was talking to my son-in-law and hoping to arrange a visit with my grandchild over the holidays, and the next I was back in the dark world of murder. A place where things you thought were straightforward suddenly weren't. And it wasn't even my case.
"If the dead woman isn't Denise," I said, "who the hell is she?"
"Good question," Jacek answered. "We're checking missing-persons reports all over the Pacific Northwest-from northern California to Vancouver, B.C., and from the coast as far east as Montana. Nothing so far."
"What about him?"
Now it was Detective Jacek's turn to be bum-fuzzled. "Him who?"
"If Denise isn't Denise, is Gunter Gunter?"
"I guess," Stan Jacek answered. "At least they didn't say anything to me about him. But then Gunter's your case, not mine, so they probably wouldn't have told me regardless. You'd better check that one out for yourself. I'll let you go, so you can get back to whatever it was you were doing."
"Oh, no, you won't," I replied. "Now that you've dragged me back into a work mode, there are a few things I need to go over with you as well."
In the next ten minutes, I gave Stan Jacek a brief version of what had gone on since he and I last parted company outside the Public Safety Building. I told him about Sue Danielson's and my intriguing interview with Kari Gebhardt and Michael Morris, and the results of my salsa-dancing foray. I told him about Lorenzo Hurtado's revelation that Gunter Gebhardt had been making hasty and ultimately futile preparations to leave town.