“Exactly,” Harry agreed, “right up until we fired ’em. Now they’re suing the state of Washington’s ass for a hundred and twenty-five million dollars – breach of contract.”
“Great,” I said. “What does that have to do with us – with me, I mean?”
“The state of Washington’s star witness, a young lady by the name of Latisha Wall, was murdered in Bisbee, Arizona, the day before yesterday. Or maybe not murdered, because the local sheriff’s department down there is playing coy. The point is, Latisha Wall is dead, and we need to know how come.”
I was a little foggy on the details of the Latisha Wall situation because I hadn’t been directly involved, but I remembered the name. There had been a huge problem at a new, supposedly state-of-the-art correctional facility built near Aberdeen in southwestern Washington. Aberdeen had been given the nod in hopes that locating a new prison there would help relieve some of the long-standing unemployment in the state’s lumber industry. Two years after opening, the place was summarily closed.
“Wasn’t Latisha Wall some kind of whistle-blower?”
Harry nodded morosely. “That’s right, and now she’s dead. She begged Ross Connors to put her in a witness protection program. Said she was afraid somebody from UPPI might come gunning for her. We did as she asked, but now it looks like they found her anyway.”
Ross Connors, the Washington State Attorney General, was Harry I. Ball’s boss and mine as well.
“Didn’t you say she was murdered in Bisbee, Arizona? Why should we be involved in the investigation?”
At last Harry moved his arms and opened the folder. “Turns out Latisha Wall didn’t actually die in Bisbee proper,” he said. “She died in a place called Naco, a little burg that’s seven or eight miles outside of town and right on the U.S./Mexican border. Technically, the murder is being investigated by the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department.”
“So?”
“So. The sheriff’s a young woman named Joanna Brady. I talked to her a little while ago. Sounds like she’s just barely out of high school. Anyway, as soon as I started asking questions, she got her tits in a wringer and threatened to go to my boss. Of course, that’s no problem since Ross is the one who had me call her in the first place.”
Did I tell you that Harry I. Ball is an almost terminally unreconstituted male chauvinist? Word has it that when the personnel folks at the city of Bellingham diplomatically suggested he attend a sensitivity seminar, Harry told them to put their sensitivity where the sun don’t shine. He then pulled the pin and went down the road, pension in hand. As for Attorney General Ross Connors? I wouldn’t call him a beacon of political correctness, either. That goes for me as well, but I like to think I’m trying.
“Once I got off the phone with her, I called Ross myself,” Harry continued. “Believe me, he has no intention of leaving a case this big in the hands of some little wet-behind-the-ears cowgirl who probably rides a horse, wears ten-gallon hats, and packs a forty-five on her hip, just for show.”
For me, easy acquiescence to that kind of comment has been forever erased by the searing memory of my former partner, a bloodied Sue Danielson, sitting slumped against the wall of her trashed living room, my Glock in her wavering hand. She hadn’t been holding it just for show. And no matter how much I try to avoid thinking about it, I know she would have used that weapon if she’d had to. She would have used it to save my life.
But sitting there in Harry I. Ball’s office, I understood it was hopeless for me to try fixing his outdated view of the world. I’ve now spent enough time in AA that I understand the meaning of the Serenity Prayer. It says to change what you can and accept what you can’t change. Harry wasn’t changing – not for me, and not for anybody else. I let it pass.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“When Barbara came dragging her butt in here a little while ago – she was even later than you, by the way – I told her to get on the horn with the AG’s travel agent down in Olympia. She’s to get you down to Arizona ASAP, before our latter-day Nancy Drew/Annie Oakley can screw up the evidence. In other words, I want you there yesterday, but I suppose that’s asking a little much. In the meantime, while you’re waiting for your travel packet, you might want to go over this.”
With that, he spun the file folder across his desk. I managed to catch it before it skidded onto the floor. “Oh, well,” I said, as I collected the file and my coffee cup and stood up to leave. “I guess the Green River Task Force file is going to have to wait,”
“Right,” Harry agreed with a grin. “It’s just too damned bad.”
On the way back to my cubicle I passed the office manager’s desk. Barbara Galvin is an attractive, up-and-coming young woman in her late twenties. She’s competent and cheerful. She can also type like a maniac on her little laptop computer. In the world of slow-moving civil-service bureaucracies, those qualifications make her some kind of superstar. She wears a modest diamond and a wedding ring on her left hand and an equally modest diamond stud in her left nostril. The only picture that clutters her otherwise immaculately clean desk is one of a knobby-kneed, straw-headed kid about six or seven years old and wearing a red- and-white soccer uniform. He’s holding a black-and-white ball and grinning from ear to ear.
I paused momentarily in front of Barbara’s desk. She motioned to the earpiece of her phone to indicate someone else was talking, so I went on my way. Back at my desk I opened Latisha Wall’s folder and was relieved when the first piece of paper that fluttered out contained a scribbled notation in Harry’s virtually illegible scrawl that said Officer Unreadable in Indecipherable, Georgia, had made the next-of-kin notification. I was glad to know I had dodged that particular bullet.
I had only just started on the file’s first page when my phone rang. “Beaumont here.”
“Good morning,” Naomi Pepper said cheerily. “How long did it take you to make it over to this side of the water?”
Naomi Cullen Pepper is a relatively recent widow and a girlfriend of rather brief standing. We had met more than a month earlier on a cruise ship bound for Alaska. Through several strange turns of events, we had found ourselves bunking in the same cabin – a situation that had, almost effortlessly, evolved into our becoming lovers. It was only when we were back home and on solid ground that the new reality hit me.
The first time I asked her out on a date, I spent hours agonizing over where I would take her and what I would wear. Ralph Ames, my attorney and good friend, happened to be visiting my Belltown Terrace condo at the time I was wrestling with that dilemma. He had almost fallen on the floor laughing.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he had demanded. “You’ve already spent several nights in a cruise-ship cabin with the woman. How can you be worried about what you’re going to wear?”
Believe me, worrying was easy. The truth is, on board the Starfire Breeze, where Naomi and I had walked away with the ship’s tango prize, everything had seemed amazingly simple. But back on dry land, being involved in a relationship was much more complicated. And a lot more like hard work. What wasn’t easy for me right then was carrying on my half of the conversation opposite Naomi’s breezy sweet nothings when I was stuck in a tiny open-ended cubicle with God knew how many of my fellow Unit B SHIT investigators lapping it all up.
“Long time,” I muttered in response to her question. “Two and a half hours. How about you?”
“I had to be here for a seven o’clock meeting,” she said.
Naomi had recently been promoted to assistant manager in the kitchen department at The Bon Marché. Part of the promotion had involved her transferring from the downtown Seattle store to the Bell Square one in downtown Bellevue. This meant we were both now commuting from the west side of Lake Washington to the east side, although our disjointed schedules made carpooling impossible.