He dropped me at Seventh and Denny and headed for the freeway. I trekked through a snowy and deserted Denny Park, slipping into the meeting a full ten minutes late. It was overly warm in the church hall basement, and it was almost impossible to concentrate on what was being said, because by then all I could hear in my head was the siren call of Amy Fitzgerald-Peters’ legendary pot roast.
When the meeting was over, I hurried home, showered, and dressed to go downstairs. I paused in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to leave my pager at home. Eventually, though, I decided to take it along. If somebody came up with Pete Kelsey during the course of the evening, I didn’t want to miss out on the action.
Dinner at Ron Peters’ downstairs apartment was every bit as wonderful as I’d anticipated. It was delightful to sit in the warm glow of happiness in that newly blended little family. I chowed down on the home-cooked grub and listened to the girls’ endless prattle about whether or not there’d be school the next day. They were finally getting sick of their much-extended Christmas vacation.
When the meal was over, Amy directed Heather and Tracie at clearing the table and then took them off to get ready for bed, leaving Peters and me alone to talk.
“I don’t like being stonewalled,” Ron said quietly as soon as the girls disappeared down the hallway. “I don’t like it at all.”
For a moment I thought that maybe he and Amy were having some kind of difficulty. “Who’s stonewalling you?” I asked.
“I’m talking about the bomb threats,” he said. “I don’t know who it is exactly, not yet, but I can tell you this. They’re real, and they have pull with a capital P.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made a few inquiries today, and that’s all it took. Before the afternoon was over, Captain Harden called me into his office and let me know in no uncertain terms that members of the media relations team have absolutely no business helping someone from the homicide squad with one of his investigations.”
“If Harden told you to back off, you must have stepped on some toes.”
Ron Peters smiled thinly. “Presumably so. In fact, now that you mention it, it’s the first chance I’ve had to step on someone’s toes since they stuck me in this chair. It felt damn good. What’s the next move?”
Peters had caught the scent and was raring to go. “Whoa down a minute. If you’re already in hot water with Hardass Harden, there’s not going to be any next move for you, buddy-boy. Just forget I ever mentioned it. Forget the whole thing.”
Peters’ smile disappeared. “Drop it? Are you kidding? Like hell I will! Tracking that bomb threat information was more fun than I’ve had in a long, long time. It felt like I was back in the real world again, back making a meaningful contribution for a change instead of writing one of the chief’s prepared statements. It was fun, dammit, and I liked doing it.”
Tracie and Heather reappeared at his side, clad in matching long flannel Pj’s. Their teeth were freshly brushed and their damp hair still smelled of shampoo and conditioner. After collecting ritual hugs and kisses from their dad, they made an obligatory pass by me on their way back to the bedroom. Peters watched wistfully after them as they walked away.
“I want my life back, Beau,” he said quietly. “My whole life.”
I knew what he meant, and I couldn’t blame him. I worried that he might lapse back into one of the black moods that had plagued him in the early months right after his injury and before Amy Fitzgerald had appeared on the scene. The only weapons I had at hand were the kind of meaningless platitudes that come so easily to people who aren’t in chairs.
“You’re not doing so badly,” I pointed out. “You’ve got Amy and the girls. What more do you want?”
The look he turned on me was one of barely suppressed fury. “I’ll tell you what I want. I want my old desk back, the real one, on the fifth floor. I know everybody at the department thought they were doing me one hell of a favor by finding me a slot in Media Relations, but it’s just not good enough. I want to go play with the grown-ups, Beau. I want to be a detective again.”
The idea of Peters getting back on the homicide squad wasn’t even a remote possibility to begin with. Going against a direct order from his immediate supervisor would make the possibility that much more remote.
“So drop the damn bomb threats business then,” I told him. “That’s an order, and not from me either, from Harden. If you want to be a detective again, pissing off Old Hardass isn’t the way to go about it.”
“In other words, you want me to forget all about it? Pretend it never happened, just like that?”
“You bet.”
Amy returned to the dining room just then. Seeing her, Peters bit back another angry retort. Amy paused uncertainly in the doorway, sensing the tension in the room and looking questioningly from one of us to the other.
“You two talking shop?” she asked.
“Were,” I said uncomfortably, standing up and pushing back my chair, “but we’re finished now, and I’ve got to get home. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.”
“So early?” Amy protested. “You’ve made yourself a stranger around here.”
“I know, but I still have a few calls to make before I turn in. You tell that husband of yours to keep his nose to the grindstone and not go getting involved where he shouldn’t.”
She paused by Peters’ chair and stood there, affectionately resting her hands on her husband’s broad shoulders and gently kneading the back of his neck.
“I can’t,” she replied with a smile.
“Why not?”
“Ron and I made a prenuptial agreement.”
“A prenuptial agreement? What does that have to do with the price of peanuts?”
She smiled again. “He doesn’t tell me how to be a physical therapist, and I don’t tell him how to be a cop. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
She said it softly enough, and the smile on her full lips didn’t change, but I knew she’d landed a blow. Hospitality or not, pot roast or not, Amy Fitzgerald-Peters had put me in my place.
Maybe deservedly so. Probably deservedly so. After all, I was the one who had started it.
Chapter 17
Early Wednesday morning, a steep hill combined with a patch of black ice, a lightly loaded Metro bus, and a fully loaded bread truck all conspired together to help us to locate Marcia Louise Kelsey’s missing Volvo.
The bus, turning off Denny Way onto Broadway, was shoved sideways by the out-of-control truck. The bus skidded backwards, taking out three parked cars as it slid back down the hill and inflicting a good deal of damage along the way. Fortunately, nobody was hurt.
The investigating officer on the scene realized almost immediately that the middle squashed car belonged to Marcia Kelsey. Due to the murder investigation and Pete Kelsey’s subsequent disappearance, that missing Turbo Volvo was right at the top of the Patrol Division’s high-priority list.
Nobody lost any time. As soon as the patrol officer radioed in with the information, Dispatch called me. It was only six-fifteen, and the phone call woke me out of a sound sleep.
“Detective Beaumont?”
The voice wasn’t one of my usual early morning callers. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Who is this?”
“Lieutenant Congdon with Dispatch. One of our patrol officers found that Volvo you were looking for, if you still want it, that is.”
That got my juices flowing. “You’d better believe I still want it. Where is it?”
“Just west of Broadway, up on Capitol Hill. The tow truck driver’s on the horn right now. He’s been in touch with the owner, and they want it towed to a repair shop up in the University District, but I told him I thought the vehicle was involved in a homicide investigation and that I’d have to check with you first.”
Patrol doesn’t get nearly the credit it deserves. The detective divisions would be lost without them. Routine traffic stops pick up more crooks by accident than detectives do on purpose, but those guys, the ordinary foot soldiers in the war on crime, don’t show up in the press unless they screw up and shoot somebody they shouldn’t have. Or unless somebody shoots them. The only time patrol officers get to be heroes is when they’re dead.