I was sorry I had returned Ron’s copy of the P.-I. I did my best to recall exactly what Charlotte Chambers had said in the article about those “godless” women. Those were Charlotte’s words, not Alvin’s, but clearly Alvin had known what was going on between Andrea and Marcia. He had known and didn’t approve. From the sound of it, he would have been reluctant to be associated with those kinds of people, so once more I came back to the same old question: What the hell was Alvin Chambers doing in that damn closet?
I thought about everything Rex Pierson had told me. His comments put a far different light on Pete Kelsey’s claim that he and Marcia had shared an “open marriage.” Evidently there were some things they hadn’t been so open about, some things Pete Kelsey wasn’t prepared to ignore or forgive. But if Marcia had been that unhappy with the marriage, and if Pete had been that miserable as well, what the hell had kept them together? Why hadn’t they called the whole thing off and split? Their marriage had evolved beyond the tie-that-binds stage into something more like a noose-and every bit as deadly.
The beep of my pager startled me out of this reverie. The call-back number was Peters‘. He’s probably busy tracking the bomb threats on his lunch hour, I thought with annoyance, but I went to the noisy phone booth by the cash register and called him back.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Beau, where are you?” Ron Peters sounded anxious.
“At the Doghouse, having coffee. Why do you want to know?”
“Hold on a minute. Let me check something out.”
He put me on hold while I entertained myself watching the Wednesday afternoon crush of lucky lottery players line up for their individual cracks at winning four million bucks, that week’s Lotto prize.
Eventually Peters came back on the line. “Okay,” he said. “I got hold of him and he’s on his way to see you. Wait right there.”
“Who’s on his way?”
“Maxwell Cole. He came up to me this morning right after the press briefing and asked if I knew where to find you. I told him I didn’t have a clue and that he should check with Margie, but he was adamant that he didn’t want to be seen on the fifth floor. He said it was important. He insisted that he talk to you privately. Nobody else would do. I told him I’d try to locate you, but this is the first I’ve had a spare minute.”
“He’s coming here?” I asked.
“That’s right. He said he’d be there in ten minutes or so.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”
I went back to the booth, and Wanda brought me another cup of coffee. I had barely taken off the top layer when Maxwell Cole came steaming in the door, huffing and puffing and out of breath. Hurriedly he looked around the room. Relief showed on his face when he finally caught sight of me.
He rushed over to me, hand outstretched in greeting. “Thank God you’re still here, J.P.,” he said, easing his heavy bulk into the booth across from me. “I didn’t know if you’d wait or not.”
Wanda approached the table to offer coffee, which Max accepted with a grateful nod. He still looked sick enough that he probably shouldn’t have been out of bed. His nose was bright red, and his eyes were watery.
“What’s the matter, Max? Is something wrong?”
Nervously chewing on one end of his drooping mustache, Max glanced anxiously around the room as if checking to see if anyone was listening. When he spoke, it was in a confidential whisper. “I need your help, J.P.”
“With what?”
He swallowed hard before he answered. “With Pete.”
“With Pete Kelsey? Do you know where he is?”
Max nodded. “I do. When he saw the paper this morning, I thought he’d tear the place apart. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Reading the paper set him off?”
“Of course it did. I mean, the things that woman said!” Max answered indignantly. “I can’t understand how they could print such terrible things about Marcia. They’re not true. They couldn’t be. If they were true, don’t you think I’d know it? I can’t imagine what those damn editors were thinking of!”
He shook his head miserably and sneezed into a wrinkled, much-used handkerchief. It was almost comic to think of Max being so offended by something printed in his own newspaper. No doubt it was the first time someone he truly cared about had been on the receiving end of hatchet-job reporting. Dishing it out is always a whole lot easier than taking it, but this was no time to revel in the irony of it all. Maxwell Cole knew where Pete Kelsey was, and I wanted him to tell me.
“Where is he?” I asked. “At your house?”
“He’s willing to turn himself in,” Max said. “But there’s a condition.”
“Suspects don’t get to name conditions, Max. You know I can’t make any deals.”
“But he doesn’t want much,” Max pleaded. “Marcia’s funeral is tomorrow. All he wants is your guarantee that he’ll be able to go to that.”
“Come on, Max. We’re talking homicide here.”
“Please, J.P. I swear to you, no matter what you think, Pete didn’t kill Marcia. He couldn’t have.” Max’s voice broke as he finished, and he buried his face in his hands.
Maxwell Cole looked so troubled, so miserable, that I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Pete and Marcia were no doubt his best friends in the world, and what had happened to them was tearing him apart. I gave him a moment or two to pull himself back together.
“How well do you know Pete Kelsey?” I asked finally when Max looked once more as though he were capable of speech.
“Jesus Christ, J.P.!” Max exploded. “We already went over that! I know him like my own brother.”
“Did you ever hear of anyone named John David Madsen?”
“No. Who’s that?” Max asked with a frown.
“If you don’t know John David Madsen, Max, then you don’t know Pete Kelsey, either. Where is he?”
“At my house. He came there yesterday afternoon. I swear to God, I didn’t know you were looking for him until the paper came this morning.”
“Is he armed?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not armed. What kind of a fool do you think I am?” Max demanded.
“Are there any weapons in the house?”
Maxwell Cole thought for a moment and then said, “Well…”
His hesitation told me what I needed to know. I stood up, dropping a fistful of change onto the table. “Where are you going?” Max asked.
“To call for a backup. Kelsey got away from me yesterday. That’s not going to happen twice.”
“No deal then?”
“No deal.”
Maybe Pete Kelsey wasn’t asking for much, but it was far more than he was going to get.
Chapter 20
It was done without sirens or fanfare. And without any reporters, either.
Two cars, one marked and one not, accompanied Maxwell Cole and me back up Queen Anne Hill to Max’s house. I had told him that under no circumstances would he be allowed to approach the house, but while I was busy strategically placing my six backup officers, Max slipped away from me and made a beeline for the front porch. He was opening the door before I realized what he was up to, and by then it was too late to stop him.
Leave it to Maxwell Cole to blow my cover. One way or another, Kelsey/Madsen now knew we were there. We had lost whatever small advantage might have been gained by the element of surprise. If he chose to make a stand, to force us to come in after him, Max’s huge old house stood there like an impenetrable fortress. And then there was always the possibility that Kelsey would take Max hostage and attempt to use him as a bargaining chip.
While I was still assessing the situation and trying to determine whether or not to summon the Emergency Response Team, the door opened and both Max and Kelsey stepped outside onto the wide front porch. Kelsey walked with both hands held high over his head.
Quickly I moved to intercept them, my whole body tense and alert for any sign of trouble. In one hand I gripped my new Beretta and fervently wished it was my trusty old Smith amp; Wesson.
“Step aside, Max,” I ordered, motioning him away with a sideways jerk of my head. He complied, but not without argument.