"Goddamn it, I am a cop. Detective J. P. Beaumont, Seattle P.D. Homicide."
"No shit? Since when do cops go around beating up pregnant ladies in parks?"
I wouldn't have convinced him, not in a million years, but right then Joanna Ridley stopped her silent sobbing and, surprisingly, spoke in my defense. "It's all right. I fell down. He caught me."
The man bent down and looked her full in the face. "You sure, now? I can throw his ass in the water if you want. You say the word and I'll drown this sucker."
"No. Really. It's all right."
He stepped away then, reluctantly, looking from one of us to the other as if trying to figure out what was really going on. "Okay, then, if you say so." Without another word, he turned on his heel and jogged away from us, running shoes squeaking on the wet grass.
Warily, I approached Joanna. "What's wrong? Tell me."
Once again, she reached into the pocket. When her hand emerged, she was holding the newspaper. She was under control now, but her eyes still struck sparks of fury as she slapped the newspaper into my outstretched hand.
"I thought you said you'd keep it quiet."
"Keep what quiet?"
"About what happened. I thought I could trust you, but you took it straight to the newspaper."
"Joanna, what are you talking about?"
"The picture."
"My God, is the picture in here?" Dismayed, I unrolled the newspaper.
"It just as well could be," Joanna replied grimly.
I scanned down the page, the front page of the last section of the newspaper. The local news section. There on the bottom four columns wide, was Maxwell Cole's crime column, "City Beat." The headline said it alclass="underline"
"Sex Plus Race Equals Murder."
I scanned through the article quickly, while Joanna Ridley watched my face. When I finished reading, I looked up at her. I was sickened. There could be no doubt from the article that Maxwell Cole had indeed seen the photograph of Darwin Ridley and Bambi Barker. All of Seattle could just as well have seen it. The article left little to the imagination. The only thing it didn't mention was Bambi Barker's name. Knowing Maxwell Cole, I figured Wheeler-Dealer's money and position in the community had something to do with that.
I took Joanna Ridley by the arm and led her to her car.
"Where are you going?" she asked as she half-trotted to keep up with me.
"To find Maxwell Cole," I told her. "If I don't kill him first, you can have a crack at him."
CHAPTER 16
I put Joanna Ridley in her car and told her to go on home, that I'd call her as soon as I knew anything.
As she started the Mustang, I motioned for her to roll down the window. "Don't forget to put your phone back on the hook," I told her. She gave me a half-hearted wave and drove away.
I started the Porsche and rammed it into gear. My first instinct was to find Maxwell Cole, beat the crap out of him, and find out who the big mouth was, either in the crime lab or in Seattle P.D. Somebody had leaked the information.
I drove straight to the Post-Intelligencer's new digs down on Elliott, overlooking Puget Sound. Eight o'clock found me standing in front of a needle-nosed receptionist who told me Maxwell Cole wasn't expected in before ten. I should have known a slug like Cole wouldn't be up at the crack of dawn.
Rather than hang around the newspaper and cool my heels, I went down to the Public Safety Building. I stopped at the second floor and stormed into the crime lab.
Don Yamamoto, head of the Washington State Patrol's crime lab, is a criminalist of the first water. He's one of those second-generation Japanese who, as a kid, was incarcerated along with his parents in a relocation camp during World War II. He spent all his spare time during the years they were locked up reading the only book available to him-a Webster's unabridged dictionary-and he came out of the camp with a far better education than he probably would have gotten otherwise.
He's a smart guy, smart and personable both, well respected by those who work for and with him. The receptionist waved me past without bothering to give me an official escort. As usual, the door to Yamamoto's office stood open. I knocked on the frame.
"Hey, Beau, how's it going?" he asked, looking up from a stack of paperwork on his desk.
"Not well," I answered. "We've got troubles." I laid it on the line to him. He listened without comment. When I finished, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.
"I think you're wrong, Beau. That story didn't come from this office. None of my people go running off at the mouth."
He got up and led the way to the evidence room. He stopped at the doorway long enough to examine the log. "Only two people actually handled that photograph," he said. "One was Janice Morraine, and the other is Tom Welch. Either of those sound like people who'd be messing around with the likes of Maxwell Cole?"
I shook my head. I knew them both fairly well. I had to agree with their chief's assessment.
"So how did Max get the story?"
"Why don't you go straight to the horse's mouth and ask him that question?" Don suggested.
"I tried that. He wasn't in."
"So try again."
I turned on my heels and walked out of his office. Standing in the elevator lobby waiting for the door to open, I was surprised when the door behind me opened. Don Yamamoto followed me into the corridor. "But you'll let me know if you find out something I need to know, right?" he asked.
Don Yamamoto trusted his people implicitly. Up to a point.
I chuckled. "Yes," I answered. "I'll let you know."
It was eight-forty when I reached Peters' and my cubicle on the fifth floor. Peters glanced meaningfully at his watch. Having a partner can be worse than having to punch a time clock. Time clocks don't expect explanations.
"Get off it," I told him before he had a chance to open his mouth. "I got back from Portland at three this morning, and I've been up working since six, so don't give me any shit."
"My, my, we are touchy this morning," Peters said with a grin. "So tell me what you learned in Portland."
I did. All of it. By the time I finished telling him about the cheerleading squad's nasty little rite of passage, he wasn't nearly as cheerful as he had been. In fact, he was probably wondering about the advisability of having daughters.
"I talked to all those girls," he said. "They seemed like nice, straight, clean-cut kids."
"You can't tell a book by its cover, remember?"
"Right, so what do we do? Tackle Wheeler-Dealer? Go have a heart-to-heart talk with Molly Blackburn? Read the writing in the locker?"
I got up and glanced over the top of the cubicle walls to the clock at the end of the room. It was five to ten. "All of the above," I told him, "but not necessarily in that order. We're starting with Maxwell Cole, bless his pointed little head."
We dropped the Porsche off at my place and took a departmental crate to the P.I. It turned out Maxwell Cole's pointed head was nowhere within striking distance. The same scrawny receptionist gave me an icy smile and told me Mr. Cole was out on an assignment. She had no idea when he'd be back. Lucky for him.
We left there and drove to Mercer Island, figuring we'd make a brief visit to Wheeler-Dealer Barker's home on our way to his dealership in Bellevue. The address jotted in Peters' notebook led us to a stately white colonial on a lot that seemed to be several sizes too small. A multinote chime playing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" announced our arrival. A plain, small-boned woman wearing a long honey-colored robe came to the door.
Her mousy blonde hair was still damp from a shower, and her face was devoid of makeup. Her nose was shiny, her eyes red-rimmed. This was a lady who had been having a good cry in the privacy of her own home. She looked up at us anxiously.