" Beaumont," I supplied. "Detective Beaumont."
"You'll have to excuse me. I understand there's been some difficulty in the gym. I'd been trying to get through, but they wouldn't let me until just now. Somebody called me at home when I came back from church."
"Church," I grunted with contempt. "That figures."
Browning started forward again, but I stopped him. "I'm going to want to talk to you, too," I said. "As soon as they finish with you."
"I don't have time, Detective Beaumont. My family is waiting for me. We're having guests."
"I don't give a shit if it's the pope himself, Ned. I want to talk to you alone. About the cheerleading squad, remember them? I'm sure you remember one or two of them fairly well."
An almost audible spark of recognition passed over his face. He paled and stepped back a pace or two. "What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb. You know what I mean," I said menacingly. "I'll wait for you at Denny's, here on the island."
"All right," he said, crumbling. "I'll meet you as soon as I'm finished here."
You're finished, all right, pal, I thought to myself, but I didn't say it aloud. I didn't have to. And I wouldn't have to lift a finger to make it happen, either. Chief Marilyn Sykes and the Washington State Patrol's crime lab would take care of all those little details.
Meanwhile, while Ned Browning still thought there was a way he could wiggle off the hook, while he still thought there was a way to save his worthless ass and his career, I'd play him for all he was worth, see if I could wrangle any helpful information out of his scared little hide.
That's one thing I've learned over the years. If you have the slightest advantage, use it. And don't worry about it after you do.
Creeps don't have any scruples.
Cops can't afford them.
CHAPTER 28
When I walked back to the Porsche, old man trouble himself, Maxwell Cole, stood slouching against the door on the driver's side.
"Get away, Max. You'll scratch the paint," I told him.
He didn't move. "Hey, there, J. P. How's it going?"
"Get out of the way. I don't have time to screw around with you." Bodily, I shoved him aside far enough so I could put my key in the lock.
"I'll bet it is Peters, isn't it? That's the rumor, anyway," he said, grinning slyly under his handlebar mustache. "I mean, he's not here, and you are. Same thing happened last night, over in Fremont, or so I hear."
"Will you get the fuck out of my way?"
"And what's the teacher's name? Candace Wynn, isn't that it?"
"I'm not talking. Leave me alone, Max."
"I won't leave you alone. I want to know what's going on. Why won't they release any names? All Arlo Hamilton does is read prepared speeches that have nothing to do with what's going on. I want the scoop, J. P., the real scoop."
"You won't get it from me, asshole. Besides, it sounds to me like Hamilton is giving you guys just what you deserve."
"What do you mean?"
"What Arlo tells you is bullshit. What you write is bullshit. Sounds like an even trade to me."
Max took an angry step toward me, but thought better of it and stayed out of reach. He glared at me for a long moment before dropping his gaze, his eyes watery and pale behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "You're not going to tell me about Peters, then?"
"You're damn right."
I flung the Porsche's door open, bouncing it off Cole's ample hip for good measure. Just to make the point. He finally moved aside.
The problem with Max is that I'm so used to avoiding him that in the crush of worrying about Peters I had forgotten I needed to talk to him. Instead of starting the car, I got back out. Max moved away from me.
"You leave me alone, J. P."
"Where'd you get the picture, Max?"
"The picture? What picture?"
"The one you wrote about but didn't print. The one of Darwin Ridley and the cheerleader."
He smirked then. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
I didn't have time to mess around with him. I turned on my heel and got back in the car.
"All I want to know is if it's Peters or not."
"Fuck you, Max."
He looked offended. "I have other ways of confirming this, you know," he whined.
"So use 'em," I told him. "Be my guest, but you'd damn well better keep your facts straight, because I'll cram 'em down your throat if you don't!"
With that, I started the engine and laid down a layer of rubber squealing out of the parking lot.
I took a meandering route to the Mercer Island Denny's through the maze of interminable road construction that has screwed up traffic there for years. Surprisingly, lots of other people had evidently done the same thing.
The restaurant was busy, jammed with the after-church/Sunday-brunch crowd. I waited almost fifteen minutes before they finally cleared out the line and showed me to a table, a short-legged two-person booth in the center of the room.
During the few minutes I was there alone, I couldn't help reflecting. The last time I had been in the room I was with Peters and Andi Wynn together, that afternoon when we finished questioning the students. That time seemed years ago, not days. Since then, my life had been run through a Waring blender. Fatigue and worry weighed me down, threatening to suck me under and drown me.
Then Ned Browning entered. He rushed through the door and stopped abruptly by the cash register to look for me. Now, starting forward again, he slowed his pace, walking deliberately and with some outward show of dignity, but nothing masked the agitation that remained clearly visible on his face.
My transformation was instantaneous. Adrenaline surged through my system, pulling me out of my stupor, putting every nerve in my body on full alert. By the time he reached the booth, my mind was honed sharp. I was ready for him.
He held out his hand in greeting, but I ignored the empty gesture. Instead, I motioned for him to sit down opposite me. If he thought I had invited him over for a nice social chat, he was wrong. The sooner Ned Browning understood that, the better.
He paused and looked down at his hand, first comprehending and then assessing the message behind my refusal to shake hands. Maybe he had convinced himself that he had mistaken the meaning in what I had said about the cheerleaders.
My insult wasn't lost on him. Ned Browning was caught, and he knew it. Flushing violently to the roots of his receding hairline, he sat down.
"What do you want?" he asked in a hoarse, subdued whisper.
It was time for poker. Time to play bluff, raise, and draw. I happened to have a pretty good hand. "What did you use?" I asked obliquely for openers.
"I beg your pardon?" He frowned. He may have been as genuinely puzzled as he looked, or he may have been playing the game.
"What did you use to smash the locker, Ned? A sledgehammer? A brick? A rock?"
He drew back in his chair as though I'd slapped him squarely across the face. His unhealthy flush was replaced by an equally unhealthy pallor. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Yes, you do. You know very well."
He stood up. "I've got guests waiting at home. I didn't come here to play games."
I caught the sleeve of his jacket and compelled him back into the booth. "Fuck your guests," I snarled. "Believe me, this is no game."
His eyes darted warily around the room, checking to see who was within earshot, to see if there was anyone nearby who might know him or who had overheard my rude remark.
He made an attempt to retrieve his old stuffiness. "I don't think it's necessary to use that kind of language, Mr. Beaumont."
Once upon a time I had been briefly impressed by his outward show of high-toned values. That was no longer true. His high-toned values were a sham.