Of course I didn’t know that. I had been unofficially benched from the real investigation, sidetracked into something that should have been a dead end, but maybe my part of the job wasn’t such a dead end after all.
“So?” I said, unable to fathom how Shiree Weston’s job with a credit union might have anything at all to do with the price of peanuts.
“After I talked to Sergeant Watkins this afternoon,” Kramer continued, “I decided to take a look at Ben Weston’s desk here at the department. What I discovered was very interesting.”
“What?”
By then I knew nothing would keep Paul Kramer from blabbing his news to the world. Even to me, although under most circumstances, I would have been his very last choice of audience.
“Loan applications!” Kramer crowed.
At first I thought lack of sleep was screwing up my hearing. “Loan applications?” I asked. “What’s the big deal about that?”
“So far I’ve found he cosigned on three different student loans, and they’re not with his wife’s credit union either. Plus there’s another one that’s filled out but not signed. Does the name Ezra T. Russell mean anything to you?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“How about Knuckles Russell?”
That one did ring a bell. Knuckles Russell was a rising young star in the ranks of the Black Gangster Disciples, an upstart gang that rivals both the Bloods and the Crips when it comes to pieces of Seattle’s gangland turf.
“You mean Knuckles Russell of the BGD?” I asked, using the accepted shorthand for the Black Gangster Disciples.
“You got it. And the application lists Ben Weston’s address as Russell’s home address. Same way on the other three. I’ve got someone checking rap sheets on the others right now.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That Ben Weston got himself into something heavy, something that had nothing to do with screwing around behind his wife’s back. Gambling maybe, drug payoffs of some kind. Who knows? Whatever it was, I figure he ran short of cash and borrowed money to make ends meet. By doing it with student loans, nobody would come after him right away to start making payments. Sounds like a hell of a scam to me. What do you think?”
What I was thinking was how grateful I was that Big Al Lindstrom was nowhere within earshot. Kramer should have been too.
“So give me that woman’s address,” Kramer continued. “I want to find out if she knows anything about all this.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We should see what she has to say. Where are you, the department?”
“Yes, but…”
“Be down in front of the Third Avenue entrance in fifteen minutes,” I told him. “I’ll stop by and pick you up.”
“Wait a minute. Can’t you just give me the address? I’ll go talk to her myself.”
That was exactly what Kramer was angling for-to see Emma Jackson alone. I was equally determined not to give in, not to be cut out of the picture any more so than I already was, but I didn’t come straight out and tell my supposed cohort that I didn’t trust him any further than I could throw him.
“No,” I said reasonably enough. “Emma Jackson’s already been through hell today. She’s not the easiest person to deal with in the first place, and she already knows me. I’d better come along.”
“If you insist,” Kramer allowed grudgingly. “See you in fifteen.”
Ralph Ames was still sipping his coffee when I got off the phone. “Heading back out?” he asked. I nodded. “Any plans for dinner?”
“Not that I can think of. After last night, I’ll be lucky if I’m still on my feet come dinnertime. Why?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, “and if you don’t mind, I thought I’d whip up something on the barbecue.”
I tried my best to suppress a knowing grin. So he was going to bring the lady in question out from under wraps and introduce her around after all. That might be worth struggling to stay awake for.
“Make it early,” I said. “I’ll try to be home by six. If we eat by seven or so, it won’t matter if I crash right after dinner, will it?”
“No,” Ralph replied, poker-faced as ever. “I don’t suppose it will.”
I started toward the door. “By the way,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of calling that life insurance agent back. I left a message for him to get in touch with me. I’m not certain he’s the best man for the job, but it seems to me we ought to be exploring some of your options. After all, he did call to ask for an appointment.”
“I already told you. If I’ve got to pay a rating or whatever the hell they call it, I’m not buying a dime’s worth of insurance no matter what you say.”
“The least we can do is give him a fair hearing.”
“I’ll tell you what. You give old Curtis Bell all the fair hearings you like. I’m going to work.”
Ralph and I both know that on less than two hours’ worth of sleep I’m never going to win any congeniality awards. Fortunately, he isn’t the kind of friend who holds grudges.
By the time I was back out on the street, the afternoon had turned blustery and cold with a chill wind blowing in off Puget Sound. When Kramer and I got to Emma Jackson’s place, a half dozen cars were parked nearby. We were about to knock on the door when it opened and a broad, imposing man barred our way. His face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“May I help you?” he asked in a bass voice that sounded like it was coming from a loudspeaker instead of a human chest.
“I’m Detective Beaumont,” I answered, “and this is Detective Kramer from the Seattle Police Department. We’re here to speak to Dr. Jackson.”
“I’m not sure Emma’s up to seeing anyone just now,” he told us. “Wait here. I’ll go check.”
He turned back into the apartment and left us standing on the little concrete porch. “Wasn’t that Reverend Walters?” Kramer asked.
“Reverend Walters?” I repeated.
“You know. Reverend Homer Walters of the Mount Zion Baptist Church.”
Reverend Walters of the Mount Zion Baptist Church is almost as much of a Seattle institution as the church itself. No wonder he looked familiar.
A few moments later he reappeared in the doorway, shaking his head. “No,” he said gravely, peering at us across the tops of his silver wire-rimmed glasses. “Emma’s on her way to bed now. We’ve been here doing a little planning for the funeral. With this many people involved, we have to get started right away.”
“What do you mean, this many people?”
“We have a very full schedule this weekend, so we’ll be funeralizing them all-Ben and Shiree and all those poor little children-at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. They’re all members of the Mount Zion Church, you see, so we’ll be sending them off together. If we do it on Saturday, people who want to come won’t be missing any work.”
Detective Kramer cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Reverend Walters, but these are all homicide cases. It might be better if you made your plans for later, say sometime next week. That would give us a little more time for lab work, that kind of thing.”
Reverend Walters was already shaking his head.
“Even Sunday might be better,” Kramer said.
The Reverend Homer Walters pulled himself up to his considerable height. “Sunday is a day of worship, young man. I don’t do funerals on Sunday, and people have to work on Monday. Saturday will be just fine.”
Kramer seemed taken aback and for good reason. In homicide cases there are often innumerable delays before bodies can be released to families and funeral homes for preparation and burial.
“Have you discussed this with anyone down at Seattle PD?” Kramer asked, trying to move the burden on to someone else’s shoulders.
“I have not,” Reverend Walters declared, “and I don’t intend to. Emma Jackson, Harmon Weston, and I have discussed the situation with the Lord. He’s the only one who matters, you see. I am sure He will provide whatever laboratory time is necessary between now and then. The Lord does provide, you know.”
With that, the Reverend Homer Walters gently closed the door and went back inside, leaving a perplexed Detective Paul Kramer looking as though he had been run over by a truck-a gentle, Christian truck maybe, but a Mack nonetheless. It did my heart good to see it.