Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (18 page)

“If your folks are gone, who's looking after you?” I asked. Because Ron and Amy sometimes draft me for babysitting duties, I was a little surprised they hadn't called.

“Dad tried calling you first. When your machine came on, he said you probably weren't home, so he called Mrs. Humphreys instead.” Heather wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste.

“You don't like Mrs. Humphreys?” I asked.

“Mrs. Humphreys doesn't fix us root beer floats,” Heather said.

I smiled. “I'm glad to hear that,” I told her. Wrapping the rest of the pizza in foil, I shoved it in my pocket along with Tim Blaine's directions and herded Heather toward the door. “I'd hate to think Mrs. Humphreys had eclipsed my place in your affections.”

“She's an old lady,” Heather insisted.

Mrs. Leila Humphreys, Ron and Amy's widowed next-door neighbor, is a svelte sixty-year-old who still plays tennis twice a week and who swims laps in Belltown Terrace's indoor pool every day of the week. “She doesn't seem that old to me,” I said.

“Well, she is,” Heather insisted. “And I don't like her. I'd rather be with you.”

“I'd rather be with you, too, but I have to go back to work.”

Heather rode with me as far as the garage, promising to call me either in the car or at home the moment word came from the hospital.

As soon as I was out of the garage, I tried Sue's number again. Still no answer. This time I went ahead and punched in the numbers for Sue's pager. Frustrated, I put the phone back in its holder. While I drove, I helped myself to another piece of pizza and waited for Sue to call me back.

As a downtown Seattle resident, what I know about Bellevue would fit in a very small thimble. Consequently, I was glad to have Tim Blaine's directions, but even they weren't entirely foolproof. My first attempt to get to the Newsome house led me to a dead end rather than through a tunnel under I-90. My second attempt took me through the tunnel fine. Once I was on 168th, the glow of flashing emergency lights led me straight there. Obviously, Detective Blaine had called ahead. The patrol officer manning the roadblock waved me through.

I drove up a narrow, winding street through a neighborhood of modest middle-class ramblers and split-levels most of which looked as though they dated from the sixties and seventies. Along the way I passed several clumps of concerned onlookers—neighbors from those same houses, no doubt—who stood outside in the cool damp of an April evening trying to fathom what horrors had gone on up the street.

Several blocks up 19th, I ran into the next blockade, one made up almost entirely of emergency vehicles, including a gray van from the ME's office. No wonder Audrey Cummings had been out when I had tried calling her earlier. She was probably already on her way here.

Beyond the barricade at the far end of a cul-desac stood a house ablaze with lights both inside and out. Stopping to look at it, I remembered Sue saying she thought it had been put together with blocks and Tinker Toys. I had to agree. It looked like a modern-day castle plunked down in among its less ostentatious neighbors. Beyond it was a patch of black that indicated some body of water or other. My rudimentary knowledge of Eastside geography didn't tell me which one.

Tim Blaine appeared on a grassy parking strip and waved me into the end of a neighboring driveway. As soon as I switched off the ignition, he opened the passenger door and climbed in with me. “Hey, Beau,” he said cheerfully, reaching across the seat to pump my hand. “We've got to stop meeting like this. Seems like the only time we run into each other is at crime scenes.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Now tell me, what the hell happened in there?”

“It's a long story, and we're still trying to piece it together,” he said. “There are two people dead inside and a set of bloody footprints leading from the crime scene to the front door. We brought in a canine unit. The dog followed the trail out to the driveway and there it stopped. My guess is the perpetrator took off in a car. According to the DMV, there are two vehicles registered to this address. Barry Newsome is the registered owner of a 1996 Mitsubishi Eclipse. His roommate, Don Atkins, owns an '85 Ford Explorer. Both those vehicles are safely stowed in the garage. What isn't here and may be missing is Mr. Owens' Subaru Outback. I've issued an APB on it, but nothing has shown up so far. Now it's your turn, Beau. What's your connection to all this?”

Another vehicle pulled up behind us and a second canine unit took to the street. From inside the house came the occasional flashes of crime-scene photography.

“I've been working on a case in Seattle that led us to Newsome and Atkins,” I said. “When I got home at nine tonight, there was a message on my machine from Newsome that came in about a quarter to five. The problem is, the message was interrupted halfway through.”

Tim nodded. “That's probably about when it happened. Our com center reported a 911 call from a house two doors away a few minutes later than that, 4:48. A woman named Mrs. Adams from that house over there…” He pointed to the house at the far end of the driveway where I had parked. “She reported that someone in the neighborhood—a teenager, she thought—most likely was setting off firecrackers and scaring her dog. Responding officers found nothing. The second firecracker complaint from the same lady came in at seven-thirty. This time when officers showed up, they found the doors here wide open. One body was in the living room downstairs. That one, Calvin Owens, looked like a fresh kill. The other one, Newsome, was upstairs in an office of some kind. He looks like he's been dead for some time, I'd guess a matter of hours.”

“Have you talked to the neighbors?”

“Some. Mostly to Mrs. Adams so far. Sounds as though she didn't like Newsome and Atkins much. Her assessment is that the boys were pretty weird to begin with and not so hot on maintenance, either. She says the house actually belongs to Newsome's family, but the guys have lived here rent-free for several years and have let it go to pot. And she's not wrong there. When I first walked inside, I thought somebody had trashed the place in the course of a robbery. The more I look around, though, the more I think it's just a bachelor pad that's deteriorated into a pigsty.”

Headlights flashed in the rearview mirror as a second ME van maneuvered past us and parked beside the first one.

Tim Blaine continued. “Mrs. Adams also said something about how Newsome and Atkins used to have big parties here almost every weekend. That people would show up late at night dressed in all kinds of strange costumes—like vampires and witches, for example. She said the parties finally stopped about six months ago after the neighbors made a stink. Personally, I think the parties stopped because the place was such a mess no one wanted to go inside—not even to party.”

“What about Owens? Have you found out anything more about him?”

Tim Blaine shook his head. “Not much. His business card says he specializes in Native American artifacts.”

“I see,” I said. “That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Newsome and Atkins may have stopped partying at home, but they haven't stopped the costume parties. Role-playing parties, they call them. Now, they've started staging them in public parks, and that's where Sue and I come in.”

“Role-playing?” Blaine asked. “What does that mean?”

“It means that everybody dresses up as his or her favorite ghoul or vampire and then they go around scaring the shit out of one another. Your basic ongoing Halloween party for people who've never quite grown up. Only it turns out Newsome and Atkins tend to get a little carried away. My partner and I got involved when, in the aftermath of one of those parties, an attendee called in to report that real bones had been used as props. Sue Danielson, my partner, came over here last week and collected a set of bones from Mr. Newsome and delivered them to the ME's office. Since then, our investigation has led us to believe they are the partial remains of a deceased Suquamish shaman named David Half Moon.”

“They were using this guy's body for props?” Tim Blaine asked. “What kind of kooks are they?”

“People with no respect for human life,” I told him. “Remember I told you earlier about a body being pulled out of Lake Washington earlier today?” Blaine nodded.

“The victim's name is Anthony Lawson,” I continued. “It turns out he's Mr. Half Moon's developmentally disabled grandson. After talking to Lawson's adoptive mother, I believe he had in his possession a map that would have shown where his grandfather was buried. Not buried actually. According to tribal customs, Half Moon's remains as well as his worldly goods were placed in a canoe and raised up into a tree. Lawson was a busboy at Newsome and Atkins' favorite downtown hangout.”

Frowning, Blaine paused for several seconds before he spoke again. “Grave robbing,” he said thoughtfully. “Would there have been anything else in that canoe besides the bones?”

“Maybe.”

“So that's where Owens comes in. His card says he specialized in Native American artifacts,” Blaine continued. “He probably came here expecting to make a deal, to buy something.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He had a bank receipt in his pocket that shows he picked up $20,000 in cash late this afternoon, but there was no money on him when we found him. None.

“According to my count then,” he went on, “we're looking at a minimum of three homicides, one set of partial remains, one missing person, and one stolen vehicle. All of those cases are connected but they all come from different jurisdictions.”

“That's right as far as it goes,” I said. “Actually, the vehicle Anthony Lawson was found in was also stolen, and there's another missing person that you don't know anything about. His name's Jimmy Greenjeans.”

“Who's he?” Blaine asked.

“A bartender from the same place where Anthony Lawson worked. He and Tony Lawson may have been friends, and I think he knew something about the connection between Lawson and Newsome and Atkins.”

“Is he the one with green hair?” Blaine asked.

“That's the one.”

“And that really is his name, Mr. Greenjeans?”

“Yes.”

“And what makes you think he might be dead, too?”

“His girlfriend reported him missing.”

“Missing doesn't necessarily mean dead.”

“It could in this case,” I said.

“And you think what may or may not have happened to Greenjeans is all tied up with what's going on here.” I nodded.

“In that case, I think we'd better go talk to Captain Davis,” Tim said. “With so many jurisdictions involved, this could get tricky. He needs to know what we're up against. You'll probably want to bring your brass in on it, too.”

“That's just the problem,” I said. “I can't really do that.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I've been pulled from the Seward Park case. For another, my new squad commander doesn't like some of my sources.”

“Nobody likes informants,” Tim grinned. “Most of them are creeps. I don't care for them much myself.”

“This one is different,” I said. “He's a Native American shaman named Henry Leaping Deer.”

“You mean like a medicine man,” Blaine put in.

“Close enough,” I told him. “Most of what Mr. Leaping Deer told me came to him in a dream. The trouble is, everything he told me seems to be coming true, right down the line. For instance. He dreamed that David Half Moon's remains had been stolen from the burial grounds and that children were playing with them in the city. Calling Newsome and Atkins children maybe isn't literally true, but it's close enough. Mr. Leaping Deer told me that there's a curse associated with handling a dead shaman's bones. So far we know that at least three of the people who did so are dead. Not only that, when Leaping Deer sent his daughter to clue us in on all this, she said her father had mentioned a green-haired man as being involved and that he, in particular, was in some danger.”

“You're saying the dream isn't just a dream. It's actually more like a vision.”

“I suppose. My problem is, not only have I been ordered off the case, the commander doesn't believe in visions.”

“Do you?” Tim Blaine asked.

“I didn't before, but I may now,” I answered. “I started out thinking the whole deal was some kind of phony joke. Now I'm not so sure and, with bodies stacked like so much cord wood, I don't think we can afford to ignore Leaping Deer's information. What about you?”

“I still think Captain Davis is our best bet,” Tim Blaine replied, opening the door and climbing out of the car. “The guy's pretty broad-minded. Who knows?” he added with a laugh. “Maybe he'll be a little more understanding than your guy Kramer.”

And that was when I realized that I really was Paul Kramer's worst nightmare. In less than a day, and without even meaning to, I had managed to turn him into what he had called an “interdepartmental laughingstock.”

There's going to be hell to pay on this one,
I told myself. But that didn't stop me. I pulled my keys out of the ignition, stuffed the phone in my pocket, and then went looking for Tim Blaine's Captain Davis.

I
was two steps from the car when the phone in my pocket rang. “Beau,” Sue Danielson said. “What's up?”

“Let's see,” I said. “One or two things. Jimmy Greenjeans is missing. Barry Newsome is dead along with a Native American artifact dealer named Calvin Owens. And Don Atkins appears to have taken off. Not only that, Tony Lawson turns out to be David Half Moon's grandson, so you called that one on the money. What else do you want to know?”

“Good grief, Beau!” Sue was aghast. “We were only gone long enough to have dinner. What the hell have you been doing while my back is turned? And where are you?”

“In Bellevue,” I replied. “At the scene of a double homicide.”

“Does Kramer have any idea you're there?”

“Not so far. I haven't told Wayne Haller or Sam Nguyen, either, for that matter.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Sue asked. “Do you want me to come over? Richie just left and the kids are getting ready for bed.”

“You don't need to do that. I'm just on my way to talk to Captain Davis of the Bellevue police to bring him up to speed. I'm not sure what his reaction is going to be when I hit him with all the shaman stuff, but with two dead and Greenjeans missing, we don't have a moment to lose.”

“Do you want me to call Kramer?”

Notifying the new squad commander was a tough decision. I knew he had to be called. The further things went without Kramer being informed, the worse it would be in the long run. On the other hand, I suspected that as soon as he had even an inkling of what was going on he'd roar across the nearest bridge to Bellevue and begin knocking heads, starting with mine.

“Go ahead and call him,” I said. “We might as well get it over with.”

With my call to Sue finished, I caught up with Tim Blaine and another man just as a uniformed officer came sprinting out of Barry Newsome's house. “The photographer's finished, Detective Blaine,” he said. “The lady from the ME's office is asking if you want to look around one more time before they remove the body.”

Tim Blaine turned to me. “I'd better go take alook,” he said and then gestured toward his companion. “This is Captain Davis, Beau. I told him you had some information that might prove helpful.”

Captain Davis turned out to be a tall, scrawny guy about my size but several years younger. “Detective Beaumont is it?” he asked holding out his hand. “Now what's all this about medicine men?”

If I had been a betting man, I never in a million years would have figured Capt. Todd Davis for a sympathetic listener, but he heard me out, all the way to the end. When I finished, he was quiet for several thoughtful seconds. “Do you happen to know how to get in touch with Mr. Leaping Deer?” he asked finally.

“Not really. I mean, I don't have his address and phone number right here, but I could probably find him.”

“Maybe you should do that,” Captain Davis observed. “It sounds to me as though several of his predictions have been disturbingly accurate. With Mr. Greenjeans still in jeopardy, we should do everything in our power—including using every possible resource—to locate the man. What do you think?”

I was blown away. Tim Blaine had said the man was broad-minded, but having him actually give credence to Henry Leaping Deer's visions was far more than I would have thought possible.

“I'll do what I can to track him down,” I said.

Davis nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Now, about your captain…”

“Squad commander,” I corrected. “Paul Kramer is only a squad commander.”

“I see. What do you think Squad Commander Kramer would think if we called in the guys from the attorney general's Special Homicide Investigation Squad? It seems to me that we've got so many countervailing jurisdictions here that if we don't bring in one entity to oversee the whole deal, we'll all be stepping on toes and getting in one another's way.”

The Washington State Special Homicide Investigation Squad, originally dubbed the Special Homicide Investigation Team, had been the brainchild of one Daniel Seward, an ambitious Washington state legislator known for his get-tough stance on crime. He had envisioned an elite group of investigators, under the aegis of the state's attorney general's office, that would be able to crisscross jurisdictional boundaries in a way individual officers could not. Not only would they assist local police departments in the investigation of major crimes, they would also create a computer database of criminal activity to be used on a statewide and regional basis.

It wasn't a bad idea. In fact, I knew several older detectives who had taken retirement from SPD and then had moved their years of combined experience and expertise straight over to the new unit. The only snag in this otherwise ingenious idea was that Seward had done such a poor job of naming his unit. Somehow he had failed to realize what would happen to the Special Homicide Investigation Team once that unfortunate combination of words was reduced—as it inevitably would be—into a typical cop-speak acronym—SHIT. As soon as someone realized the error, the proverbial SHIT hit the fan and the bureaucrats had tried to do damage control. The word “Team” had been replaced by the word “Squad.” There had been a flurry of activity in which official directories, stationery, and business cards all had to be reprinted. Unfortunately, no amount of determined effort made any difference. The original name stuck like so much superglue. In law-enforcement circles, that elite group was now and forever known as the attorney general SHITs. Had Captain Davis known me better, he probably would have used that term himself.

Given Paul Kramer's propensity for empire building and his concerns about negative publicity, I could well imagine his likely reaction. Someone would have had to hold a gun to the man's head to get him to knuckle under and ask for outside help. Davis, however, was intent on doing the job without being sidetracked by ego issues or how his performance would be reported in the media. Not only that, Davis was on the scene. Kramer wasn't.

“He'd probably think it was a great idea,” I lied.

“Good, then,” Davis said. “I'll put those wheels in motion.”

As he turned back to his car, the pager went off in my pocket. When I checked the display, the number on the screen was one I didn't immediately recognize, but the prefix indicated the caller lived in West Seattle—the same neighborhood where Kramer lived with his wife and two kids. Flipping the pager to off, I returned it to my pocket without bothering to note the number. That was one call I had no intention of returning.

A little kid sidled up to my elbow. He couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve. “Are you a detective?” he asked. I nodded.

“I heard my dad talking. He said people are dead in there. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is true. Do your parents know you're out here?”

He shook his head. “They think I'm in bed. There's a tree by my room. I opened the window and climbed out. I do it all the time, especially in the summer. I go down to the lake late at night and look for frogs.”

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Jonathan,” he said. “Jonathan Carruthers. That's my house over there,” he added, pointing to a house next door to Barry Newsome's.

“Well, Jonathan,” I said. “It's late. If your parents notice you're gone, they'll be worried sick. If I were you, I'd shimmy back up that tree before they figure it out.”

“They don't care what I do,” Jonathan said. “They're down in the family room watching TV.”

“Well, I care,” I told him. “You shouldn't be out here by yourself. And if you're concerned about what happened, you should talk to your parents about it.”

Jonathan didn't move. “It's Mr. Newsome who's dead, isn't it?”

There didn't seem any reason to deny it. “Yes,” I said. “I believe he is one of the victims.”

“And Mr. Atkins, the mean one, is the one who did it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I saw him leave,” Jonathan Carruthers said. “I was sitting by the window and wishing I was outside shooting baskets when I saw him come running out of the house. He jumped in a little white car, and drove away. I thought it was kind of strange that he went off and left the front door wide open.”

“Wait a minute. What little white car?” I asked, feeling the slight catch of excitement in my throat that comes over me when I know something important has come my way.

“It's a Subaru,” Jonathan said confidently. “An Outback, like they have in those neat commercials on TV. Where the guy from Australia is always tricking the bad guys.”

“And Mr. Atkins was alone in the car when he left?” I asked.

“No,” Jonathan said. “He came out of the house by himself, but there was somebody else in the car with him when he drove away. I couldn't tell who.”

There was still one person unaccounted for in all this, a potential victim who might still be alive—Jimmy Greenjeans. I took a breath. Not wanting to spook the kid, I tried to soften my voice before I spoke again. “What time was that?”

“After seven,” Jonathan said. “It was after I went upstairs.”

“And you know both Newsome and Atkins?” I asked. “You wouldn't be mistaken? You'd be able to recognize them?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “I'm their paper boy. Whenever I go to collect, I always hope Mr. Newsome answers the door. He gives me nice tips. At least he used to. Mr. Atkins never did.”

“Jonathan,” I said. “If all this happened over two hours ago, why didn't you come down sooner and tell someone? If the police had known right away…”

“I had a fight with my parents at dinner,” Jonathan said. “With my stepmom. My dad sent me to my room and told me to stay there.”

“But Jonathan, what you saw makes you an important witness. You should have come forward long before this. Surely your parents would have understood if…”

“My dad hits me,” Jonathan said matter-of-factly. “If I did that—if I came back downstairs to tell them something when Dad told me to stay in my room, he would have hit me some more.”

You can never tell with kids. Some of them take the smallest thing and blow it all out of proportion while others accept the most horrific of circumstances with seeming equanimity. Not knowing Jonathan Carruthers, I didn't know what to think.

“What will your father do if he finds out you left the house?”

Jonathan's wordless but somber shrug was answer enough. It didn't seem fair that his willingness to help with the investigation should come with that kind of price.

“Your father wouldn't do anything to you if other people were around would he?” I asked.

Jonathan shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Well, then I'll tell you what,” I said. “We won't let your parents know that you've been out here talking to us. You go on back to your house, climb up the tree, and let yourself back into your room. In a little while, I'll send one of the Bellevue detectives over to your place. When he rings the bell and asks if anyone there has seen anything, you come downstairs and tell your story.”

“So they won't know about my tree?” he asked.

“Right,” I told him. “The detective who'll be over there is a good friend of mine. His name's Blaine, Detective Tim Blaine. If your parents give you any trouble about all this, you tell him. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “But will it do any good? Will you guys be able to catch him?”

“Atkins? I think so,” I said. “Especially if we have your information to help us do it.”

“Good,” he said. “I hope you do.”

“Go on now,” I urged. I stood watching while he walked back across the driveway and disappeared through a hedge of photinia. Moments later, I saw a brief flash of white T-shirt against the dark bark of a towering cedar as he made his way back into the house. Only when a light came on in the bedroom did I turn away and go looking for Tim Blaine.

I found him just inside the front door of Barry Newsome's house where a crime-scene technician was dusting the door for prints. “Hey, Tim,” I called. “I have some information for you.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'll be right with you.”

“Beau?” I turned around to find Sue Danielson hurrying up the sidewalk behind me. “Is he here yet?”

“Who?”

“Kramer.” “I haven't seen him. Why?”

“He went off the charts when I told him. I thought he was going to have a coronary right there on the phone. I think he's on his way over. I came by to give you some advance warning and to run interference if necessary.”

That made me smile. It was a little like me sending Tim Blaine in to keep Jonathan Carruthers' father from beating the crap out of him. “As you can see, he's not here yet. Don't worry. I can probably handle Kramer all right, but thanks all the same. It never hurts to have backup.”

She nodded and smiled back. That's when I looked at her—really looked at her. At work Sue usually wears lady-cop clothes—skirts and blazers cut generously enough to fit over and around the bullet-resistant vests we all wear to work these days. I'd seen her in dresses on occasion, but I always managed to forget what a nice figure she kept hidden under her soft body armor. That night she was wearing some kind of shirtwaist dress. Because of the lighting, I wasn't sure about the color, a pastel of some kind, but it did show her figure to good advantage. For work, Sue's hair is mostly pulled back, but that night it was down, curling gently around her face.

I whistled. “Don't you look nice,” I said. “Where've you been?”

“Thanks,” she said. “Richie took the boys and me downtown for dinner. Planet Hollywood. He spent a ton of money and then sprang for shirts and caps for both the boys. They were absolutely ecstatic.”