Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (22 page)

“What do you mean?”

“One day, Lucas was sitting in a wheelchair out here in the yard. Right over there.” Considine pointed to an expanse of sloping lawn far beneath us. “There wasn't a fence here then,” he said. “Something happened to the brake on the wheelchair. Lucas went over the edge. His death was ruled an accident. Agnes Ferman said she saw my father fiddling with the brake a few minutes before the chair went over the edge.”

“I take it she didn't tell the police that part of the story?”

Considine nodded in answer to my question. “She didn't tell them, but she must have told my mother. I believe she must have threatened to turn him in.”

“You're saying your mother was the one who was actually the blackmail target? Why not your father?”

“I'm not sure,” Frederick answered. “Mother had money in her own right, and she paid. Growing up I remember that sometimes my father would hint around that we should let Agnes go, but Mother always insisted we keep her on. Mother's health was bad then, too. She developed MS. No matter what else Agnes Ferman may have done, I have to admit she took good care of Mother. She was paid wages, of course, but my mother also provided for Agnes in her will. She inherited my mother's old Continental which wasn't surprising since she was the one who did most of the driving in that car. There was also a sizable bequest left in Agnes Ferman's name with the understanding that the money be used to buy an annuity so Agnes would have an income in retirement.

“I was executor of Mother's estate. I handled all the arrangements, but at the time there was one thing I never quite figured out. Going over the bank records, I could see that my mother had gone through a good deal of unexplained cash. It's only in the last few weeks that I finally figured out the money must have gone to Agnes.”

“What made you draw that conclusion?” I asked.

“About a month ago,
Pacific
magazine did a big article on the bankers behind downtown Seattle's well-known developers. The developers are the guys out front. Bankers, on the other hand, are behind-the-scenes kind of guys. They're the ones who put the deal together. If it hadn't been for Forrest Considine, the Seattle skyline would be far different than it is today. Somebody at the
Times
must have figured that out. My dad was prominently featured in the article. Did you happen to see it?”

I shook my head.
Pacific
is a Sunday supplement to the
Seattle Times,
but it's not something I necessarily read. My interest in newspapers still doesn't stretch much beyond glancing at the headlines and doing the crossword puzzle.

“Agnes must have read it, though. A few days later, she sent me two badly typed chapters of a manuscript she claimed to be working on. I was just going to glance at a page or two, but as soon as I started reading, I realized she was writing about us—about our family, about Mother, Father, Lucas, and me. I learned several things from reading that manuscript. Number one—for several years after Agnes first came to work for my parents, she and my father were lovers. That was how things stood when my brother died.”

“That's all in the manuscript?” I asked.

“That and more,” he answered grimly. “I went to see her right away. Dad had just had a stroke. I was afraid of what bringing all this up again might do to him in his fragile state, so I went to see her. Father's ninety-three now and in a nursing home with round-the-clock care. I wanted to bring him home here, but he and Katherine don't exactly get along. He's old, bedridden, and virtually helpless. I tried to explain to Agnes that it wouldn't be fair to bring this all up now when he can't even defend himself. He's lost the ability to speak or read. He knows what's going on and there's nothing wrong with his ability to think. But he can't verbalize, can't form a response.”

“What happened when you went to see Agnes?”

“She hinted around that she might stop writing—for a price. I told her I'd think it over. And I did—for about two seconds. What I really thought about was turning her in to the cops so you could deal with her. But then, for all the same reasons I didn't want any of the story published, I didn't want to bring the authorities in on it, either. I couldn't see my father being dragged through all this, not when he's practically on his deathbed.

“What I did do was some detective work on my own. My father was always worried about losing records, so early on he had all the business financial records placed on microfiche. While he was at it, he had someone copy the personal ones as well. I went back through and checked. Sure enough, there was an unexplained lump-sum withdrawal that came out of my mother's personal resources within two months of my brother's death. The smaller cash withdrawals started then and continued until my mother was no longer able to handle her own affairs.”

“That was about the same time Agnes quit to go home and take care of her own husband?” I asked.

“No,” Considine replied. “They went on for a period of time even after that. Agnes used to come over and take Mother out for rides, ostensibly for lunch, every month or so. My guess is they stopped by the bank and my mother made the withdrawals in person.”

“When did the payments stop?”

“After we checked my mother into a nursing home.”

I glanced around the spacious house. Knowing that the Considines could well have afforded a whole coterie of servants and private nurses, it didn't make sense to me that first Frederick's mother and now his father had been shipped off to nursing homes for their final illnesses.

“I take it your wife didn't like your mother, either?” I asked.

“Katherine isn't much for clucking and caring.”

There didn't seem to be any point in debating that issue. “Go ahead,” I urged. “What happened next?”

“A week ago Sunday I went to see Agnes again. I called in the afternoon, hoping for an early evening appointment. She said she was having company earlier and wanted me to drop by later, sometime after nine. I ended up getting tied up myself. It was almost eleven when I called from the car to ask if it was too late for me to stop by, or if we should reschedule. She said no, for me to come on over.

“When I finally showed up, I got the impression that she expected me to open my wallet and hand over money which wasn't at all what I had in mind. We ended up getting into a hell of a row over it. It was the principle of the thing, you see. I have no idea how much she thought her keeping quiet was worth. Whatever it was, I have plenty of money. I probably could have paid the fare without even breaking a sweat, but the point is, this woman—this trusted ‘insider'—had betrayed my family six ways to Sunday. I wasn't about to give her another damned dime.”

With Considine spouting those kinds of self-incriminating admissions, I glanced in Caleb Drachman's direction expecting some kind of reaction. While he was observing the proceedings with interest, he showed no visible concern.

I said, “With more than three hundred thousand stashed in her garage, I'd say money wasn't the issue for Agnes, either. Why do you suppose she did it?”

Considine shrugged. “For the hell of it, maybe? She had gotten away with it for so long, maybe she thought it was her due. Or maybe she just wanted to press the envelope and see how far she could take things.”

I suddenly remembered something Hilda Smathers had said about her half sister—that Agnes Ferman was mean. Maybe that's what this was, just plain meanness.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Considine,” I said, “what you're telling me makes you more of a suspect rather than…”

“Just wait,” he said. “Let me finish. Agnes and I had this big argument. Finally, I told her to go ahead and write whatever the hell she wanted, that after all this time people would just take it for the ravings of some crazy old lady. That's when I left, but when I stepped onto the front porch, I almost broke my neck. There was a dog there, lying right in front of the door. It was dark and the dog was one of those stupid little wiener dogs. I never even saw him. It's a wonder I didn't pitch off the porch onto the sidewalk.”

“A wiener dog?”

“Not one, but two. And they both started barking at once. I was sure they were going to wake the whole godforsaken neighborhood. And then I saw this old guy. He was sitting off to the side and he looked…”

“Just like George Burns,” I finished for him.

“Right,” Considine said. “How did you know that?”

“His name's Malcolm Lawrence. He lives across the street from Agnes. He's the one who reported the fire.”

I had a fairly clear remembrance of what Malcolm Lawrence had said. He had told Sue and me that he had seen only one car at Agnes Ferman's house that night—Hilda Smathers' Camry, early in the evening. He had also claimed that he had gone to bed early without waiting up for the eleven o'clock news. If Considine was telling the truth, that meant Malcolm Lawrence had lied to us. Twice.

“After I caught my balance and untangled my foot from the leash, I took off,” Considine continued.

“Did you say anything to Mr. Lawrence?” I asked. “Or did he say anything to you?”

“No. I was shocked to find someone there listening where I didn't expect…” Frederick stopped talking because I was already standing up. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“If you'll excuse me,” I said. “I believe I need to see a man about a dog.”

Caleb Drachman smiled and nodded. “I thought you would,” he said.

F
or me, hindsight is always twenty-twenty. As I roared out of Frederick Considine's Lincoln-littered backyard, my thoughts were entirely on Malcolm Lawrence and his two obnoxious dogs. And on what would have prompted him to lie to me.

If I'd still had a partner, I would have wanted that partner along. But I didn't have one. Given my track record, as well as the weight of squad-room superstition, I knew that none of my fellow detectives would be jumping at the chance to team up with me. The word was out on the fifth floor: As far as partners are concerned, J. P. Beaumont is bad news.
Besides
, I told myself,
Malcolm Lawrence is a little old guy whose bones would probably fly apart if anyone gave him a hard shake.
I was pretty sure I could handle anything Lawrence dished out.

Furthermore, and this was the real deciding factor, Wingard Court North was only a matter of blocks away from where I was at that moment. Why fool around?

In actual fact, I didn't even make it all the way to Wingard Court before I ran into Malcolm Lawrence himself, accompanied by the two dogs. The three of them were hobbling along on North 137th when I turned in off Greenwood. I parked the car about a block ahead of them and waited until they caught up.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence,” I said, fighting to be heard over the yapping of the dogs.

He yanked on the two leashes. Eventually the dogs quieted and sat. Lawrence looked at me in seemingly embarrassed befuddlement. “Detective…”

“Detective Beaumont,” I supplied.

“That's right. What can I do for you?”

I didn't beat around the bush. “You can tell me why you lied to me, Mr. Lawrence.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You told my partner and me that you went to bed before eleven the night Agnes Ferman died. You also said that you didn't see any vehicles at Agnes Ferman's house that Sunday night other than her sister's Camry. The problem is, Mr. Lawrence, I have a witness who places you on the porch of Agnes Ferman's house well after eleven.”

“I didn't really lie to you,” Lawrence said quickly. “I was actually lying to Becky. You just got caught up in the middle of it.”

“You were lying to your wife?”

“I told you,” he said. “She's the jealous type. Most men my age probably would be complimented, but Becky goes to bed so dang early. And after she does, there's nobody to talk to or nothin'. It just gets kinda lonesome, is all.”

“Lonesome?”

He nodded. “So me and the puppies here took to going over to Aggie's house of an evening, just to visit and have ourselves a little nightcap sometimes. Just one, mind you. Never had two drinks in a row. Just one to sorta relax you, if you know what I mean. And over the months, Aggie and I just got to be…well, you know…friends.”

“Friends?”

“Well, maybe a bit more than friends,” he admitted. “She was lonesome, too, and one thing more or less led to another. Believe me, Detective Beaumont, for her age, she was a good-looking woman. Good bones, you know. And sexy as all get out.”

“So,” I said, “were you the only one?”

“The only one what?” Malcolm asked.

“The only randy neighbor who was messing around with Agnes Ferman?”

“Detective Beaumont,” he objected, “I resent your saying any such thing. I'll have you know Aggie Ferman was a real lady. She might have had herself a boyfriend or two, but she was no two-timer.”

There were several descriptions that I thought might well have applied to Agnes Ferman. “Lady” wasn't one of them. And two-timing was exactly what she had done when she had her husband at home all the while she was messing around with Forrest Considine at work. If that wasn't two-timing, what was?

“What if there were others?” I insisted. “What if one of your rivals heard about you and he was the jealous sort?”

“We were very careful,” Malcolm said. “I'm sure no one else knew.”

“What about your wife?” I asked. “Did she know?”

“Of course not. Becky has no idea…” Stopping abruptly, he paled. “You wouldn't tell her, would you?”

“I might,” I said.

“Please,” he begged. “You don't understand. She really is jealous, and I've been walking on eggshells with that woman for the last month. If she found out about Aggie, she'd blow sky-high. Even with Aggie dead, she'd probably throw me out of the house. What would I do then? End up sleeping down at the Union Gospel Mission? Don't tell her, Detective Beaumont. Please.”

“But what if she already knows?”

In asking the question, I posed it to Malcolm Lawrence and to myself at the same time. He looked stunned. “She couldn't!” he exclaimed.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Just how jealous is she?”

He shook his head. “You're not sayin' that Becky would've…No, you can't mean that.”

With that, he jerked on the leashes. He and the dogs set off for home at a surprisingly swift pace. I climbed back into the Town Car and followed, passing them eventually, and then parallel-parking in front of the Lawrences' house. Getting out of the Town Car I noticed that Agnes Ferman's yard across the street was still sealed off with crime-scene tape.

By the time Lawrence and the dogs arrived, I was standing waiting for them at the end of the sidewalk. “Please don't say nothin' to her,” Lawrence said again. “If you need me to, I'll be glad to testify that the other guy was here that night, the guy in the Lincoln. I can also tell you about the fight he and Agnes had. It was a doozy. Maybe he's the one who come back later and set fire to the place.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “Did you happen to hear what they were arguing about?” I asked.

Malcolm nodded. “Couldn't help but,” he said. “The man called her all kinds of ugly names and a blackmailer besides. He was wrong about that, I'm sure. Aggie was a fine person. A lovin', kind person. She wouldn't ever in a million years do someone that way.”

You'd be surprised,
I thought. I said, “Look, Mr. Lawrence, I've talked to several people in the course of this investigation all of whom knew Agnes Ferman. You happen to be the only one who holds her in high regard. Unless I'm mistaken, your own wife is included in the camp of Agnes Ferman detractors.”

“Becky didn't know Aggie the way I did.”

“I suppose not.”

“You know what I mean. She was nice to me.”

“How nice?” I asked. “What if she had threatened to tell your wife everything that was going on between you? What would have happened then?”

“She never did,” Malcolm insisted. “And she wouldn't have.”

“But what if she had? What would you have done then? Wouldn't you have had to take measures to protect yourself?”

“You mean would I have hurt her? Me? Please, Detective Beaumont. You've got to believe me. Aggie Ferman meant the world to me. I never would have done the least thing to harm her.”

“And your position is that she was fine when you left her home later that night?”

“Absolutely.”

“What time was that? Really, now, Mr. Lawrence. No more lies about being too old to stay up for the eleven o'clock news.”

“Midnight,” he said. “It was midnight when I left.”

“What about vehicles?”

“There was a big Lincoln. A silver Lincoln. The one that guy came and left in.”

“And after he stumbled over your dog…”

“Dogs,” he corrected. “He got tangled with both dogs, but Tuffy's the one he stepped on.”

“After he stepped on Tuffy and left, did he come back?”

“No,” Malcolm said. “Not that I noticed.”

“And when you got back home to your own house, was your wife asleep?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know? Wasn't she in bed when you got there?”

“We don't sleep in the same bedroom,” Malcolm admitted in a small voice. “We haven't for years. When I retired, she told me she was retirin', too. Said she'd still cook and clean for me, but there were some things she wasn't doing anymore. Ever. That's when she moved into the other bedroom.”

“Was that the difference between your wife and Agnes Ferman?” I asked. “Aggie would put out and Becky wouldn't?”

Surprisingly enough, Malcolm Lawrence burst into tears then. Dragging his two dogs with him, he walked over to my rented Town Car and stood leaning against the door, sobbing into his arms. There was nothing for me to do but stand and wait.

“Just because you get old don't mean you dry up,” he said eventually. “Everybody acts like sex is somethin' that just goes away with time, but it don't. Leastwise, it didn't for me. I still wanted it. I begged Becky to see her doctor and find out if there wasn't somethin' she could take, some of them hormones or somethin', that would give her back her sex drive. She told me the only thing wrong with her sex drive was me. Like it was all my fault hers was gone. I did without for a long time, Detective Beaumont. Until just a year or so ago. That's when I hooked up with Aggie.

“I knew it could never be more than what it was, just a quick little squeeze and such after dark when everyone else was asleep. But I have to tell you, Aggie Ferman made me feel like a man again. She made me feel like I counted for somethin' more than just my pension and my social security check.”

“What about Becky?” I asked.

“Yeah,” a voice from behind me said. “What about me?”

Malcolm and I both turned. A few feet away, Becky Lawrence, her hair once again in curlers, stood on the Lawrences' front porch. She was a fairly small woman holding a very large gun—a shotgun.

“Becky,” Lawrence croaked. “What are you doing with that thing? Somebody might get hurt.”

“Somebody's already been hurt,” she said furiously. “And it's me. All I asked of you was a little self-control.”

“But twenty years,” Malcolm argued. “Isn't that asking a lot?”

“You promised to love, honor, and obey,” she said. “I don't remember hearing anything that said you could go running around dropping your dipstick into the nearest honey pot just because you weren't getting any at home. So I fixed it,” Becky added. “Fixed her, anyway. But it seems to me I should have fixed you, too. Put you out of your misery. Ever since Agnes Ferman died you've been moping around here like your best friend was gone and your whole life was over. I aim to see to it that it is.”

As she raised the gun to fire, I had only a split second in which to react. I grabbed Malcolm Lawrence by the arm and pulled him down with me, slamming him facefirst into the gravel. “Crawl!” I commanded. “Go.”

Dragging the dogs along with him, he scrambled under the car. With my nose and face scraping the dirt, I did the same. The explosion came a mere fraction of a second after we both hit the ground.

I know a little about guns and recoil. I expected that first shot to go wild—both high and wide—but it didn't. I heard the potentially lethal spray of buckshot spatter into the side of the car. Heard the windows shatter. With terrified yips, the two dogs scrambled forward, passing Malcolm in the process, until they were pulling him by the leash, rather than the other way around.

Emerging on the far side of the car, I saw Malcolm sitting with his back against the car, holding one hand against his chest and gasping for breath. He had let go of the leashes, and the two dogs were long gone.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“My heart…” he managed. His face had gone gray. He could barely talk. “Pills…” he added. “…in my pocket.” He patted his shirt.

I fumbled the little prescription bottle out of his shirt pocket, fought my way past the childproof lid, and passed him one of the tiny, lifesaving nitro pills. He put it in his mouth and then closed both eyes.

“Malcolm,” I said. “Listen to me. Is that your gun she has?”

He nodded.

“Do you think she fired both barrels at once?”

“No,” he said. “Just one.”

Damn!

For the second time in as many days, I used my cell phone to dial 911. “Nine-one-one,” the operator said. “What are you reporting?”

I raised my head far enough to peer through the driver's-side back window. Becky Lawrence was no longer standing on the front porch. She had taken the shotgun and disappeared into the interior of the house.

“We've got an armed woman barricaded in a house on Wingard Court North,” I told her. “The six-hundred block of Wingard Court North.”

“Sir, that incident has already been reported. Units are on their way…”

“Tell them to send an ambulance as well as patrol cars,” I barked. “I've got a man here suffering chest pains and shortness of breath.”

“And you are?”

I told her who I was.

“And what is your position?” the operator asked.

“We're behind a car that's parked in front of the house,” I told her. “We're pinned down behind a blue Lincoln Town Car with rental plates.”

Just as I said those words, I had a clear vision of the rental agreement. I remembered the line I had initialed, refusing the Loss Damage Waiver. I remembered thinking,
I'm a safe driver. Why would I need that?
Why would I need that indeed! A rental car thoroughly sprayed with shotgun pellets was going to be damned difficult to explain when it came time to return it.

“And the shooter's position?” the operator asked.

“She's gone into the house,” I said. “We can't see her now. She could be anywhere inside.”

By then I could hear sirens. Medic One arrived first but the aid car stopped out on 137th. They waited there for assistance without ever venturing onto Wingard. Behind the aid car came a pair of blue-and-whites. The patrol cars pulled up close behind us and a pair of uniformed officers scrambled out.