Justice Denied (11 page)

“Ask Beau here,” Ross said helpfully. “At this point I’m sure he knows far more about it than I do.”

So I told them what I knew, pretty much. I left out the part about Kendall Jackson working with me on the q.t. as far as attempting to locate Elaine Manning was concerned. If Ross needed deniability, so did Detective Jackson. After all, he still has to survive inside Seattle PD.

The problem was, the more I told the more I could see Mel didn’t like the fact that I had used Beverly’s death as a smoke screen to hide what I was doing.

“I’m still hoping maybe it is a love triangle,” I finished somewhat lamely. “Maybe, when we locate the girlfriend—”

“I hope so, too,” Ross interrupted. “But I’m not holding my breath. You can see why I turned to the two of you, though. I wanted this situation investigated with as little fuss as possible. Of all my people, you two are uniquely situated for keeping something like this quiet.”

Every time the man opened his mouth he made things worse for yours truly.

“Yes,” Mel agreed, sending yet another scathing glance in my direction. “I can certainly see why you might think that.”

I wanted to turn the focus away from us and back onto something less dangerous—like the victims themselves. “What do our dead guys have in common?” I asked. “Were any of them locked up in the same facility?”

“Todd is working on putting together a spreadsheet analysis of all that. As far as facilities are concerned, we have only so many prisons,” Ross said. “Since these guys were all incarcerated at more or less the same time, it stands to reason that some of them would have served time in the same facility. If it turns out they all were, then that’s another story.”

“The irrigation-canal victims were locked up together,” Mel offered. “They were actually cell mates up in Monroe.”

“What about their crimes? Any similarity there?” I asked.

“With the exception of Mr. Tompkins, they’re all multiple offenders,” Ross replied. “Their crimes run the gamut of your regular felonies—grand theft auto, armed robbery, bank robbery. You name it, they did it.”

“What about gang affiliations?” Mel asked.

Connors shrugged. “They all had some, of course. If they didn’t have them when they went into prison, they sure as hell did when they came out. That’s one of the things Todd assures me he’s great at, data mining—once he has it. That’s where you come in, Mel. You’ll need to gather up all the information we have on these offenders from all applicable jurisdictions so Todd will be able to organize the information for us. Once we look at all the cases together, we may find there are common denominators, details no one has noticed.”

Ross Connors reached for the bottle and emptied it into his own glass without offering any to Mel. I knew he was drinking way too much way too fast. I was glad he had a driver.

“I count ten victims so far,” Mel said. “It seems to me that’s worthy of a task-force approach. If it comes to light that you’ve only put three investigators on this and one of them is an economist
instead of a cop, it’s not going to sound like you’re taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I’m serious, all right,” Ross said. “Very serious. What I’m hoping is that the two of you will point me in the right direction. If it turns out our prime suspect is a cop, let me know.”

“There’s more than one state involved,” Mel pointed out.

“I know all that,” Ross said impatiently. “As I said, I’ll call in the feds when it’s time—once I understand the full extent of the problem.”

I had always respected Ross Connors. Politics had always been one of his considerations, but never the top one. This time things were different and I wondered why.

“I still think we need a task force,” Mel insisted.

“We’re already dealing with a task force,” Ross returned. “A task force of killers—a syndicate, if you like. If they’re plugged into in the law enforcement community, as soon as we start putting together a large-scale investigation, they’ll know what we’re doing and when we’re doing it. At that point they’ll go to ground, and we’ll never find them.”

With that, Ross rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll call Harry in the morning,” he said. “Tell him that you two are working a special project for me for the foreseeable future. And, considering the situation, it might be better if you worked from home instead of the office.”

Control freak Harry I. Ball was going to love that.

Mel escorted Ross downstairs in the elevator and hooked him back up with his car and driver. When she returned, just as I expected, she took me to the woodshed over the Tompkins situation.

“Maybe you’d better tell me about your friend LaShawn,” she said. “This time don’t leave anything out.”

I have no idea how she knew I had left something out, but she did. And so I told her the whole story, including the parts about working sub rosa with Detective Kendall Jackson. I expected all hell would break loose, but it didn’t. When I finished, Mel stood up and stretched. “Time to go night-night,” she said. “This turned into a hell of a day, and tomorrow isn’t going to be any better.”

A little while later we were lying in bed. I was almost asleep when Mel said, “So how do you feel about all this?”

Even half asleep and without having any idea of the actual topic of discussion, I was smart enough to recognize this as a trick question—almost as volatile as the age-old “Do I look fat in this?”

“Feel?” I asked dimly.

“About our being partners,” she said. “That was the first thing Barbara Galvin told me about you when I showed up at SHIT. She said, ‘Beau doesn’t work with partners.’ Of course, we already did that once—unofficially, yes. But it sounds to me as though this time Ross is making it official—in an under-the-table kind of way.”

Mel was right about my wanting to avoid investigative partnerships. During my time in Homicide at Seattle PD, I felt I had been exceptionally hard on partners. Ron Peters and Big Al Lindstrom had both sustained line-of-duty life-changing injuries. Much later, Sue Danielson had died in a hail of bullets. In all three instances subsequent departmental inquiries had exonerated me of any fault. Officially, Seattle PD had concluded that I was blameless. Undeterred by facts and official findings, however, I had continued to hold myself accountable in each and
every instance. As far as I was concerned, my partners’ biggest problem—their single common liability—had been their star-crossed association with me.

My relationship with Melissa Soames, however, was entirely different from the ones I had shared with each of those other partners. For one thing, I sure as hell hadn’t been in love with Ron Peters and Big Al Lindstrom. I hadn’t been in love with Sue, either. I had felt protective of her, had wanted to be her mentor, but there had never been any romantic overtones on my part or hers.

But I definitely was in love with Mel. On the surface of it, that should have made me that much more reluctant to put her in any danger. But I had seen how Mel reacted when she was under fire. I knew that if things got tough I could trust her implicitly. When you’re out in the real world dodging bullets, it doesn’t get any better than that.

“Ross Connors is a little behind the times,” I said, pulling her close. “We were partners long before he got around to saying so.”

W
hen you awaken to the enticing smell of freshly brewed coffee it’s easy to think that all’s right with the world. Mel’s side of the bed was cool to the touch. There was a hint of floral fragrance lingering beneath the aroma of coffee. That would be her shampoo. So Mel had been up long enough to shower and make coffee. I got up and wandered out into the dining room, where I found my two daily crossword puzzle pages, removed them from their (for me) completely extraneous newspapers, and laid them out on the dining room table. Mel came down the hall a moment after I poured my first mug of coffee. She was fully dressed.

“I’m going to go see Lenny,” she announced, slipping on a pair of low-heeled pumps.

I knew that meant she was on her way to visit the crime scene folks at King County to check out the missing-bullet situation.

“I’ve talked to Todd,” she added. “He’s on his way here.”

“Here?” I’m sure I sounded more than a bit territorial. After all, a man’s home is his castle, and the idea of having an itinerant economist show up on my doorstep along with my first cup of coffee did not compute.

“Yes, here. Ross doesn’t want us working on this in the office, remember? Todd’s bringing abstracts of the files on all the cases Ross mentioned last night, and the ones on my list, too.”

“Has anybody told Harry about our new working arrangements?”

“Already handled,” Mel said with a smile. “Ross took care of that bright and early this morning. What about the kids? Have you heard anything from them?”

“As far as I know they’re sightseeing today.”

“So you’re off ‘Gumpa’ duty?” she asked.

“Looks like,” I said.

She gave me a good-bye kiss and left, steaming travel cup firmly in hand. We Seattleites don’t go anywhere or do anything without our personal jolt of java.

Able to ignore the cross-lake traffic reports for once, I settled in at the table with my own hit of caffeine. I doubted Ross Connors would begrudge me the time it would take for me to whip through the Friday
New York Times
puzzle. I was making excellent progress when my cell phone rang. I figured it was either Mel, who had forgotten something, or else the kids, who had decided they wanted to take me up on my offer to buy breakfast after all, but the number wasn’t one I recognized.

“Mr….” It was a male voice—a relatively young male voice. “Beaumont,” he said uncertainly, butchering my name by pronouncing the “Beau” part the same way you’d say the B-U in “Butte” instead of the way it’s supposed to be pronounced, Beau as in “go.” If this had been my landline phone, I would have expected to hear a recorded spiel offering to sell me vinyl siding for my nonexistent house or to pick up my household castoffs to benefit the blind. But this was my cell phone. Solicitation calls aren’t supposed to intrude on my cell phone minutes.

“The name is Beaumont,” I said, pronouncing it properly for him but all the while trying to sound as cantankerous and off-putting as possible.

“My name’s Donald,” he said nervously. “Donnie, actually. Donnie Cosgrove. I think you talked to my wife earlier this week.”

Was that just this week?
I wondered. So much had happened that it seemed eons ago, but I realized it had only been a few days earlier, on Monday, when I had stopped by the Cosgroves’ neat little Redmond rambler.

“Of course,” I said, at once modifying my tone. “DeAnn. What can I do for you, Mr. Cosgrove?”

“I told her I was going to go clean the jerk’s clock, but DeAnn begged me to talk to you instead.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Jack,” he said. “Jack Lawrence, DeAnn’s stepfather. He came roaring through here yesterday while I was at work, yelling and raising hell. Woke the kids up in the middle of their naps. Threw our whole household into an uproar.”

“What was he upset about?” I asked.

“That DeAnn had talked to you. Wanted to know how dare
she bring this back up after all these years. Told her she should learn to mind her own damn business and let sleeping dogs lie. Didn’t she know when she was well off. Stuff like that. Can you believe it?” Cosgrove demanded, his voice shaking in outrage. “He actually said that to her about her father—called him a ‘sleeping dog’! And in our own home, too.”

I gave Cosgrove a moment to get a grip on his emotions before asking, “You’re saying Mr. Lawrence seemed to think your wife had something to do with instigating our renewed interest in Anthony Cosgrove’s disappearance?”

“Evidently.”

“How did he find out about it?”

“DeAnn called her mother to see if you had contacted them. Carol is DeAnn’s mother, after all, so we try to maintain some kind of normal relationship with her—as normal as you can with a nutcase like Jack lurking in the background. Carol said you hadn’t called or stopped by, or at least not yet, but she must have mentioned the conversation to Jack. He hit the roof and drove all the way down from Leavenworth to bitch DeAnn out about it. I just wish I’d been there when it happened, but of course Lawrence is such a coward, he’d never tackle someone like me. He’d rather terrorize DeAnn and the kids.”

“Maybe you should consider swearing out a restraining order against him,” I suggested.

“What good would a piece of paper do?” Cosgrove wanted to know.

“For one thing, if he came back and caused trouble, DeAnn could call the cops and have him put in jail.”

“I’ve read about what happens to women with restraining orders,” Cosgrove said bitterly. “A lot of them end up dead.”

“Has your father-in-law been violent toward DeAnn in the past?” I asked.

“Why do you think she moved out of the house when she was in high school?” Donnie returned. “That’s why she went to live with her grandmother.”

“What about his wife?” I asked. “Does he beat her, too?”

“I’m not sure. She hasn’t ever come right out and said so,” Donnie conceded, “but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. She’s shown up with oddball bruises from time to time, but she always has one lame excuse or another for what’s happened to her.”

Domestic-violence victims almost always have excuses,
I thought.
They don’t want to say what has really happened to them, probably because they don’t think people will believe them, or maybe because they’re afraid they will.

“Anyway,” Donnie continued, “the man’s scary as hell. What I don’t understand is why your looking into Tony’s disappearance all those years ago would send Jack off the deep end.”

Observed over-or underreactions on the part of near and dear relatives or even those who are near and not-so-dear always raise red flags for homicide detectives. They indicate that something is out of whack with the relationship—that all isn’t as it should be. In this case I couldn’t help but be struck by Jack Lawrence’s over-the-top response to learning that we were reexamining a case that, on the surface, had opened and closed twenty years ago.

“What can you tell me about the man?” I asked.

“About Jack? You mean other than the fact that he’s an asshole and a bully?” Cosgrove returned.

“Other than that.”

“Jack Lawrence is a my-way-or-the-highway kind of guy,”
Donnie answered. “Ex-marine. Tough as nails. Very opinionated. Always knows everything about everything. I can’t stand the guy and don’t want him in my house. And up until yesterday, he never had been. Like I said, we’ve tried to maintain a relationship with Carol, but Carol without Jack. Just being around him upsets DeAnn too much.”

“Is there a chance that Jack is distressed about our investigating Tony Cosgrove’s disappearance because he was somehow involved in it?”

There was a long pause before Donnie answered. “Maybe,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ve heard rumors that Jack and Carol were romantically involved long before Tony went fishing at Spirit Lake. It always struck me as a little too convenient that Tony disappears and the next thing you know, Jack and Carol are a couple. But it all happened long before I was part of the picture. When I heard the rumors I kept quiet about them for DeAnn’s sake.”

“You don’t accept as fact the idea that Tony Cosgrove died in the eruption?” I asked.

“Not really,” Donnie said. “It never made sense to me that a man who hardly ever went fishing would just happen to be doing that very thing on Spirit Lake the day the mountain blew up. And I always thought it was strange that nobody ever turned up even the smallest trace of him or his vehicle. When vehicles get burned up or when people do, there are usually some traces—some little bits and pieces—that are left behind.”

I had to agree with him there. The destruction of the World Trade Center came to mind.

“A few years ago,” Donnie continued, “I happened to see a
program on TV about a similar case, one that took place somewhere back east—in Chicago, I think.”

“They have volcanoes in Chicago?” I asked.

Donnie paused uncertainly. Then, realizing I was attempting a halfhearted joke, he allowed himself a hint of a chuckle. “No, it’s just that a woman was murdered on the same day an airliner went down in that same general area. I think the jet was flying out of O’Hare. The killer tried to maintain that the dead woman had been a passenger on the plane, but the airline didn’t have any record of her because she’d never been on the plane in the first place. She was already dead.”

“If you don’t buy the official story about Tony Cosgrove’s disappearance,” I said, “have you ever tried to do anything about it?”

“I don’t make a big deal of it, but I do check with people down at the Mount Saint Helens Visitor Center from time to time,” Donnie answered. “Just in case—just to make sure nothing’s turned up in the meantime. I guess the last I spoke to them was months ago—last summer sometime. The mountain had started burping again, and there was a lot more interest in it than there had been previously. I thought that maybe, with a lot more activity and attention, someone might stumble across something of Tony’s—if there was anything to find.”

“But there wasn’t.”

“Not so far.”

“Does your wife know you’ve been making those kinds of inquiries?” I asked.

Donnie Cosgrove sighed. “No,” he said. “I never mentioned it to her.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to get her hopes up,” he said. “Or kill them, either. There’s a part of DeAnn, the little-girl part, who believes Tony Cosgrove is still alive and that someday he’s going to turn up—that one fine morning she’ll open our front door and he’ll be standing on the front porch.”

I knew Donnie was right on that score. I, too, had heard the unrealistic longings—the dreamy wishful thinking of an abandoned little girl in DeAnn Cosgrove’s voice. No doubt that had been the overriding consideration behind her wanting to keep her maiden name.

“I believe DeAnn mentioned something to me about Jack Lawrence working for Boeing at about the same time her parents were there,” I said. “Was that the case?”

Donnie nodded. “Tony started working there sometime in the late sixties or early seventies. That’s where he and Carol met, at some kind of company event—a Christmas party, maybe. Jack turned up later. After retiring from a twenty-year hitch in the military, he hired on with Boeing in sales. Carol ended up being his secretary.”

“Carol told you this or DeAnn?” I asked.

“Neither one,” Donnie answered. “I worked for Boeing for a little while back when I first got my degree and before I moved over to Fluke, which is where I am now. But back then, when people at Boeing heard I was the guy who had married Tony Cosgrove’s daughter, a couple of them took me aside and hinted around that maybe Tony’s disappearance wasn’t an act of nature after all; that maybe someone should have taken a closer look at what was going on at the time he disappeared.”

“Did you ever ask anyone to look into it?” I asked.

“No. I was just out of school and new on the job. I couldn’t
afford to risk drawing attention—rocking-the-boat kind of attention. So other than talking to the folks down at Mount Saint Helens periodically, I haven’t dared raise the issue.”

“Why not?”

“Despite what people think, the aerospace industry is actually a surprisingly small, closely knit group, and these days electronics engineers are a dime a dozen, especially in India. That’s why I’m calling you on my cell, Mr. Beaumont. And not from my office, either. But to have Jack come charging into the house the way he did yesterday…was just…too much.”

That’s about when I figured it out. Donnie Cosgrove was upset that his father-in-law had stopped by and raised hell with DeAnn, but Donnie wanted someone else to do something about it—namely me. The fact of the matter is, raising hell with scumbags is a big part of my job description.

“I’m glad you called,” I told him. “This is all very interesting, and I’ll be looking into it. Do you happen to remember the names of any of the people who talked to you back then about Tony Cosgrove’s disappearance?”

“Not offhand,” Donnie said. “It was just sort of break-room BS. I’ll think about it, though. If I remember anyone in particular I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do that.”

But by then I was already one step ahead of him. I had read the article in
Electronics Engineering Journal,
and I had a pretty good idea that a “defense analyst” named Thomas Dortman had been one of Anthony Cosgrove’s coworkers at Boeing in the late seventies and early eighties. All I had to do was track him down.

“So what are you going to do now?” Donnie asked. “Will you go talk to him?”

For a moment I thought Donnie was asking if I was going to talk to Dortman. Then I realized he was actually referring to his erstwhile father-in-law—stepfather-in-law—Jack Lawrence.

“I’m sure I will eventually,” I assured him. “But not until after I check out a few things first.”

“And you’ll let us know what you find out?” Donnie asked. “I mean, you’ll let DeAnn know?”

“Believe me,” I told him, “I’ll let you both know.”

Call-waiting buzzed just then. I ended the call with Donnie Cosgrove.

“Mr. Hatcher to see you,” the doorman announced when I switched to the other line.