Minor in Possession (5 page)

Desperately my mind swung back and forth as I tried to decide on the best path to follow, given the incriminating circumstances. It seemed as though I'd be better off making full disclosure right away than I would be letting Deputy Hanson find out about the gun later—the recently fired gun with my fingerprints on it and hopefully the killer's as well. If I told Hanson first, it might look a little less as though I was withholding information.

“Deputy Hanson,” I said quietly, “you should probably know that my departmental issue .38 is locked in the glove box.”

The startled look on Deputy Hanson's face confirmed my worst suspicions. Joey Rothman hadn't drowned. Somebody had plugged him. And I knew with dead certainty that the murder weapon had to be my very own Smith and Wesson.

Just then I heard the sound of laughter and approaching voices. Finished with the Round Robins, early morning Group had broken up. Family
members from my session and others were on their way to an outlying portable, this one a new addition across the parking lot. The group had to pass down the aisle directly in front of where Deputy Hanson and I were standing.

Several people gave us curious glances as they went by. Kelly walked past without acknowledging my existence. Karen nodded but didn't stop. Scott walked past but then turned and came back, frowning.

“Dad, is something wrong?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I'm fine. It's nothing.”

Scott smiled. “Good,” he said. He started away again, but stopped once more. “I just wanted to tell you in there that it's all right. Kelly's a spoiled brat. She carries on like that all the time, and Dave and Mom let her get away with it. You know how it works.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“And I…” Scott paused.

“You what?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I love you,” he said.

The lump returned to my throat. I grabbed Scott then, right there in the parking lot with a puzzled Deputy Hanson looking on, and held him tightly against me, feeling his strong young body next to mine, marveling at how tall my little boy had grown, how well built and capable.

“I needed that, Scotty,” I said at last, when I could talk again. “You've no idea how badly I needed that.”

D
espite the extraordinary circumstances, Louise Crenshaw sent word through her secretary that I was to return to Group until the sheriff's department investigators were ready to speak to me. Deputy Hanson reluctantly agreed to let me leave the parking lot only after cautioning me not to mention Joey Rothman's death to anyone at all until after a decision had been made on an official announcement.

Bearing that in mind, I returned to our portable where Burton Joe was leading the client group through a meandering discussion about denial and its impact on dysfunctional, chemically dependent families. The bottom line revolved around the catch-22 that denying you have the disease of alcoholism is in and of itself a symptom of the disease. Naturally, until you admit you have a problem, you can't fix the problem. According to Burton Joe, breaking through denial is a major step on the road to recovery.

I've heard it before, and I must confess I didn't pay very close attention during the remainder of
the morning. My mind wandered. There was no denying I had a problem all right. Regardless of the fact that the weapon belonged to me, the presence of my fingerprints as the most recent prints on a possible murder weapon clearly posed a very touchy problem, one that had nothing to do with alcoholism or liver disease, although I'd say that in terms of potential for long-term damage it rivals either one.

I could feel myself being sucked inevitably into the vortex of circumstances surrounding Joey Rothman's death. If any homicide cop worth his salt started asking questions, it wouldn't take much effort to discover that J. P. Beaumont had both motive and opportunity. I took small comfort from the fact that all the circumstantial evidence pointing at me also pointed at Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. (In the course of the long night and longer morning, his official title and rank had surfaced in my memory.) Whatever fatherly motive I might have had, Owens had more. In spades. Kelly Beaumont wasn't pregnant. Michelle Owens was.

Blocking out Burton Joe's psycho-babble, I wondered about the official time of death. Lacking that critical piece of information, I couldn't assess exactly how much trouble I was in. If the coroner happened to declare that the murder occurred while Guy Owens and I were together in the cabin, then life would be good. Each of us could provide the other with an airtight alibi.

But if Joey Rothman died later than that, I
thought uneasily, if the autopsy indicated that the crime occurred sometime after Guy Owens left my cabin and before I went to see Lucy Washington and to report the problem with my car, that would be a white horse of a different color.

Around eleven o'clock, Nina Davis came to the door of the portable and crooked a summoning finger in my direction. Annoyed at the barrage of unexplained interruptions, Burton Joe nonetheless nodded that I could go. I followed Nina out the door, wondering why Louise had once more sent her secretary instead of coming herself. This was exactly the kind of one-woman show Louise did so well, playing the part of a
grande dame
puppet master, jerking the strings of anyone dumb enough to let her.

But even outside, Louise Crenshaw was no where in sight. Instead, waiting on the path was an attractive Mexican-American woman in her mid-thirties. Nina Davis introduced her as Yavapai County Sheriff's Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales.

I've survived a good portion of my career in the fuzzy world of affirmative action. Years of departmental consciousness-raising seminars have taught me better manners than to call women girls, especially not the ladies who make their way up through the law enforcement ranks and land on their feet in detective divisions.

The female detectives with the Seattle police are women who definitely carry their own weight. Although I can't say the trail-blazers have always
been welcomed with open arms, they've done all right for themselves and for the department as well, because the ones who really make it in a man's world, quotas notwithstanding, have to be smart and capable both.

Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales seemed to qualify on both counts. She was only about five six, slim and olive-skinned, but I sensed tensile strength packed in that slender body. Lustrous ebony curls were pulled away from her face while silver earrings dangled from each delicate earlobe. She was far and away the prettiest and most exotic detective I've ever seen, but there was nothing frivolous about her dignified carriage. Her brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and purpose.

Delcia Reyes-Gonzales inclined her head and held out her hand, acknowledging Nina's introduction. She smiled slightly, revealing a row of straight white teeth.

“Sorry to disturb your session,” she said. “Hopefully this won't take too long.”

“No problem,” I replied. “I was getting a little antsy in there. Can I do anything to help?”

“We'd like to go through your cabin, if you don't mind, since it belonged to you as well as the deceased. We'll need to search your vehicle as well since presumably he was in it shorty before he died.

“I have someone standing by in Prescott ready to obtain search warrants if necessary, but that will take several hours. In the meantime, I have a Consent-to-Search form here. If you'd be so good
as to sign that, it would certainly speed things up.”

“I don't mind at all,” I said. “Hand it over.”

The detective withdrew the consent form from a maroon leather briefcase and handed it to me. Using the case as a writing surface, I signed the paper on the spot.

“I suppose you've already called in a crime scene team,” I commented, passing the signed paper back to her.

Detective Reyes-Gonzales shook her head. “We do our own crime scene work,” she replied, “although the state crime lab in Phoenix does the actual analysis. This way, please, Detective Beaumont. We're to use Mrs. Crenshaw's office. Mr. Crenshaw will be making the official announcement as soon as people come to the dining hall for lunch.”

In the course of the morning a new bank of lowering clouds had blown in from the west. Now it began sprinkling in earnest. Walking briskly through the spattering rain, Detective Reyes-Gonzales led the way up the path to the main building, through the deserted dining room, and down the tiled hallway to Louise Crenshaw's office. She opened the door without knocking and motioned me into a chair before pausing to speak briefly to someone who had followed us down the hall. Finished with that, Detective Reyes-Gonzales closed the door firmly behind her, then settled herself easily into Louise Crenshaw's executive chair.

“I take it things weren't particularly cordial between you and your roommate, Detective Beaumont,” she said, opening our discussion with both a shrewd statement and an equally disarming smile. That's a killer combination for a detective—one few male detectives ever master. It did as expected and suckered me right into talking when I probably should have been listening.

“‘Not cordial' isn't the expression I'd use,” I replied shortly. “Joey Rothman was a punk kid. I've never liked punk kids.”

“Tell me a little about him,” she said. “For instance, what do you mean by the term ‘punk kid'?”

“You know the type—a spoiled brat. His family has way more money than good sense. He was a braggart, especially where women were concerned. Claimed he could screw anything in skirts. And then, there were all those rumors.”

Detective Reyes-Gonzales seemed to become more alert. “What rumors?”

I had opened my mouth and inserted my foot. “About him being a hotshot drug dealer,” I answered. “Legend has it that he was a big-time operator, that he was still dealing right here at Ironwood Ranch.”

The detective arched one delicate eyebrow. “You're saying he was still dealing while a patient at the recovery center?”

“As I said, that was only a rumor. I'd take it with a grain of salt if I were you.”

“Why?”

“I'm telling you, Joey Rothman was a braggart. He thrived on attention. Bad attention, good attention, it was all the same to him. Joey knew I was a cop. I wouldn't be surprised if he started that rumor himself just to see if I'd try to do anything about it.”

“Did you?”

“I ignored him as much as possible. I'm not here dropping a grand and a half a week to play games of cops and robbers with some young twerp. Joey and I shared the same cabin, but that's as far as it went. I kept away from him except when absolutely necessary.”

“What happened last night? I understand from one or two people I've talked to that there was some kind of problem in the dining room just before your family went back into town to their motel.”

That was a lie. The detective hadn't talked to one or two people to get that piece of information. She had only talked to one—Louise Crenshaw herself. I remembered the disapproving glare Louise had leveled at me as she walked by Kelly and me just when our battle over Joey Rothman was reaching fever pitch.

“He was messing around with my daughter. Kelly's only seventeen. He was leading her on when he'd already—”

I broke off, but too late. Detective Reyes-Gonzales was on point. “When he'd already what?” she asked sharply.

Lamely I shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose by
now you know all about Michelle Owens.”

“What do
you
know about Michelle Owens?” Detective Reyes-Gonzales returned.

“That she's pregnant and claims Joey Rothman is the father.”

“And how do you know so much about it? Did Joey tell you?”

“Are you kidding? Of course not. I talked to Guy Owens, Michelle's father.”

“After he got the results back from the doctor?”

Clearly, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had already done a considerable amount of homework among the players.

“Yes,” I answered. “After he got the results.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where did you talk to him?”

“At the cabin. Joey's and my cabin. Guy came there looking for Joey.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“After lights-out?”

“Yes.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I don't know. It must have been around midnight. Maybe a little later.”

“And then what happened?”

“I kept waiting for Joey to come in, but I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up around four-thirty, that's when I discovered the car keys were missing.”

“And?” she prompted.

“I went up to the parking lot, expecting the car to be gone, but it wasn't. It was parked right where it is now. The keys were in the ignition.”

“You should have turned your gun in to the treatment center when you checked into Ironwood Ranch four weeks ago. It shouldn't have been left in the vehicle.”

Detective Reyes-Gonzales was no longer smiling. Deputy Hanson had already told her about the Smith and Wesson in the glove box, and her understated reprimand was well deserved.

“I know. I've been telling myself the same thing over and over all morning long. I just didn't, that's all. No good reason for it either except that we've been through the wars together, that .38 and I. Maybe I'm paranoid. I don't feel comfortable if I can't get to it if I want to. If I need to. You know how it is.”

From the level, detached look she gave me, I wasn't at all sure Detective Reyes-Gonzales did know how it was. Maybe female cops don't have the same kind of meaningful relationship with their weapons that male cops do. Maybe they don't have to.

There was a sharp rap on the door behind me. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened to reveal Deputy Mike Hanson standing outside, waiting anxiously for the door to open. “Excuse me, Delcy, but could I have a word with you?”

Detective Reyes-Gonzales stood up. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“Not at all. Go right ahead.”

She stepped outside and closed the door. For several moments I could hear them speaking urgently back and forth. When she came back into the room, Delcia Reyes-Gonzales was frowning.

“I'm afraid something's come up, Detective Beaumont,” she said. “We're going to have to go check it out. Can we finish this interview later?”

It was my turn to smile. “I'm not going anywhere,” I answered. “What about fingerprints? The deputy said you'd want a set of mine for comparison.”

Detective Reyes-Gonzales nodded, but absently, as though she wasn't really listening. “That will have to wait. This is more important at the moment. It's almost lunchtime. I'll get back to you later this afternoon.” She went out and closed the door then reopened it far enough to stick her head back inside.

“And if you don't mind, Detective Beaumont,” she added, “stay away from your cabin until after we finish searching it, would you?”

“Of course.”

She hurried away then, leaving me sitting alone in Louise Crenshaw's office. It was only a few hours since I had been in that room, but I felt as though the major part of a lifetime had passed. When I had come in that morning, it had been because I was pissed that Joey Rothman had taken my car. Now Joey Rothman was dead. Shot dead with my very own .38. Nobody had mentioned that outright. Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had hinted at
it, in a roundabout way. Sooner or later she'd come back to it head-on. If she was any kind of detective at all, she'd have to.

An ominous feeling of apprehension washed over me. I couldn't help wondering what urgent piece of business had summoned Detective Reyes-Gonzales away from her interview with me. It had to be something of vital importance concerning Joey Rothman's death. Homicide detectives don't break up those sensitive initial interviews with material witnesses unless there's some over-whelmingly compelling reason.

I desperately wanted to know what the hell that reason was, but Detective Reyes-Gonzales wasn't going to tell me, and nobody else would, either, because on this alien Arizona turf, J. P. Beaumont wasn't a detective at all. He was an outsider—a visiting fireman without benefit of boots, jacket, or water hose.