Authors: JA Jance
“She was married, then?” I asked in a near whisper. “Is there a husband?”
“A husband and two teenage daughters,” Ron said. “I’m sorry, Beau, but you can’t take this personally.”
The hell I couldn’t, and I did.
I
t’s no surprise that I didn’t sleep at all the rest of the night, and I didn’t ask for any pain meds, either. Detective Delilah Ainsworth had died at 11:00
P.M.
—at the end of the second watch. No matter what Ron Peters said to the contrary, her death was my fault, pure and simple. I hadn’t pulled the trigger. In fact, I had told her specifically not to go see Mac alone, but maybe telling someone like Delilah that she shouldn’t do something was tantamount to making sure it happened. As for who had insisted on reopening the Monica Wellington case? That was on me, too. So now a husband had lost his wife and two girls would grow up without a mother. I wasn’t just sick at heart. I was furious.
I didn’t call Mel. Instead, I spent the night plotting my escape from the hospital. New knees be damned, I wanted to be feet on the ground in the investigation into Delilah’s death. In order to do that, I had to be out of the hospital and in a vehicle with someone else at the wheel. In the old days, I would have turned to Lars, but he had finally been forced to give up his car keys. With both Mel and Lars out of the picture, I needed to find someone else.
Belltown Terrace is blessed with round-the-clock doormen. They are founts of knowledge when it comes to things the residents of the building might need—dog walkers, babysitters, plumbers, window washers, best sources of takeout fast food, best shuttle drivers, and best cabdrivers. You name it, doormen know it. My favorite doorman, Bob, comes on duty at eight in the morning. I was on the phone with him at 8:01.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Beaumont,” he said cordially. “How are things going in the new knees department?” Bob knew whereof he spoke because he had his own set of titanium knees. It turns out there are lots of those around these days.
“I’m doing fine,” I said. “My doc says he’s willing to let me come home later today, but I need to have someone there to look out for me for the next few days. The problem is, Mel is currently out of town.”
“Yes,” he said. “Someone came by to pick up some extra clothing for her yesterday. Is there something I can do to help?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare RN running around, would you?” I asked.
Bob thought about that for a minute. “Maybe,” he said. “My wife has a friend who’s a retired RN, but she occasionally does at-home care for people coming out of the hospital. Is that the kind of help you’re looking for?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Her name is Marge Herndon,” he said. “The problem is, she’s not exactly everybody’s cup of tea.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s bossy and opinionated.”
“Can she drive?” I asked.
“She does drive,” Bob said wryly. “Whether she can drive is another question. Do you want me to give her a call?”
“Please. Tell her I’m offering five hundred a day. The deal is, when the doctor cuts me loose, she agrees to come here to the hospital to pick me up. Then I’d like her to stick around doing whatever needs doing for the next several days—until I no longer need her or until Mel gets back, whichever comes first.”
“If I can reach her and if she’s interested, what should I do?”
“Have her call me,” I said. “Give her this number.”
Twenty minutes later, I was watching the local news for any breaking information on the Sammamish situation. I was also halfway through breakfast when the phone rang.
“Mr. Beaumont? Marge Herndon here.” Hers was a grating voice, not unlike nails on a blackboard, but I needed someone who was capable a whole lot more than I needed soft, dulcet tones. “Bob said you were recovering from knee replacement, needed some home health assistance, and that I should call if I was interested, and I am. When do you want me to start?”
“As soon as I can get the doctor to let me go. He would have done it yesterday, but I didn’t have someone to backstop me. So today, maybe?”
“This is my cell,” she said. “Call when you’re ready. And one more thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Bob tells me your wife is currently out of town. You need to know that I won’t tolerate any nonsense in the hanky-panky department. Understood?”
About that time, any form of hanky-panky was way at the bottom of my to-do list. “Got it,” I said. “What about a vehicle? Do you have one?”
“I drive a Honda Accord. Why?”
“I anticipate that we’ll be doing some driving,” I said. “You can either keep track of your mileage and I can reimburse you for using your vehicle, or you can drive mine.”
“Assuming the doctor actually releases you, we’ll use mine for today and see how it goes,” she said.
That made sense to me. The news team switched to a live feed from Sammamish, and I wanted to hear what was being said. “Sorry,” I told her. “I have to go.”
As soon as she was gone, I used the remote to turn up the volume. A young news reporter, a blonde who looked more like a high school cheerleader than anything else, stood with microphone in hand. In the background was a suburban-looking house with a ribbon of crime scene tape wrapped around a front porch that came complete with a wheelchair ramp and a wooden swing.
“Until today, the City of Sammamish had never had a murder inside the city limits. That has changed this morning with two people dead overnight in what is being termed an apparent murder/suicide at the home of a still unidentified man here in Sammamish. According to the King County Sheriff’s Department, the shooter is reported to be a retired longtime member of the Seattle Police Department. The female victim is believed to be a current officer with Seattle PD. At this point we have no information about what the relationship was between the two, nor do we have any idea about a possible motive.
“The shooting took place last night. A neighbor reported hearing what he thought was a single gunshot, but he was unable to determine where it had come from. Much later there were reports of what was thought to be a second gunshot, but when there was no further sign of any disturbance in the neighborhood, people assumed that the sounds they had heard had either been backfires or someone setting off fireworks.
“Hours later, when no one was able to raise the female officer on her radio, officers in Sammamish were sent to her last known location to do a welfare check. The female officer was found dead in the living room of the home you see behind me. The presumed shooter, said to be a double amputee, was found in the garage of the home where a vehicle had been left running.
“At the time he was found, the second victim, the alleged shooter, was still alive, but he died a short time later of what was most likely carbon monoxide poisoning. He was pronounced dead on arrival at a local hospital. Because the City of Sammamish doesn’t have its own Homicide squad, the King County Sheriff’s Department is conducting the investigation. We expect to have more details once next of kin notifications have been made. A press conference has been scheduled at the Sammamish City Hall for eleven o’clock this morning.”
That’s where the live feed ended. Back in the station, the anchors turned to a story about an ongoing teacher’s strike. I tried switching to several other stations, but by then they had moved on to weather and sports. When the attendant came to collect my breakfast tray, I asked her to send both the PT and OT teams in early. I didn’t want to miss Dr. Auld’s possible visit because I was down in the gym walking laps or climbing fake stairs.
Mel didn’t call until after I was back in bed. “I’m on my way to Lake Stevens,” she said. “We’ve had a tip that Aspen may be holed up at her mother’s place there. The tip came in late last night, but we weren’t able to get a warrant until now.”
She was on point. I could hear the excitement in her voice. What I wanted to say was, “Don’t go. Don’t put yourself in jeopardy.” But I couldn’t say that, and I didn’t. She wouldn’t have paid any more attention than Delilah Ainsworth had.
“Be careful,” I said.
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “We’re going in with a whole takedown team.”
“Is the girlfriend armed?”
Mel paused. “Maybe,” she said. “We don’t know that for sure, but yes, I’ll be careful. How are you?”
How was I? Sick at heart. Beyond frustrated. Mad as hell. All of the above.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“How’d you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement by my door as Ron Peters rolled his wheelchair into the room.
“Oops,” I told Mel. “Someone’s here. Gotta go.”
Ron looked as gray and grim as I ever remember seeing him except for maybe when he was in the hospital and coming to terms with the idea that he would most likely never walk again.
“What happened?” I asked.
“As near as we can tell, Detective Ainsworth showed up at Mac MacPherson’s house. He let her into the house and then gunned her down just inside the front door, with no advance warning. Took her out with one shot. She never had a chance to draw her weapon. Then he pulled the plug by going out into his garage, turning on the engine in his car, and letting it idle.
“After you called me, when Detective Ainsworth didn’t respond to a radio summons, I called Sammamish and asked them to send officers to Rory MacPherson’s house to do a welfare check. They told me that Detective Ainsworth’s car was parked outside. When they knocked and got no answer, they went inside. They found Detective Ainsworth dead in the living room. MacPherson was in the garage, sitting in his wheelchair with the car engine running. He was unconscious, presumably from carbon monoxide poisoning. They found what is believed to be the weapon used to kill Ainsworth still in his lap.”
“Did he leave a note?”
Ron shook his head. “Not that we’ve found so far. There was a computer in the house. He might have left something on that, but it’ll take time to access it. First we have to get a warrant, and then we’ll need to work around whatever password protection he had. There was plenty of evidence that MacPherson had been drinking heavily for some time, probably for months on end. According to neighbors, other than going to the store, he had barely left the house since his wife moved out and divorced him a year or so ago. There were piles of garbage bags full of empty booze bottles stacked along one wall of the garage. It looks as though his drink of choice was vodka, and he didn’t bother diluting it with mixers.
“So that’s what I know,” Ron finished. “What can you tell me?”
I told him everything Delilah had told me—that the evidence in the Wellington case had disappeared and that the HR records for April 2, 1973—the day of Mac’s and my unanticipated promotions—had been expunged. I also told him about Mac’s furious phone call to me after Delilah’s initial visit.
When I finished, Ron let his breath out in a long sigh. “Okay, then,” he said. “I’m going to have to bring in Internal Affairs. Someone way up in the food chain has something to hide, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” I offered.
Ron shook his head. “No,” he said. “Other than being interviewed as needed, you won’t be involved. As of this moment, you’re out of this. Completely.”
“You can’t order me around, Ron. Remember? I don’t work for you, or for Seattle PD, either.”
We were both hurting that morning. Ron had done me a huge personal favor by reopening the Wellington homicide. As a result, he had lost an officer, and I had lost yet another partner. An angry look passed between us. There was a moment when our long years of friendship hung in the balance. I couldn’t let it come to that, so I decided to reduce the pressure.
“Let’s face it,” I said. “There’s not much I can do, since I’m stuck in this bed. Can you at least tell me where Delilah lived? I’d like to send her family some flowers.”
Ron shook his head as though thinking that might not be such a great idea. Still, he pulled out a notebook and read off an address that sounded like it was somewhere near the Woodland Park Zoo. I dutifully copied it into my iPad.
“Her husband’s name?”
“Brian. Her daughters are Kimberly and Kristen. They’re sophomores in high school.”
Just hearing their names spoken aloud wounded me. Their lives had turned into a nightmare because I’d had a dream about a long-dead girl and had taken that as a sign that I was destined to do something about it. The end result wasn’t fair to anyone.
Ron had barely rolled away down the hall when Dr. Auld showed up. This was earlier than he usually came in, so maybe he didn’t have any surgeries scheduled for that particular morning.
“Good news,” I told him. “My wife is out of town, but I’ve hired someone—an RN—to come stay with me until I’m back on my feet. If you let me out today, she’ll start today.”
“By which you mean to say that you’d like to leave today?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I also wanted to be in Sammamish at city hall in time for that 11:00
A.M.
press conference. Yes, the local newspeople would be covering it, but that wasn’t to say that they’d be covering all of it, and I didn’t want to miss anything important.
“All right,” Dr. Auld said agreeably. “I’ll send someone in to help you get dressed. By the time your ride gets here, I should have the paperwork out of the way.”
I called Marge Herndon the moment he was out of the room. “Okay,” I said. “Come get me.”
I would find out in the course of the next several days that Marge Herndon had any number of failings, as Bob had so drolly warned me, but being late wasn’t one of them. She arrived in my room with a wheelchair in hand before I’d managed to get my clothes out of the locker, to say nothing of on my body.
Marge was a stocky woman with a wide, square face topped by a mop of curly white hair. She looked more like an NFL tackle than she did a member of the caring professions. When I started trying to get dressed, she immediately took over.
“Let me help you with that,” she told me brusquely. “Isn’t that why you hired me? Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
In no time at all, she had armed herself with the proper release paperwork along with my take-home prescriptions, and we headed out. She wheeled me out the front door with a practiced hand and stopped me next to a waiting Accord, which she had left under the watchful eye of a parking valet.