Long Time Gone (23 page)

“What’s wrong with Ron?”

“I think she thought that with Aaron gone, she and I would go back to being big and little sister, the way things were before. Meaning, of course, that she was the big sister and I was supposed to do things her way. It’s been hell. She and Ron were at loggerheads from the moment she moved in, but I just didn’t have the heart to throw her out. She’s the only sister I have.”

“But she was undermining you and Ron when it came to the kids.”

“That’s right,” Amy said bitterly. “Enter Dillon Middleton.”

“Dillon didn’t look like such great shakes to me,” I said. “So what’s the big attraction as far as Molly was concerned?”

“I have no idea,” Amy returned. “Maybe the fact that Ron couldn’t stand him made him that much more interesting as far as Molly was concerned.” She broke off. “Turn left here,” she added. “It’s the building down there at the end of the street.”

I found a visitor parking spot. “Do you want me to come in with you?” I asked as Amy reached for the door handle.

“No,” she said. “This is something I’m better off doing on my own.”

She got out of the car and walked stiffly through the now-misty rain as far as the building, where she soon disappeared from sight in the small lobby. I sat there and considered what could possibly have been Molly’s purpose in doing all she could to wreck Ron and Amy’s relationship. What had she hoped to gain by driving a wedge between these two people, or between Ron and Amy and their children? Was she so embittered by her own unhappiness that she wanted everyone else to share in her misery? That seemed unlikely, and yet what other explanation was there? And what could be the reason behind Molly’s strange obsession with a hopeless gangbanger wannabe like Dillon Middleton? None of it made any sense at all.

Eventually Amy returned. “How’d it go?” I asked.

Her chest heaved. “About how you’d expect,” she returned, brushing tears from her eyes. “Mom, especially, is brokenhearted. She and Molly hadn’t spoken for years. Mom always thought they’d mend the rift eventually. Now they never will.”

I started the car and put it in gear. “Back to the hospital?” I asked.

“Please.”

We drove back to Harborview. Upstairs in the trauma waiting room, Tracy had stretched out on a couch with one arm flung over her eyes. Jared was asleep in his father’s lap. A dry-eyed and distant Heather sat across the room in self-imposed isolation from the rest of her family.

“Now that you’re here, we should probably try to get some rest,” Ron said to Amy. His face was ashen with weariness; his voice strained. Ron Peters had aged ten years in the past week, and he looked as though he was on the edge of despair. “We can’t go to the house. It’s full of detectives. I booked us a pair of rooms down here at the Sheraton.”

“Is Heather coming, too?” Amy asked.

Ron shook his head. “I asked her, but she won’t budge.”

“It’s all right,” I told them. “Take Tracy and Jared and try to get some sleep. I’ll stay with Heather.”

“Are you sure?” Ron asked.

“I’m sure,” I said. “It’s no problem.”

After Ron and Amy left, I went out into the hallway, grabbed a soda from the vending machine, and set it on the table beside Heather. “You look like you could use a little caffeine,” I said.

She looked up at me gratefully and nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

While she popped open the can and took a sip, I sat down next to her. “Any word?”

“He’s still in surgery.”

“What about his father?” I asked, glancing around the room. “Is he here?”

“Not yet.”

We sat in silence for some time while I puzzled about how this young woman, a child who was as close to me as my own children, could possibly be a suspect in a double homicide. No wonder Ron was looking gray and drawn. I probably looked the same way myself.

“I didn’t do it, Uncle Beau,” Heather said finally, meeting my gaze with an intense blue-eyed stare of her own. “I heard what Dillon said. I heard him say we did it—like he and I did it together—but it’s not true. I never killed anybody, I swear.”

“What did Dillon have against your aunt Molly?” I asked. “Why would he hurt her? I thought Molly was his friend.”

Heather shrugged. “So did I,” she said.

A pair of doors swung open on the far side of the room and a man in surgical scrubs strode into the room. He glanced briefly around the room and then settled on Heather and me. The doctor came forward, holding out his hand. “Mr. Middleton?” he asked.

“No,” I told him. “Sorry. I’m a friend of the family. This is Heather Peters, Dillon’s girlfriend.”

“Oh,” the doctor replied and then looked around the room, scanning the other two sets of family members still lingering there. “I was given to understand the father was on his way.”

“He is,” Heather said. “He’s coming down from White Rock, but he isn’t here yet. How’s Dillon? Is he going to be all right?”

The doctor looked at Heather and shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss. With the new federal privacy rules in effect, I’m unable to release patient information to anyone other than an authorized relative.”

“But…” Heather objected. “Can’t you…”

“Sorry,” the doctor told her. “That’s just the way it is.” With that he turned and walked away.

“That’s not fair,” Heather called after him. “Just because I’m only a girlfriend…”

But the doors had already swung shut behind the retreating doctor, cutting her protestation off in midsentence.

“Maybe we should go,” I suggested. “You must be tired. Let me take you home.”

“No,” Heather insisted. “I’m staying.”

Which automatically meant that I was staying, too. Lamar Middleton, Dillon’s father, arrived an hour later. He was a man in his mid-fifties, balding, heavyset, and clearly distraught. Heather recognized him as soon as he came through the door, and she hurried forward to greet him.

“I’m Heather,” she said. “I recognized you from your picture. I’m so glad you’re here. Dillon’s doctor came out a little while ago, but since I’m only a girlfriend, he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Lamar ventured behind the swinging doors and came out a few minutes later. “Dillon survived surgery,” he said. “But he’s in intensive care. He’s stable right now, but they don’t know whether or not he’ll make it. What on earth happened? What’s this all about?”

Heather began relating some of what had happened. It was when she reached the part about Molly Wright that Lamar slumped in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “I should have known!”

“Should have known what?”

“That Molly would be involved in this. Living a lie is always a bad idea. I tried to tell Annette that years ago, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Who’s Annette?” I asked.

“My ex-wife,” Lamar answered.

“Dillon’s mother?”

“Not exactly,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Annette and I adopted Dillon,” he said. “But Molly Wright—she was Molly Fitzgerald then—was his birth mother.”

For me, that was when a whole lot of what had happened finally clicked into focus. No wonder Molly had been so determined to bring Dillon into the Peters family circle. She knew he was her son even if no one else did. Using Heather as bait, she had been able to keep him close to her. If Heather had moved to Tacoma, taking Dillon with her, that connection would have been disrupted; but still, did a distance of forty miles or so justify committing murder?

Heather’s eyes widened. “Did you say Aunt Molly was Dillon’s mom?” she demanded.

Lamar nodded. “Molly had broken up with her long-term boyfriend when she found out she was pregnant. At first she planned to keep the baby. Then she started to date a guy named Aaron Wright. Aaron made it clear from the beginning that he didn’t want to have kids. Not ever. By then Annette and I were already married. Molly came to see us, trying to figure out what to do. For one thing, it was too late to get an easy abortion. When Molly mentioned having the baby and putting it up for adoption, Annette talked her into giving him to us.”

“Just like that?” I asked.

Lamar nodded ruefully. “Annette’s always been like that. She tends to get her way—with everybody. I told her I thought it was a bad idea, especially since Molly was such a good friend, but Annette was adamant, and eventually I went along with the program. Molly stayed with us until Dillon was born, then she went back home and pretended nothing had happened. She and Aaron got married eventually, and we kept the baby.

“The problem is, Annette was a whole lot better at the idea of motherhood than she was at the reality of it. Ditto for being married. She likes the concept, but not the actual commitment part. So she took off and pretty much left Dillon’s raising up to me. I did the best I could.

“I have to hand it to Annette. Once she left me, she’s managed to marry up every time, so money isn’t a problem—not for her, anyway. So here I was, trying to raise Dillon to be a decent human being, but periodically Annette would show up—often with Molly in tow. The two of them would do the whole noncustodial parent program. You know how it works. They spoiled the kid—gave him whatever he wanted. They told him that my rules didn’t apply whenever they were around, and what kid isn’t going to go for that? Eventually it worked.”

“Dillon came here?”

Lamar nodded. “Got into trouble, dropped out of school, and came here to be with Annette—until she took off again. She rented an apartment for him while she headed for the Bay Area with her latest fling. By then, Molly’s life had turned to crap. Having lost everything else, I think she saw one last chance to get Dillon back—and keep him close.”

“Except he was going to come to Tacoma with me,” Heather said in a small voice. “He told Molly that on the phone that night. I heard him. He said that if I had to go live with Rosemary in Tacoma, he was going to go there, too. He said he’d find a different apartment. Molly didn’t want him to go. She freaked out on the phone and started screaming and yelling. I could hear her from all the way across the room. It was totally weird.”

“Maybe,” I said, “since she had already lost her son once, she didn’t want to risk losing him again. Still, having him move to Tacoma isn’t like sending him off to the ends of the earth. I still don’t understand.”

After that, the three of us were quiet for a very long time. There wasn’t much to say, and I don’t think anyone else understood any better than I did.

An hour passed and then two. It was after three in the morning when the swinging doors opened again and once more the same doctor entered the room. This time he went straight to Lamar Middleton.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Middleton,” he began. “I’m afraid your son didn’t make it.”

W
ITHOUT A WORD,
Heather bolted from the room. I charged after her. When I finally caught up with her, she was outside the front entrance, standing bare-armed and bareheaded in the pouring rain.

“Heather,” I urged. “Come back inside.”

She shrugged off my hand. “I don’t want to,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

“It’s cold and wet out here.”

“Who cares? If Dillon’s dead, I should be dead, too. Maybe I’ll catch pneumonia and die.”

Then, to my surprise, she stopped talking and fell sobbing against my chest. Comforting her as best I could, I led her to my car and helped her inside. I turned on the engine, the heater, and the defroster as well, then I waited for her to stop crying.

“Your parents are staying at a hotel downtown,” I told her when she had finally cried herself out. “Do you want to go there?”

Heather shook her head. “I want to go home,” she said.

“You can’t. The last I heard, your house was full of cops, so I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“But…” Heather began. Then she fell quiet. “Okay,” she said finally.

Once again I took Heather up to my condo in Belltown Terrace. I expected her to head straight for bed. God knows I was ready.

“Can I use your computer?” she asked.

“My computer? At this hour?”

“I need to check my e-mail.” She paused. “Dillon told me in the ambulance that he sent me a message in case he didn’t find me. I need to see what he said. Please.”

So I led Heather into the den and helped her log on to my clunky old desktop. Then I went out into the living room to give her some privacy. I settled back in my old recliner and kicked off my shoes. My shirt and trousers were still damp, and they stuck to the leather, but I didn’t bother to change. Then I called down to the Sheraton. Not wanting to awaken Ron and Amy in case they had managed to fall asleep, I left a message letting them know that Dillon had died and that I had taken Heather home with me.

A few minutes after I hung up the phone, I heard Heather crying again. I stayed where I was, figuring that if she needed consolation she’d come looking for it. Then I heard the sound of the printer coming on-line. Finally Heather emerged from the den, wiping a trail of tears from her face. Wordlessly she handed me a single sheet of paper:

When I finished reading, I looked up to see Heather watching me closely. I couldn’t speak, but I was saying a small prayer of gratitude to Dillon Middleton. Suicide is said to be the most selfish of acts, yet in writing this note he had clearly exonerated Heather. Yes, her heart was broken—just as Amy had said it would be—but Dillon had gone out of his way to lift the cloud of suspicion that would otherwise have settled around her.

“That’s who he meant when he said ‘we,’ ” Heather said. “He meant Molly and him.”

I nodded. “And he was right,” I said when I was once again capable of speech. “Molly Wright was an evil woman.”

“I don’t understand. Why did she hate my dad so?” Heather asked.

I remembered what Amy had said earlier, about how much Molly had liked being Amy’s older sister and how much Amy hadn’t appreciated being bossed around.

“Because she was jealous,” I answered. “Because your father’s a good man—a good husband and father. From Molly’s point of view, it must have seemed as though her sister had everything Molly’s own life was lacking. In some twisted way, she thought pushing your father out of the picture would somehow even the score.”

Heather thought about that for a time. “Do you think she told Dillon the truth?” Heather asked finally. Her intense eyes were focused on my face. “When he stabbed her, do you think he had any idea that she was really his mother?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She certainly hadn’t told him when he wrote this, and the e-mail is time-dated at five twenty-nine. If she did tell him, it would have been later than this.”

Heather reached for the paper, took it back, and then held it against her chest as if by holding tight to that precious piece of paper she could somehow reach across time and space and touch Dillon as well. “Will you have to give this to the detectives?”

“Yes,” I said. “They’ll need to have it—a copy of it, anyway. It’s what they’ll use to clear the two cases.”

I thought about Heather in one of the interview rooms on the homicide floor at Seattle PD. Maybe the interview rooms in the new building weren’t quite as grim as the gritty old ones in the Public Safety Building. Still, I didn’t like to think about her being interviewed by detectives with Paul Kramer hanging around on the sidelines.

“I could call Mel Soames,” I said. “She’d come over to talk to you.”

“Right now?” Heather asked.

“If I asked her.” I thought that was true, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Regardless, it was worth a try.

“I could just as well talk to her now,” Heather said. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Go get out of those wet clothes, then,” I said. “There’s a robe and a pair of sweats in the guest room. I’ll call Mel and see what she says.”

And even though it was four o’clock in the morning as I dialed her number, and even though I again awakened her out of a sound sleep, Mel Soames didn’t blow me out of the water. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said. “But on two hours of sleep, this better include breakfast.”

I was snoozing in the recliner when the doorman called to let me know Mel was on her way up. I tapped on the guest-room door to summon Heather. Contrary to what she had said, she was sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. I eased the hard copy of Dillon’s last e-mail out from under her hand and left her sleeping. Armed with a freshly poured cup of coffee, I opened the door and met Mel in the corridor before she had a chance to ring the bell.

Considering the hour and the time she’d had available to get up and dressed, Mel looked surprisingly well put together in a dove-gray suit and a cream-colored blouse. “It’s going to be a long day,” she said. “I decided to wear what I’m going to wear to Elvira Marchbank’s funeral later on rather than having to run back and forth across the lake. By the way,” she added, “you look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks. This happens to be how I look when I don’t get any sleep,” I told her. “Obviously lack of sleep has no effect on you whatsoever.”

“Is that a compliment?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Good. Now what’s up?”

“Heather’s asleep in the other room, but take a look at this.”

I handed her Dillon’s final e-mail. She read it with pursed lips. “Five twenty-nine,” she mused. “That would be consistent with what we found out.”

“Which is?”

“After we left Ron and Amy’s, Brad and I went back over to Dillon’s apartment on the back side of Queen Anne Hill. All we had to do was look in the window to know we’d found ourselves a crime scene. There was blood spatter everywhere. We immediately called it in to Seattle PD. Your friend Kramer—who’s a complete jackass, by the way…”

“I know,” I said. “I’m well aware of that.”

“…took his damned time about sending someone over. By the time he and his detectives showed up—search warrant in hand because ours was out of date—Brad and I had already located three different people who had heard the sounds of an altercation between a man and a woman coming from Dillon’s apartment around six
P.M
.”

“Heard it but didn’t report it,” I interjected.

Mel nodded. “That’s right. Lots of student-style apartments around there, so maybe noisy arguments are a regular occurrence. When Kramer showed up and realized Brad and I were the ones on the scene, I thought he was going to have a coronary on the spot. He ordered us to leave. Ordered!” Mel repeated derisively. “On the grounds that we were operating outside our jurisdiction! Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He’s someone who’s used to throwing his weight around.”

“In that case, Dillon’s e-mail may sound good enough for us to believe Heather wasn’t involved, and it’s probably good enough for the prosecutor’s office, but I doubt it’ll convince Kramer. He knows that you and Ron are good friends, and he’s going to go after this like a pit bull. All that means is we’re going to have to find proof. Or Heather’s attorney will.”

I liked the fact that having met Paul Kramer only once or twice, Mel already had his number.

“Any ideas?” I asked.

“Brad picked up a bunch of security videotapes. There’s a company down in Olympia that owns several dozen convenience stores. We need to go through those. If Molly and Dillon both had cell phones, we need to check those out. If there were calls made during the time in question, we may be able to get a physical location.”

Heather appeared at the end of the hallway. “You need Dillon’s phone?” she asked. “If you do, I have it. One of the medics gave it to me when we were in the ambulance. He said it was in the way.”

She turned and went back down the hallway. When she returned with the phone, she handed it over to me. The phone wasn’t the least bit like mine. I had to put on my reading glasses in hopes of sorting out how it worked, but the phone was as dead as could be. I remembered then that Dillon had told Heather it had lost its charge. Until we found a cord that fit it, the phone would stay dead.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Dillon,” Mel said to Heather. “Please accept my condolences.”

Mel’s words were uttered with such sincerity that Heather was taken aback. I don’t think she had expected sympathy from Mel. Nothing she said discounted the supposed “puppy love” aspects of the loss Heather was feeling. Grief was grief, and Heather nodded gratefully. “Thank you,” she said.

“I know you’re going through a very difficult time,” Mel continued, “and you may be too tired to go into any of this right now, but Beau asked me over so I could get a jump on the interview process. Lots of people and jurisdictions are involved in these cases. In order to close them, all the investigators are going to need answers to questions—answers that you alone may be able to provide.”

“I know,” Heather said.

“I’m hoping that, if we do a good enough job initially, you may not have to go through this ordeal over and over, but in order to make it official, I’ll need to record it.”

“Yes,” Heather said. “I understand.”

While Mel set up her recording equipment, I refreshed our coffees and brought some for Heather as well.

Because of my close association with the Peters family and with Heather in particular, I kept my mouth shut during the interview process. I couldn’t have added anything. Mel asked her probing questions in a way that was firm but not at all patronizing. She asked about Molly and about Molly’s relationship to Heather and to Dillon as well. She went over everything about the day of Rosemary’s murder in minute detail, pulling out every smidgen of Heather’s remembrance of that day and the days since.

I stuck with it for a long time, but I have to confess as we neared the two-hour mark and the third tape, I was fading. I had drifted off in the recliner when the phone awakened me.

“Sorry about this, Mr. Beaumont,” Fred Tomkins said, “but I’ve got me three men down here in the lobby—three policemen—who say they need to come see you right away. I tried to tell ’em it was way too early for them to go up, but…”

I hadn’t a doubt in the world that Kramer would be one of the three. “That’s okay,” I told Fred. “Send them up.”

Mel looked at me questioningly. “Kramer?” she asked.

“The doorman didn’t say, but he’d be my first guess. This should be interesting.”

I opened the door as Kramer reached for the bell. “Imagine meeting you here,” I said. “You’re turning into a regular.”

“I’m looking for a witness named Heather Peters,” he said. “I understand she left Harborview Hospital with you last night.”

“She’s here,” I said. “But she’s busy at the moment. Mel Soames is in the process of interviewing her.”

Kramer practically levitated off the floor. “I told that bitch last night. This is the city of Seattle. She’s got no jurisdiction here, and neither do you. What happened last night was clearly inside the city limits. I demand that you turn her over to me immediately.”

Calling Mel Soames a bitch didn’t go over well with me, but I managed to keep my voice steady and my temper under control.

“You can demand until the cows come home, Kramer, but it’s not going to do any good. What happened on Queen Anne Hill last night is tied in with the Rosemary Peters homicide in Tacoma last week. Because of the possibility that it was an officer-involved domestic-violence case, state law makes SHIT the lead investigative agency. I’m sure Mel Soames will be happy to share a transcript of the Heather Peters interview with you once it’s available. She’ll share any other information she’s gathered as well, but in the meantime I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“I don’t want a transcript,” Kramer growled. “And I don’t want to wait. We want to talk to the girl now. As a friend of the family, you should know better than to have any involvement in the interview process. It’s a clear conflict of interest.”