Partner In Crime (13 page)

But sitting there in Harry I. Ball’s office, I understood it was hopeless for me to try fixing his outdated view of the world. I’ve now spent enough time in AA that I understand the meaning of the Serenity Prayer. It says to change what you can and accept what you can’t change. Harry wasn’t changing—not for me, and not for anybody else. I let it pass.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“When Barbara came dragging her butt in here a little while ago—she was even later than you, by the way—I told her to get on the horn with the AG’s travel agent down in Olympia. She’s to get you down to Arizona ASAP, before our latter-day Nancy Drew/Annie Oakley can screw up the evidence. In other words, I want you there yesterday, but I suppose that’s asking a little much. In the meantime, while you’re waiting for your travel packet, you might want to go over this.”

With that, he spun the file folder across his desk. I managed to catch it before it skidded onto the floor. “Oh, well,” I said, as I collected the file and my coffee cup and stood up to leave. “I guess the Green River Task Force file is going to have to wait,”

“Right,” Harry agreed with a grin. “It’s just too damned bad.”

On the way back to my cubicle I passed the office manager’s desk. Barbara Galvin is an attractive, up-and-coming young woman in her late twenties. She’s competent and cheerful. She can also type like a maniac on her little laptop computer. In the world of slow-moving civil-service bureaucracies, those qualifications make her some kind of superstar. She wears a modest diamond and a wedding ring on her left hand and an equally modest diamond stud in her left nostril. The only picture that clutters her otherwise immaculately clean desk is one of a knobby-kneed, straw-headed kid about six or seven years old and wearing a red- and-white soccer uniform. He’s holding a black-and-white ball and grinning from ear to ear.

I paused momentarily in front of Barbara’s desk. She motioned to the earpiece of her phone to indicate someone else was talking, so I went on my way. Back at my desk I opened Latisha Wall’s folder and was relieved when the first piece of paper that fluttered out contained a scribbled notation in Harry’s virtually illegible scrawl that said Officer Unreadable in Indecipherable, Georgia, had made the next-of-kin notification. I was glad to know I had dodged that particular bullet.

I had only just started on the file’s first page when my phone rang. “Beaumont here.”

“Good morning,” Naomi Pepper said cheerily. “How long did it take you to make it over to this side of the water?”

Naomi Cullen Pepper is a relatively recent widow and a girlfriend of rather brief standing. We had met more than a month earlier on a cruise ship bound for Alaska. Through several strange turns of events, we had found ourselves bunking in the same cabin—a situation that had, almost effortlessly, evolved into our becoming lovers. It was only when we were back home and on solid ground that the new reality hit me.

The first time I asked her out on a date, I spent hours agonizing over where I would take her and what I would wear. Ralph Ames, my attorney and good friend, happened to be visiting my Belltown Terrace condo at the time I was wrestling with that dilemma. He had almost fallen on the floor laughing.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he had demanded. “You’ve already spent several nights in a cruise-ship cabin with the woman. How can you be worried about what you’re going to wear?”

Believe me, worrying was easy. The truth is, on board the
Starfire Breeze,
where Naomi and I had walked away with the ship’s tango prize, everything had seemed amazingly simple. But back on dry land, being involved in a relationship was much more complicated. And a lot more like hard work. What wasn’t easy for me right then was carrying on my half of the conversation opposite Naomi’s breezy sweet nothings when I was stuck in a tiny open-ended cubicle with God knew how many of my fellow Unit B SHIT investigators lapping it all up.

“Long time,” I muttered in response to her question. “Two and a half hours. How about you?”

“I had to be here for a seven o’clock meeting,” she said.

Naomi had recently been promoted to assistant manager in the kitchen department at The Bon Marché. Part of the promotion had involved her transferring from the downtown Seattle store to the Bell Square one in downtown Bellevue. This meant we were both now commuting from the west side of Lake Washington to the east side, although our disjointed schedules made carpooling impossible.

“I was already crossing 520 before they shut down I-90,” she continued. “I heard they’ve reopened the bridge,” she added. “No bombs anywhere. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

I was lost in Latisha Wall’s history. “For tomorrow?” I said vaguely.

“Come on, Beau. Don’t play dumb. It’s your birthday. We’re going out, remember? My treat.”

There comes a time, somewhere after forty, when birthdays are best forgotten. Or ignored. In this case, I had forgotten completely.

“Come on,” I wheedled. “Am I the kind of guy who would forget his own birthday?”

Of course, the answer was yes. I was and I had, but Naomi was all for giving me the benefit of the doubt.

“Good,” she said. “We’re going someplace special. As long as you don’t mind driving back to Bellevue after driving home from work, that is.”

With a dozen top-rated restaurants within walking distance of Belltown Terrace, there wasn’t much need to drive all the way to Bellevue for dinner, but Naomi had made it clear that this time she was paying. “I don’t mind at all,” I told her.

“All right,” she said. “I just wanted to confirm. Will I see you tonight?”

“Probably,” I said. “I’ll give you a call this afternoon.”

I looked up to see Barbara Galvin standing in my doorway and giving me a knowing smile. Why wouldn’t she? It’s no coincidence that the newest kid on the block—me—has the cubicle closest to Barbara’s desk.

“Gotta go,” I said hurriedly to Naomi. “Somebody’s waiting.”

“You didn’t have to hang up on her like that,” Barbara told me. “I would have waited.”

She had been listening. My ears turned red. “We were done anyway,” I said. “What’s up?”

Barbara tossed an envelope onto my desk. “Your travel packet, complete with itinerary,” she said. “You’re booked on Alaska Flight 790. It leaves for Tucson tomorrow morning at seven
A.M.
”

“Seven
A.M.
!” I groaned. “Are you kidding? Why so early?”

Barbara grinned. “What’s the matter, Beau?” she asked. “Got a hot date? You’re on that flight because, even though it’s the last minute, the travel agent was able to get us a good deal. She has you scheduled to return next Friday afternoon, but you can always extend if you need to.”

Maybe I should go ahead and do it right now,
I thought glumly.
When Naomi finds out about this, there won’t be any point in coming home
.

Assuming the conversation had ended, I opened the envelope and glanced at the E-ticket itinerary. When I glanced back up, Barbara was still standing in my doorway looking at me with a strange, faraway look on her face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “I was just thinking about how much you remind me of my dad.”

Words every older guy loves to hear! No longer a hunk, you’re someone’s dad instead.

With that she was gone.
Poor kid,
I thought in a sudden flash of empathy.
No wonder she can put up with all of Unit B’s geriatric cop crap. She must have spent most of her life living with an old troglodyte who is as tough to get along with as we are
.

I picked up the phone and called Naomi right back. “Where were you planning on taking me to dinner tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Why? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“It’s a surprise, all right. I just found out I have to be on a plane to Tucson at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Work or pleasure?” Naomi asked.

“What do you think?”

“Bis,” she said. “Bis on Main is the name of the restaurant.”

“What do you say we go tonight instead? I’ll pay.”

“I suppose,” she agreed, although I could tell she wasn’t happy about it. “If you can get a reservation, that is. It’s a pretty popular place.”

I looked up the number in the phone book, called, and gave whoever answered my tale of woe. “For you, my friend, I believe we can do something,” he said. “We’re very busy this evening, but if you could come in early, say five-thirty . . .”

“Done,” I told him. “It might just as well be early. I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning to catch a plane.”

I put down the phone. Part of me was sorry to disappoint Naomi. And part of me was pissed at the people in the AG’s office for dropping this on me at the last minute. But there was a third part of me—the stubborn old-coot part—that was more than happy to get off his butt, put the cold-case files back where they belonged, and go to work.

F
OR THE SECOND TIME IN AS MANY DAYS
, Joanna and Frank Montoya’s “early-morning” briefing took place in the early afternoon. Afterward, Joanna started in on that day’s worth of correspondence. Almost an hour later and near the bottom of the stack, she discovered the latest edition of
The Bisbee Bee
. The words “See page two!” were scribbled on the top of the front page in Kristin Gregovich’s girlish handwriting.

Joanna opened the paper and turned to what she knew would be Marliss Shackleford’s latest column. The headline read:

There can be no question that Wednesday’s Fallen Officer memorial in honor of Cochise County Corrections Officer Yolanda Cañedo was moving and inspirational, but here’s the question many county residents are asking themselves: Should a dirty dozen of Cochise County inmates have been in attendance with what amounted to minimal sheriff’s department supervision?
    There can also be no question that, as a corrections officer, Yolanda Cañedo made a difference in the less-than-exemplary lives of some of those unfortunate inmates. Ms. Cañedo used her off-duty hours to work as an unpaid volunteer with an inmate literacy project. She personally tutored a number of inmates who were working toward GED certificates while being incarcerated.
    But the fact remains that these men are prisoners. They’re in the county lockup for reasons that either a judge or a jury could not ignore or excuse. Why, then, were they allowed to attend Ms. Cañedo’s funeral services without any evidence of restraints and with only two off-duty guards and the director of the Cochise County Jail Ministry looking after them?
    Not that they did anything bad. From what I could learn, the inmates caused no difficulty. They behaved themselves during the funeral service and afterward were all returned to their cells at the Cochise County Jail without incident. But some people, including yours truly, think that letting those prisoners out at all was a mistake and that having done so sets a bad precedent.
    Unnamed sources within the department suggest that Sheriff Joanna Brady herself is the one who made the decision to allow prisoners to attend the service. And why would she do such a thing? Was it a grandstanding effort on her part to let people see that her department is interested in rehabilitating county prisoners, as opposed to locking them up and throwing away the key? Or was it something else entirely?
    Since her election, Sheriff Brady has gone to great lengths to prove she’s just as tough and hard-nosed as anybody else. But now, with the beginning of what promises to be a hotly contested reelection campaign only months away, I think it’s possible she wanted to show potential voters her softer, gentler side.
    The problem is, if one of those inmates had decided to take off for parts unknown, any number of people could have been hurt, endangered, or even killed in the process. That’s a kind of soft-hearted, soft-headed approach to law enforcement that the people of Cochise County don’t deserve and can ill afford.

Finished reading, Joanna wadded up the paper and tossed it into the trash. For a while she tried to return to her paperwork, but it was no use. Distracted and unable to concentrate, she touched the intercom button.

“I’m going home early,” she said to Kristin. “If anybody needs me, have them call me there.”

“Are you okay?” Kristin asked. “I mean, it’s only three o’clock. You’re not sick or anything, are you?”

“Lots of people go home at three o’clock,” she said. “And today that’s me. I’ve done all I can do, unless there’s an emergency, that is.”

She left her office via the private door. Once back home at High Lonesome Ranch, she changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Then she hurried out to the barn, where she started mucking out the stall where Jenny kept her sorrel quarter-horse gelding, Kiddo. It was hot, dirty, smelly work—just the thing to take Joanna’s mind off Marliss Shackleford’s latest piece of attack journalism.

She became so involved in her shoveling and cleaning that she lost track of time. When Jenny came home from school and spoke to her from a few feet away, Joanna was so startled, she jumped.

“Mom, what are you doing that for?” Jenny demanded. “I told Butch I’d clean the stall out today, as soon as I got home from school. I haven’t had a chance to do it before because of play practice and—”

“I just felt like doing it myself,” Joanna said. “I was sick and tired of sitting behind a desk. I decided a little physical labor would do me a world of good.”

A look of alarm flitted briefly across Jenny’s face. She paled. “Nothing bad happened at work, did it?” she asked.

“Not really,” Joanna reassured her daughter. “All I’m saying is, my day was rotten. How was yours?”

“Okay, I guess,” Jenny said unenthusiastically.

“Let’s go wrestle a few bales of hay together,” Joanna suggested cheerfully. “Maybe throwing a couple of those around will make us feel better.”

Once the chores were done, Joanna came out of the barn to find Jenny leaning against the topmost rail of the corral with Kiddo nuzzling her jacket pocket, searching for the sugar cubes she routinely carried there. With their matching blond manes, girl and horse leaned on each other in an unspoken communion that made Joanna marvel.