Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [83]
“You work for the phone company?” The name came back to me, the messages I had ignored and thrown away. He nodded again.
“When I couldn’t reach you at the office, I finally got your unlisted number and called your house. I could be fired for that too.”
“My house?”
“Yeah. I called Friday morning. I went to a two-day training session out in Bellevue on Wednesday and Thursday, so I didn’t try calling again until I got back to the office on Friday. The woman I talked to said she was your wife, said she’d give you the message. I left Kincaid’s name and address with her.”
My stomach turned to lead. Just then Powell tapped on the door. “A detective from Auburn is here with their preliminary report. I thought you’d like to talk to him. He says Kincaid drove a black van. You think maybe there’s a connection?”
“I’d bet money on it,” I said grimly. “Where’s the detective?”
“He’s taking some stuff down to the crime lab.”
I picked up the phone in Powell’s office. Some numbers you know by heart. I dialed the crime lab. Janice Morraine answered. I recognized her voice. “Hi, Jan,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Beaumont here. Did they bring you a slug from that Auburn case?”
“I think so,” she replied.
“Run a comparison with the Faith Tabernacle slugs and call me back.” I put down the phone, fighting the urge to heave it across the room.
Powell was looking at me, puzzled. “What have you got, Beaumont?”
“Just a hunch, nothing more.”
Tom Stahl came to the door of the interview room. “What next? Protective custody? Do I go, or stay, or what?”
“First we’ll need to get a statement. Hang on a minute. You want a cup of coffee?” I couldn’t handle being locked up in a small room taking a statement, not when my mind was flying in a dozen different directions.
“Coffee would be fine,” he said. “Black.”
I walked past my desk on the way to the coffeepot. I stopped and dialed my home number. I got a busy signal. There was a stack of messages on the desk, too. The top one was from Peters, clocked in at seven-twenty that morning. The number was different from the hotel I had tried the previous day.
I dialed and was connected to Peters’ room. “Thank God you caught me. I was just heading out to catch a plane. I’ve booked an earlier flight from Tucson. Where’d they find you?” he asked. “When the operator said your phone was out of order, I took a chance and called the department. They were looking for you. I told them you might be driving the Datsun.”
“It worked,” I said. “They found me. What have you got?”
There was a distinct pause. “It’s not pretty, Beau,” he began. “I hope it’s not too late. Has she told you about her father?”
“Some,” I replied.
“Coroner ruled it a suicide, but Anne swore she’d shot him for killing her sister. That’s when her mother had her committed.”
My mind scrambled to make sense from what Peters was saying. “Shot him? Anne said she shot her father?” I felt like I was stumbling in the dark.
Peters heard my disbelief. “I came down to Bisbee to check it out. According to records here, Anne’s father fell carrying Patty down some stairs. He felt so bad about it he put a bullet in his head two weeks later. Anne insisted she shot him, and she claimed that Patty’s death was no accident, that her father had murdered her. Her mother had Anne committed. That’s why she spent eleven years in the state hospital.”
I could hear the sound of Peters’ breathing on the other end of the phone. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Beau, are you all right?”
After being in the dark, sudden light blinded me. “I’ve gotta go, Peters,” I said. I slammed the phone down in his ear. Powell was coming toward me. I almost knocked him over. “Get somebody to take Stahl’s statement,” I said over my shoulder.
“Hey,