Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [85]
There was a pause while she looked. “Yes she does, a reservation for two at three o’clock.” I had been holding my breath. I let it out in a long sigh.
“Would you like to leave a message? I’ll be glad to give it to her.”
“No. No, thank you. I’ll catch her later.”
I put down the phone. Either she wouldn’t show or she was expecting me. It was one or the other. The hostess had said the reservation was for two, not one. I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I buried my face in a towel, a soft new towel Anne Corley herself had chosen. I flung it away from me, sending it sailing down the hall. How dare she buy me towels!
I went to the hall closet for my shoulder hoister and .38. The holster was there. The gun wasn’t.
There was no point in searching the apartment. I knew I had put it away. I always put it away. Anne had taken it. Anne Corley Beaumont, armed, beautiful, and exceedingly dangerous.
I’m qualified to carry a .357 magnum. You get qualified by being an excellent shot. It’s a macho symbol I don’t need to pack around the department. I keep one, though, in the same bottom drawer where I had kept my mother’s engagement ring all those years. I got it out and checked it to make sure it was loaded. I put it in my jacket pocket. A .357 is only good for one thing—killing. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.
My body ran on automatic pilot. I don’t remember getting into the car or driving up Interstate 90 to Fall City. I was doing what I had to do, what was inevitable. It was too painful to do it consciously, so I did it like a sleepwalker. It was like that last night with my mother, wanting her to die and not wanting her to die, wishing her suffering over yet not wanting to lose her. I didn’t know whether I should hope for the red Porsche to be there or not. It would hurt either way.
I was trying to readjust my thinking, to turn Anne Corley Beaumont my love into Anne Corley Beaumont my enemy. She would have to be that if I was going to confront her and win. Afterward I could try to salvage what could be salvaged, once she was safe. Locked up and safe.
As it turned out, the Porsche was there, parked directly in front of the restaurant. There was no attempt to conceal her presence. She wanted me to know where she was. I was expected.
I grappled with the realization that Anne had called every shot since I met her. This was no exception. My hand dropped unconsciously to my pocket, checking the .357, making sure it was available. She had outwitted me at every turn. I would have to be wary. She was Mrs. J. P. Beaumont in name only. She was also a ruthless, savvy killer.
The vestibule was crowded. Of course it would be. This was Sunday afternoon. For the first time I realized how foolhardy I had been to attempt this without calling for help, without having a backup. The restaurant was full of innocent bystanders, any one of whom could suffer dire consequences for my going off half-cocked. I eased my way through the crowd to the hostess desk and peered through the dining room.
Anne was there, at a corner table. Our eyes met and held above the heads of the other diners. She motioned for me to come to her.
The hostess appeared then. “Oh,” she said, “are you Mr. Beaumont? Mrs. Corley has been expecting you.”
“I see her,” I said stiffly. “I can find my way.”
There was a glass of wine on the table in front of her, and a MacNaughton’s and water at the place on the other side of the table. She was still wearing the blue suit. The Adidas bag lay in her lap. A lump rose in my throat. It was all I could do to speak. “Hello,” I managed.
“Hello, Beau. I’m glad you came.”
A thousand questions should have tumbled out one after another. Instead I looked around the room, J. P. Beaumont, the cop, looking over the lay of the land, looking for cover, for trajectories, for who would be