Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [89]
“Call Captain Powell at homicide, Seattle P.D.,” I told him. “Tell him I got her. Don’t let anyone who isn’t a cop come down that trail.”
He left without argument. I lay Anne Corley Beaumont down, closing her eyes, stroking the hair from her forehead one last time. I stood up, feeling the aching chill from my sodden clothes. It was nothing compared to the glacial chill inside. Sudden weakness robbed my legs of strength, forcing me to sit once more. I didn’t sit next to Anne. There was nothing more I could do for her.
The officer returned with a couple of blankets. He wrapped one around my shoulders and covered Anne with the other. “Powell says to tell you he’s on his way.” He looked at me closely. “You need an ambulance.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
I have no idea how much time passed before I heard the wail of sirens. Peters loped down the trail ahead of Powell and Watkins. How he managed to make connections back from Arizona that fast I’ll never know. I was glad to see him. Powell and Watty went to the blanket-covered figure on the edge of the river. Peters came to me. “I’m sorry, Beau,” he said.
I felt a sob rising in my throat. It took me by surprise. Peters put his arm on my good shoulder and left it there.
“A week,” I said when I could talk again. “I only knew her a week.”
“I know,” he said.
Powell came over to me then. “The officer says you’re hurt.” He lifted the blanket and looked for himself, then turned to Watkins.
“Get those ambulance people down here now,” he ordered. “Have ‘em bring a stretcher.”
Peters came with me. I was glad to be taken away. I didn’t want to be there for the ritual pictures and the measurements. I didn’t want to watch as the search for evidence started, as people who knew nothing about Anne Corley or J. P. Beaumont started trying to learn everything about us. They would. That’s a homicide detective’s job.
Peters pretty much took over. He directed the ambulance to Harborview. The doctors put me under while they removed the slug. When I came back around, Peters was there. I thought he had been there the whole time. It turned out he had gone back to Snoqualmie in the meantime and picked up the Datsun. The city of Snoqualmie had impounded the Porsche, pending completion of its investigation.
The doctor wanted to keep me overnight. I wouldn’t hear of it. I wanted to be home. Like an old snakebit hound wanting his own cave under a house, I wanted to go home to lick my wounds. The doctor finally relented only because Peters assured him he would stay with me.
Watkins was waiting in the lobby of the Royal Crest. The building manager had let him in along with someone I didn’t know, an eager young man Watty identified as the Snoqualmie homicide detective, Detective Means. Means could hardly restrain himself. He wanted to get started. This was his moment of glory, his first big case. He almost panted with enthusiasm. The whole idea made me weary beyond words.
The doctor had given me the slug. I handed it to Watty, who in turn gave it to Detective Means. “It’ll match the ones from Brodie, Suzanne Barstogi, and Kincaid,” I said. “It’s from my departmental-issue thirty-eight.”
We went up to the apartment. I was thirsty. I went to the refrigerator for something to drink. That was how I found the leftover wedding cake, neatly covered in plastic wrap, sitting on the bottom shelf. Peters saw me sag against the cupboard for support. He came and peered over my shoulder. “Jesus,” he said.
He scraped it off the plate and ran the garbage disposal. Everybody needs a friend like Ron Peters, especially at a time like that.
We went back into the living room. Means asked the questions. Watkins was there to handle administrative procedures. I was a little surprised Means let Peters and Watkins stay. I expected him to throw his weight around.
He turned on a recorder and read me my rights. “I understand the deceased, Anne Corley, was your fiancée?” he asked.
“No,” I said softly. “She was my wife.”
Chapter 26
Watkins and Means left hours later. I don’t know when. Peters walked them