Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [90]
“I found it under the front seat of the Datsun.”
I held the envelope up and looked at it. My name was written in bold letters on the outside. A small piece of paper fluttered out of it. I caught it in midair. “You’ll have to write the last chapter yourself,” it said.
I crushed the paper in my fist. “Goddamn her! She knew! She forced my hand!” Peters sat on the couch. “Did you look at it?” I asked.
He nodded. “You probably shouldn’t have read it right now.” Peters had pulled the plug on both phones in the house, effectively shutting out all unwanted intruders.
I gazed at Seattle’s downtown skyline, the golden lights Anne Corley had loved. Or at least seemed to have loved—but then, she seemed to have loved me too. That showed how much I knew. Peters waited quietly, not prying, ready to listen when I was ready to talk. He had gotten a hell of a lot older and wiser in the last few days.
I tossed the wad of paper to Peters. He opened it and reread it.
“We talked about it once, you know,” I told him. “She asked me if, given the same circumstances, I’d do it again. When I got her out of the water, that was the last thing she said to me. She repeated what I said, that I’d do it again.”
“Do what?”
“Kill. Kill someone in self-defense. I told her I thought I would.” My voice broke, tears blurred my vision. Peters got up and took my empty glass to the kitchen. He returned with a full one.
“You were right,” he said. “Don’t you think Anne knew you would? Don’t you think she counted on it?”
“But why? And if she knew, knew it was coming, why the fuck did she marry me?”
Peters shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
For the first time I thought of Ralph Ames. I closed my eyes and shook my head. “What?” Peters asked.
“Ames, her attorney. He’ll be back in Phoenix by now. Someone should call him, I guess.”
Peters stood up. “What’s his number? I’ll call.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’d better do it myself.” The bandage on my chest made it difficult for me to move. Peters reattached the cord to the wall plug and handed me the phone. I got Ames’ home number from information. I dialed direct, hoping like hell he wouldn’t answer. He did, on the third ring.
“Ralph Ames speaking,” he said in his best three-piece-suit diction.
I cleared my throat. “It’s Beau, J. P. Beaumont, calling from Seattle. It’s about Anne.”
“Thank God, I’ve been trying to call—”
“She’s dead, Ralph, I…” I interrupted, but I couldn’t go on. There was stark silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I could hear sympathy in his voice, sympathy and concern. “It wasn’t a car wreck, Ralph, nothing like that. I shot her. She was trying to kill me.”
“There’s a plane from Phoenix that gets into Sea-Tac tomorrow morning at ten. Have someone out there to meet me.”
“But…” I started to object. He didn’t hear me. The receiver clicked in my ear.
I put down the phone. “He’s coming up,” I told Peters. “He wants someone to meet him at the airport at ten in the morning.”
Peters took my glass and gave me a mock salute. “Aye aye, sir,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
The phone rang. I had forgotten to unplug the cord. It was Karen, calling from Cucamonga. “Katy Powell called me an hour ago. I’m sorry, Beau. Are you all right?”
Surprised to hear her voice, I mumbled something unintelligible. I was touched that she had bothered to call.
“The kids don’t know what to say. They’re sorry too. Do you have someone there with you?”
I looked at Peters. “Yes, I do. My partner. He’s staying over.”
The conversation fumbled along for another minute or two. When I hung up, Peters looked at me quizzically. “Your ex?”
I nodded.
“It was nice of her to call.”
We pulled the plug on the phone before it had a chance to ring again. Peters and I proceeded to get shit-faced drunk. We ran out of gin and MacNaughton’s about the same time. I passed out in the leather chair. When I woke up the next morning, there was nothing left in the liquor