Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [91]
Peters went down to stuff some money in the Datsun’s parking meter. I told him I’d break his face if he brought up a newspaper.
I didn’t want to see what they’d print about Anne and me. Talk is cheap, though, and I don’t know if I would have been able to carry out my threat. I was in a good deal of pain. I was grateful the doctor had insisted on giving me a prescription of painkillers. I helped myself to a generous dosage, not only for my shoulder but also for my head. Nothing helped the ache in my heart.
Peters called in sick for the day. It wasn’t a lie. Neither of us is a very capable drinker. Without the haze of bourbon, I worried about Ames’ arrival. I was sure he meant trouble, that he was flying in to bird-dog the investigation. If the coroner called it justifiable homicide, Ames would still try to see to it that I lost my job. After all, Anne had been one of his prime clients. It was the least he could do.
Peters tried to talk me out of going to the airport, but I insisted. I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, like a kid who’d rather have his licking sooner than later. We went down to the lobby. The Datsun was parked across the street. Behind it sat a rust-colored Volvo.
“Goddamn! What the hell is he doing here?”
“Come on, Peters, you didn’t expect Max to miss a sideshow like this, did you? I’m surprised he didn’t turn up in the emergency room yesterday.”
Max crawled out of the Volvo as we crossed the street. “Did you marry her so you wouldn’t have to testify against her?”
My fist caught him full in the mouth. A front tooth gave way under my knuckle. Cole fell like a stunned ox. He lay partially on the curb and partially in the street. Hitting him was pure gut reflex. I couldn’t help myself. Then I stepped on his glasses. That was deliberate malice. We left him lying there without a second glance.
“Drive like hell,” I told Peters. He did. My knuckles bled. I could feel a warm ooze under the bandage on my shoulder.
“You landed a pretty good punch for an invalid,” Peters commented. “Remind me not to make you mad when you’re not all shot up.”
The United flight got in early. We met Ames at the baggage carousel in the basement. He hurried up to me, hand outstretched. “Did you read the last chapter?” he asked without greeting.
“No,” I said. “There is no last chapter. She said I’d have to write it myself.”
Ames noticed Peters, realizing we weren’t alone. His manner changed abruptly, stiffened, withdrew. “I brought the rest of the manuscript back with me,” he said. “You’d better read it first. Then we’ll talk.”
Peters and I read it in the Royal Crest that afternoon. Ames sat to one side, watching us, saying nothing. I had given him the envelope with Anne’s note. He looked at it without comment.
We didn’t speak as we read. Words could not have lessened the horror. One city after another, one case after another, dates, times, weapons. Anne Corley had been a one-woman avenging angel, striking before the law could, the cases so far-flung, so widely scattered, that no one had ever put the pattern together. The manuscript ended with the death of Charles Murray “Uncle Charlie” Kincaid. There was a handwritten postscript. “I know Beau will keep his word. Love, Anne.”
Peters read the note, then got up, took out three glasses, and poured three slugs of vermouth, dividing it evenly three ways.
“Did you know?” I asked Ames, looking at him over my empty glass as the vermouth scorched my throat.
“My job was just to pay the bills as they came in. I never had a clue. Not until I was on the plane going home yesterday,” he said. “I tried to call as soon as I got home. There was no answer. I left messages for you at the department. I wanted to warn you, but, as her attorney, I couldn’t tell anyone else. I never thought this would happen. She seemed so happy that morning.” He ran his hand across his forehead. “It was too late when I left Seattle, Beau. It was too late when you met her.”
“Why did she let herself