Trial By Fury

"So I've got this next-door neighbor who works for Cha

"Why go to the trouble? What's the point? We already know Barker was there. He told us so."

"Sure he did. He said he was there at halftime, but what if he was there later, too? Maybe he came back or, better yet, maybe he never left"

Picking up my empty coffee cup, I sauntered over to the coffee table mulling Peters' hypothesis. It was possible, I supposed, but it didn't seem plausible. I came back with coffee and set my cup down on the desk.

"Well?" Peters asked.

I shook my head. "I don't think so. Barker isn't our man."

"Why not?"

"Gut instinct."

Just that quick, Peters got his back up. "Right. Sure it is. You know, Beau, sometimes I get tired of working with the Grand Old Man of Homicide. You're not always on the money. I think Barker's it, and I'm willing to invest some shoe leather in proving it. You coming or not?"

He didn't leave a whole lot of room for discussion. We got a car from the garage, a tired Chevette without as much zing to it as the Dodge we'd driven the day before-no zip and a hell of a lot less legroom. I wonder sometimes if the ratings would be the same if the guys on "Miami Vice" drove Chevettes.

We stopped by Cha

Peters shuffled through them, looked at me, and gri

One of the realities of police work these days is that you never get to show witnesses just the person you want them to see. You always have to show a group of pictures and hope they pick out the right one. Going by the book can be a royal pain in the ass. I gave Peters credit for taking care of it in advance.

Dave Rimbaugh's address was off in the wilds of Lake City, about a twenty-minute drive from downtown Seattle. Peters drove. As we made our way up the freeway, Peters glanced in my direction. "Tell me again about the stuff you found in the back of Joa

"That's right. Out of the storeroom at the end of her carport."

"They're dusting it for prints?"

"The container and the trunk for certain. They said yesterday they're going to try to work out a deal with the county to run the contents past the county's YAG to see if they can raise anything there."

"YAG? What the hell's a YAG?"

"Their new laser printfinder. Janice Morraine was telling me about it. They use it to raise prints on all kinds of unlikely surfaces-cement, rumpled tinfoil."

"Off rope and clothing, too?"

"Not too likely, but possible. She said there's a remote chance. I've also called for a tech to go over Joa

"Any idea when the container was placed in the car or any sign of forced entry?"

I shook my head. "The killer had Darwin 's keys, remember? House keys and car keys, both."

"I had forgotten," Peters said thoughtfully.

"She's going to have all her locks changed today, just in case."

Peters nodded. "That's probably wise."

We were both quiet for a moment. It was as good a time as any to bring up my scheduling conflict between the real estate closing and Darwin Ridley's funeral.

"By the way," I said casually, "Ralph Ames is flying in this afternoon. I pick him up at the airport at one. We're supposed to close on Belltown Terrace at three-thirty this afternoon. Do you think you could handle Ridley's funeral by yourself?"

I more than half-expected an objection, for Peters to say that he needed to be home with his kids. It's an excuse that packs a whole lot of weight with me. Had he used it, I probably would have knuckled under, given Ames my power of attorney, and had him stand in for me at the closing.

Instead, Peters surprised me. "Sure, no problem. What about the memorial service after the funeral? Want me to handle that, too?"

"That would be great."

Dave Rimbaugh's house was a snug nineteen-thirties bungalow dwarfed by the evergreen trees that had grown up around it. The woman who came to the door was almost as wide as the door itself. Her pug nose and the rolling jowls of her face made her look like a bulldog. A nearsighted bulldog wearing thick glasses.

"Davey," she called over her shoulder. "Hon, there's somebody here to see you."

"Davey" wasn't a day under seventy. He was a spry old man, as lean as his wife was fat. They were a living rendition of the old Jack Sprat routine. His face lit up all over when Peters showed his ID and told him who we were and what we wanted.

"See there, Francie. I told you I talked to a real detective on the phone, and you thought I was pulling your leg." He led us into the living room. Every available flat surface in the room was full of glass and ceramic elephants of every size and description. Dave Rimbaugh noticed me looking at them.

"We've been collecting them for fifty-six years now," he said proudly. "There's more in the dining room. Would you like to see those?"

"No, thanks," I told him quickly, stopping him before he could hurry into the next room. "I can see you've got an outstanding collection, but we'd better get to work. Business before pleasure, you know."

"Good." Rimbaugh nodded appreciatively. "Don't like to waste the taxpayer's money, right?"

"Right," I said, sitting down on the wing-backed chair he offered me, while Peters sank into the old-fashioned, flower-patterned couch.

Rimbaugh rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Now then, what can I do for you boys?"

Peters grimaced visibly at the term "boys." It was clear "Davey" Rimbaugh regarded us as a couple of young whippersnappers. Doing his best to conceal his a

"Take a look at these, Mr. Rimbaugh. See if there's anyone here you recognize, anyone you may have seen at the Coliseum last Friday night."

Dave Rimbaugh only had to glance through the pictures once before he pounced on Wheeler-Dealer's smiling countenance. "Him," he said decisively. "That's him. He was there."

Unable to contain her curiosity, Francie Rimbaugh got up from the couch and came over to her husband's chair. She stood behind him like she'd been planted there, leaning over his shoulder so she, too, could look at the picture in his hand.

"Why, forevermore!" she exclaimed. "I know him. Isn't that the man on the television, the one on the late movies? I think he sells cars. Or maybe furniture."

Dave Rimbaugh held the picture up to the light. "Why, Francie, I do believe you're right. He looked familiar at the time, but I just couldn't place him."

He patted his wife's rump affectionately and pulled her close to him. "Francie here, now she's the one with the memory for faces," he said. "Faces and names both."

"Do you remember when you saw this man?" Peters asked. "It's important that we know exactly when he was there."

Dave Rimbaugh leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, frowning with the effort of concentration. "All I remember is, I was drinking a cup of coffee at the time. Almost spilled it all over me when he rushed past. Said there was an emergency of some kind. Didn't ask him what, just let him go through."

"So what time was it?" Peters prodded. "Halftime? Later than that?"