Trial By Fury

We had one drink in my apartment, then walked over to Mama's Mexican Kitchen on Second and Bell for di

Myself, I'm partial to margaritas.

Mama's has those, too.

CHAPTER 23

I don't know why I bother having a clock in my bedroom. It isn't necessary. The phone usually wakes me up, even when I don't need to be up.

That's what happened that Saturday morning, a Saturday when I had pla

"Detective Beaumont?"

"Yes," I responded, fighting the surplus of tequila cobwebs in my brain and trying to place the woman's voice. No luck.

"This is Maxine. Maxine Edwards."

Maxine? I could have sworn I didn't know a single Maxine in the world. I still didn't have the foggiest idea who owned the insistent voice on the phone demanding that I wake up.

"Have you heard from Ron?"

I started to ask "Ron who?" when my brain finally kicked into gear. Maxine Edwards, the older woman Ames had hired to be Ron Peters' live-in housekeeper/babysitter.

"Not since yesterday. Why? Isn't he home?"

"No, he's not. He never came home at all.

Heather and Tracie are upset." From her tone of voice, it was clear Peters' girls weren't the only ones who were upset. So was Maxine Edwards. "He called yesterday afternoon," she continued. "He said he was going to a funeral, that he'd be home late. That's the last I've heard from him."

I sat up in bed. The headache started pounding the moment I lifted my head off the pillow. "That doesn't sound like him."

"I know. That's what's got me worried."

"Where are the girls?"

"They're in watching cartoons. I didn't want them to know I was calling you. I told them you two were probably busy working and just didn't have time to call."

"We're not working," I said.

"I can't imagine him not calling," Mrs. Edwards continued. "For as long as I've been here, he's never done anything like this."

I had to agree it didn't sound like something Peters would pull, but then eating spaghetti didn't sound like him, either. My first thought was that Candace Wy

"Did he say if he was going anywhere after the funeral?" I asked.

"He said something about a memorial service afterward."

"That would be at the school. Don't worry. Let me do some checking. I'll call you with whatever I find out."

Bringing the bottle of aspirin from the bathroom with me, I ventured out into the living room. Ames was still on the Hide-A-Bed. He wasn't in any better shape than I was. "Who was that calling so early?" he groaned.

I went on into the kitchen to make coffee. "Mrs. Edwards," I told him. "Peters' babysitter. She's looking for him."

"He didn't come home?"

"No."

"Stayed out all night? That doesn't sound like him."

"That's what I told her."

When I went back into the living room, Ames was sitting on the side of the bed with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, holding his head with both hands. I tossed him the aspirin bottle.

"Hung over?" I asked.

"A little," he admitted. He opened the bottle, shook out a couple of white pills, and popped them into his mouth. "What do you think happened?"

I shrugged. "Got lucky," I said. "He's probably screwing his brains out and is too busy to call Mrs. Edwards and ask for permission."

Ames chuckled at that. "I didn't know Ron had a girlfriend," he said.

"I wouldn't call her a girlfriend exactly. It's someone he just met this week. A teacher."

"What'd he do, start hanging out in singles' bars?"

"When would he have time for singles' bars? He met her at work."

"Really?"

"Where else? You don't find single women hanging out at Brownie meetings or in the grocery store."

"I heard otherwise," Ames commented. "Someone told me the best place for meeting singles is in the deli sections of supermarkets."

"I wouldn't know. I haven't tried it. Do you want coffee or not?"

"Please," Ames said.

Despite what I had told Mrs. Edwards, I didn't try calling anybody. Ames and I each drank a cup of coffee. I expected the phone to ring any minute. I figured Peters had ended up spending the night with Andi Wy

Two cups of coffee later I dialed Ron Peters' number again. Maxine Edwards answered. "Oh, it's you," she said, sounding disappointed when she recognized my voice. In the background, I heard a whining child.

"No, Heather, it's not your daddy," Mrs. Edwards scolded. "Now go away and let me talk to Detective Beaumont."

At that Heather pitched such a fit that eventually Mrs. Edwards gave in and put the girl on the line.

"Unca Beau," Heather said in her breathless, toothless six-year-old lisp. "Do you know where my daddy is?"

"No, Heather, I don't. But I can probably find him. Have you eaten breakfast?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you go eat. I'll make some phone calls."

"Do you think he's okay?"

"Of course he's okay. You just go eat your breakfast and do what Mrs. Edwards tells you, all right?"

"All right," she agreed reluctantly. It was clear Maxine Edwards had her hands full.

"Put Mrs. Edwards back on the phone," I ordered. In a moment the baby-sitter's voice came on the line. "I still haven't found out anything," I told her. "But I'll let you know as soon as I do."

When I hung up, I dialed the department. The motor pool told me Peters had turned his vehicle back in at nine the previous evening. That didn't help much.

I headed for the shower. "What are you going to do?" Ames asked me on my way past.

"Go and see if his car is still in the parking garage down on James."

"Wait for me. I'll go along."

It turned out the Datsun was there. It sat, waiting patiently, in a tiny parking place up on the second floor of the parking garage. So much for that. Wherever Peters was, he wasn't driving his own car.

I walked back down the ramp of the garage to where Ames waited in the Porsche.

"It's here," I told him.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Check in with the department and see if he stopped by his desk when he dropped off the car."

He hadn't. Or, if he had, he had left nothing showing on his desk that gave me a clue about his next destination. I paused long enough to try checking with a couple of night-shift detectives to see if they had seen Peters.

To begin with, you don't call guys who work night shift at ten o'clock in the morning unless you have a pretty damn good reason. I got my butt reamed out good by the first two detectives who told me in no uncertain terms that they hadn't seen anything and wouldn't tell me if they had and why the hell was I calling them at this ungodly hour of the morning.

The third one, a black guy named Andy Taylor, is one of the most easygoing people I've ever met. Nothing rattles him, not even being awakened out of a sound sleep.

"Ron Peters?" he asked once he was really awake. "Sure, I saw him last night. He came in around nine, maybe a little later."

"Was he alone?" I asked.

Andy laughed. "Are you kiddin'? He most certainly was not."