Trial By Fury

I waited outside the lot itself, watching the eager beaver fleet of tow trucks come and go. Peters must have flown low across the bridge. He was there in far less than twenty minutes. His first question nailed me good. "Did you have her sign a voluntary search form?"

"You can’t expect me to remember everything," I told him. He glared at me in reply, and we went inside together.

The night clerk wasn’t thrilled at the added paperwork involved in our securing Ridley’s Buick. She did it, though. Once the car had been towed to the secured processing room at Fifth and Cherry, I was ready to call it a day.

"No way," Peters said, opening the passenger door on my Porsche and climbing inside. "I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’ve mended some fences along the way, starting with the medical examiner’s office."

We found the same night tech sound asleep in the employee’s lounge. The bell over the front door didn’t faze him. He awoke with a start when I gave his shoulder a rough shake. "I thought you wanted information," I told him.

He stumbled sleepily to his feet and went in search of his clipboard. I couldn’t help wondering if Doc Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.

I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joa

As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. "By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He’s probably waiting to hear from you." The tech didn’t look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker’s home number.

"You ever hear of wi

"I don’t like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?"

If I had any delusions of going home right then, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. "We’d better check in with the department and let them know what’s up. Officially."

We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. "What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn’t always do things by the book."

He gri

Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.

"Call," Peters said. "Five bucks says I take it."

"You’re on."

"Full house." Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. "See there?"

"Read ’em and weep," I told him, turning over my own-four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.

One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. "I don’t know what you two have been up to, but people are gu

We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn ru

"You interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?" he demanded. "By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you’re qualified for."

"Doc Baker was out of line," I returned. "So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual."

"Doctor Baker," Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. "Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don’t you forget it."

He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. "When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you’ve got."

It was eleven by the time we were perched on the front of Watty’s desk, waiting while he sca

"A high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I’d better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?"

We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don’t get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.

"You satisfied?" I asked. "Is everything by the book now?"

"As much as it’s going to be," Peters replied mildly. "What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley’s house or stop by the school?"

"The house first," I answered. "We’d better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper."

Peters rolled his eyes and gri

I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It’s always my phone.

"Hello," I snarled into it.

"Don’t sound so happy to hear from me." It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames’ law firm, and more importantly, Ralph’s personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I’m not one of his more dependable clients.

"I understand you didn’t make your closing interview this afternoon."

"Damn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?"

"No sweat," Ralph told me cheerfully. "Only you’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll show up this time."

"I swear. Just let me know when it is."

When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I’d need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.

My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joa

It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer’s Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I surfaced in a dream with A

She never changes in my dreams. She’s always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she’s always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.

In the dream, I’m always so glad to see her it’s pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I’ve learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.

I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.

Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle’s colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.

I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.