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doing nothing? At least they get an early start on it.
    Peters had taken to this regimen like a duck to water. He's been an early riser for as long as I've known him, and once the morning hospital routines were completed, he would invariably give me a call. I was his connection to an outside world of work and family that was otherwise closed to him. His calls were so regular that I had almost quit bothering to set my alarm clock.
    "The girls have been bugging me about Bumbershoot," he said. "It's next weekend, you know. They're dying to go, but Amy's going to be out of town at a convention, and Mrs. Edwards just can't hack it by herself. Having the girls in a crowd like that would be too much for her."
    Bumbershoot is an end-of-summer celebration, a four-day extravaganza that takes place in Seattle over Labor Day weekend. It's held at Seattle Center, the site of the 1962 World's Fair. Bumbershoot is like a gigantic medieval fair, complete with food booths, fortune-tellers, street musicians, jugglers, name-brand entertainment, and a crowd of approximately 250,000. I could well believe Mrs. Edwards couldn't hack going there with two little kids. I wondered if I could.
    Peters continued. "I told the girls the only way they could go was if you'd agree to take them, but that I'd have to check with you first, for them not to get their hopes up."
    "Sure, I'll take 'em." I couldn't believe I was saying it. Maybe it was guilt about my own kids that made me say yes. I remembered back when Kelly and Scott were little. I had worked event security at Bumbershoot for two of the three days. When I woke up Monday morning and Karen said that she wanted to take the kids and go Bumbershooting, she and I got in a hell of a fight. We ended up not going at all.
    Did I say maybe it was guilt? Of course it was guilt. Who am I trying to kid?
    "Thanks, Beau," Peters said. "I figured you would." I didn't tell him why I was such a pushover.
    "They'll be thrilled," he continued. "I was afraid Heather would try to get to you before I had a chance."
    "Nope," I said, glancing at the still-flashing light on my answering machine. There were at least five messages waiting to be replayed. "This is the first I've heard anything about it."
    "Good. I'll tell Mrs. Edwards to get in touch with you to make arrangements.
    "How's the movie going?" he asked, changing the subject. "Were you anywhere near where they pulled that body out of Lake Union yesterday?"
    I glanced at the clock. I was already late. It didn't much matter if I got there later still. I took the time to tell Peters some of what had gone on the day before. As soon as I got to the part about the buckle, Peters stopped me short.
    "Hey, wait a minute. Remember that guy whose boat blew up last week out in the middle of Lake Union? I seem to remember the papers saying the owner of the boat was an ironworker. He was missing afterwards. They had divers down and were dragging the lake, but they didn't find a body."
    Peters' more than adequate memory had been honed even sharper by the months of hospital confinement. He would devour newspapers, remembering almost verbatim everything he read. His comment jarred my memory as well. I had heard about the case and the missing body. I had forgotten that the missing victim was an ironworker.
    "I'll bet you're right, Peters. I wonder if Davis and Kramer have made the connection?"
    "Kramer?" Peters asked. "Paul Kramer from robbery?"
    Wanting to avoid going into detail about my hassle with Kramer, I had neglected to tell Peters the names of the homicide detectives assigned to the case. It was nobody's business but my own, one I didn't care to advertise.
    "That's him all right," I said. "What about him?"
    "He's a first-class son of a bitch," Peters growled. "When I was still in robbery, he almost caused me to quit the force. What's he doing working in homicide?"
    Knowing I wasn't the only one bothered by Paul Kramer made me feel less like the Lone Ranger. "He transferred up