people who cared about her and would give her the strength and courage to pick up the pieces and go on with her life. What she didn’t need was an aging police watchdog with a penchant for finding bogeymen under every light switch.
Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.
CHAPTER 5
One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It’s always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever’s calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I’m too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.
Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.
"God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I’ve had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They’re ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what we had. Remember me? I’m your partner."
"Hold up, Peters. It’s not my fault."
"Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope."
"Not in those exact words."
"Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What’s going on?"
"It’s Ridley, all right."
That stopped Peters cold. "No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I’d heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?"
"His wife. He’d been missing since Friday, but she didn’t report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he’d come home eventually."
Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. "Have you sealed the car?"
"Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house."
"Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn’t sit outside any longer than it already has."
I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. "What about your girls?"
"Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television." Mrs. Edwards was Peters’ live-in housekeeper/babysitter. "I’ll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes."
As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.
I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he’s disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn’t dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn’t get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing’s Fairview lot.
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.
Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.
CHAPTER 5
One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It’s always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever’s calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I’m too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.
Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.
"God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I’ve had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They’re ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what we had. Remember me? I’m your partner."
"Hold up, Peters. It’s not my fault."
"Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope."
"Not in those exact words."
"Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What’s going on?"
"It’s Ridley, all right."
That stopped Peters cold. "No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I’d heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?"
"His wife. He’d been missing since Friday, but she didn’t report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he’d come home eventually."
Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. "Have you sealed the car?"
"Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house."
"Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn’t sit outside any longer than it already has."
I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. "What about your girls?"
"Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television." Mrs. Edwards was Peters’ live-in housekeeper/babysitter. "I’ll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes."
As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.
I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he’s disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn’t dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn’t get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing’s Fairview lot.
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.
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