“And I’m telling you that the day-shift guys are going to conduct their own investigation and draw their own conclusions.”
The doorbell rang. “Hang on, Watty, someone’s at the door.”
I hurried to answer it, paid for the food and the newspaper, put the tray down on the table, and returned to the phone.
“I’m back,” I said.
“From your report, I see that you already notified Thomas’s parents. What about Morris’s mother? You ever get hold of her?”
“I’ll be talking to her today.”
“Good. The media has been bugging Arlo Hamilton to release his name, but we’re waiting on notification of next of kin.” Arlo is Seattle P.D.’s public information officer.
Jasmine came down the hall. The wig was firmly in place. She dropped her purse and shoes on the parquet floor near the door and then stood, one hand on her hip, regarding me from across the room.
“Look, Watty,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment at ten o’clock. I’ll stop by and talk to you after that, all right?”
Hurriedly, I put down the phone and went to the door, where Jasmine was standing on one foot, pulling on a shoe.
“Jasmine,” I blurted. “I meant to tell you—”
“Did you call me a cab or not?”
“No. Let me give you a ride.”
“I’ll walk if I have to.” She started to bend down for her other shoe. I beat her to it, picked it up, and handed it to her. In the process, I looked at the shoe, a finely crafted sandal. The manufacturer’s name was written on the instep. Cole-Haan. And the size was inked into the heel strap. Size 8½B.
With that, she slipped on the sandal, turned, and walked out the door. I didn’t try to stop her. There was no point.
I stood there, thunderstruck. I heard the elevator come and go without moving. Finally, I shook myself out of my stupor. There had to be thousands of pairs of Cole-Haan shoes in the Seattle area. Hundreds in size 8½B.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I told myself. I hurried out to the elevator. It was slow coming, and by the time I got down to the lobby door, she was gone.
I went back up to my apartment. The food was sitting on the table getting cold. I didn’t bother to touch it. My appetite was pretty well shot. I wondered if I’d ever get it back.
CHAPTER 13
I DROVE TO THE DEPARTMENT WITH MY mind in a turmoil. Cole-Haan, size 8½B. I tried to convince myself that the evidence was strictly circumstantial, but I couldn’t. I don’t believe in Santa Claus or blind coincidence. Cops who do don’t live very long.
Sergeant Watkins was deep in conference with Captain Powell. I hung around outside the fishbowl until they broke it up and Watty came outside.
“How’s it going, Beau?” he asked. “You look beat.”
“Thanks,” I told him. “Nothing like a vote of confidence. I’m shot to shit.”
“Did you get the message from Janice Morraine? She’s evidently got something for you. She called a few minutes ago and raised hell because you weren’t available.”
“I hope you reminded her that I work swing shift,” I said.
“So does she,” Watty returned.
Some arguments are winnable and others aren’t. This one wasn’t. Without bothering to go to my desk, I took a quick hike down the back stairway to the crime lab on the second floor.
I found Janice Morraine there in the lab, hunkered down over her microscope.
“How’s it going, Jan?” I asked.
She straightened up, rubbing her back. “Depends. If you’re asking about my sex life, it doesn’t. If you’re asking about work, we’re making progress.”
“Work,” I said. “Did you get that trace evidence from Doc Baker?”
She patted her microscope. “Yup. It’s right here.”
“And what is it?”
“It’s a hair,” she said. “A nice, long synthetic blonde hair. Top quality,” she added. “It’s so good, it was impossible to tell it wasn’t real until I got it under the microscope. The crime-scene investigators picked up one just like it from the Pike Place Market parking lot yesterday afternoon. All we have to do now is find that wig. It must be a beaut.”
There was a sick feeling in my gut that said I might know the exact whereabouts of that very wig, that when last seen it had been firmly attached to the head of Jasmine Day as she walked out of my apartment and slammed the door shut behind her. I didn’t let on.
“You’re sure they match?”
“Of course I’m sure. Synthetics are a hell of a lot easier to match up than natural fibers.”