Taking the Fifth(72)

“Why not?”

“Because something’s out of whack. Something’s wrong and I can’t tell what it is.”

“Maybe you’re feeling cheated.”

“Cheated?” I repeated the word, puzzling over it. “How so?”

“You didn’t get to take him in. Somebody robbed you of the arrest. Doesn’t that bother you?”

She was on the money, but I didn’t let on. “Not particularly,” I said. “Should it?”

She smiled behind her cup. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“What exactly have you heard, and where?”

“You’re something of a legend, you know. They say that you sleep and eat your job, and that you don’t give up. Incidentally, you’ve got quite a reputation around the department, especially among the raw recruits. The story goes that J. P. Beaumont is only one small step below godliness.”

That made me laugh. “Your over-the-hill legend seems to have feet of clay,” I said. “You should have seen me this afternoon.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “Why?”

“Because Jasmine Day could have kicked shit out of me, if you’ll pardon the expression, and I never even saw it coming.”

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply.

“Do what?”

“Don’t apologize for talking like a cop. I’m one too, remember?” She got up abruptly, taking her check with her. I caught up with her at the cash register.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Don’t talk down to me,” she said. “My ears won’t fall off if I hear those words.”

She paid for her own breakfast and opened her own car door, but she accepted my ride home and gave me a thank-you peck on the cheek, which only served to puzzle me that much more. I drove home to Belltown Terrace pondering man’s age-old question of what is it that women really want.

I walked into my apartment without bothering to turn on any light. The only light in the room was the blinking red one, counting off the messages on my answering machine. Any other time, I might have been tempted to ignore it, to go to bed and take the messages off the machine in the morning, but too much had happened in the last few days. There were too many loose ends hanging that needed tying up, and I didn’t dare ignore anything that might give me a lead.

I counted five messages in all. I sat down in the recliner, eased it back, and pushed the playback button. The first one was from Mrs. Grace Simms Morris.

“Detective Beaumont, I just wanted to call you and thank you for talking to Mr. Wainwright for me. He called just a few minutes ago, and he’s coming over to pick me up. He never would have listened to me if it hadn’t been for you. I really appreciate it.”

I was no longer reclining. I sat up straight and punched the rewind button. Wainwright hadn’t said anything to me about talking to Mrs. Morris. And I remembered him saying distinctly that he had no intention of talking to her. I replayed the message, but it still said exactly the same thing.

This time, when the message finished, I let it go on. The next three messages were from Peters and Amy. Two of the calls were nothing but attempts to find me. The third one left detailed information about the DEA bust in L.A. But it was the fifth message, the last one, that put the frosting on the cake.

It was Grace Simms Morris again, or at least someone who sounded like her, but the voice was so tremulous, so indefinite, that I had to turn up the volume on my recorder to hear her.

“Please, Detective Beaumont, call me the moment you get home. I don’t care what time it is, just call me. It’s urgent. I thought about calling your office, but I don’t dare. I don’t know who to trust. Please call.”

She had left her number and I called her back immediately. Mrs. Morris must have been sleeping with the phone in her lap. She answered after only half a ring.

“Detective Beaumont?” she said, before I had a chance to open my mouth. “Is this you?”

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you? You sounded upset.”

Suddenly she was blubbering into the phone, sobbing in my ear. “I didn’t know what to do, whom I should call. It’s terrible, just terrible.”

“What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him,” she said. “Wainwright.”

“What about him?”

“He called me at the hotel, a little while after you left. He told me he was sorry, that there had been a terrible mistake. He said he understood now how valuable the evidence was that my son had provided, and would I go with him right then to get it.”

“Wainwright said that?” I asked incredulously.