Taking the Fifth(74)

“Yes, I’m sure. Are you calling me a liar, Detective Beaumont?”

“No, I just wanted to be sure. Mrs. Morris, do you understand how important this is?”

“I certainly do,” she answered. “If the man from the DEA is selling drugs, who can be trusted?”

“He’s not just a man from the DEA, Mrs. Morris. He’s the guy running the DEA here in Seattle. He’s scared and dangerous, like a cornered rattlesnake. Are you there by yourself?”

“I’ve locked all the doors,” she said. “Closed all the windows.”

“Listen to me. I’m going to call the Bellingham police department. I’m going to ask them to come get you and put you in protective custody—do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Don’t open the door to anyone but a uniformed police officer, and whatever you do, don’t let that tape out of your possession, not even for a minute, is that clear?”

“Shh,” she said.

“What?”

“I thought I heard a noise.”

A wave of gooseflesh ran down my legs, and a torrent of helpless rage washed through my body.

“Turn off the lights,” I ordered. “Hide the tape somewhere, and don’t hang up the phone. I’m going to be off the line for a minute.”

I pressed the switch hook and got a dial tone on my other line, thanking Ralph Ames for his insistence that I have two lines on my phone. My hand shook as I dialed the operator. “This is a matter of life or death,” I said. “Get me the Bellingham Police Department.”

The dispatcher sounded sleepy when he came on the phone. “It’s an emergency,” I said. “Send everything you’ve got to 1414 Utter Street. Hurry! There’s an armed robbery in progress at that address.”

“I’ll have to get your name and address,” the dispatcher said.

They always want to fill in all the forms. They always want the paperwork right. I wanted to rage at him, yank his ears through the telephone, but the only weapon I had at my disposal was to keep calm, to force him to get on track.

“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’m a detective with the Seattle Police Department. I was talking long distance with Grace Simms Morris when somebody started trying to break into her house.”

“How do you know…”

I depressed the switch hook one more time, turning on the three-way calling. I heard shattering glass and a woman’s scream. A moment later, the line to Grace Simms Morris went dead.

“Are you there?” I shouted at the dispatcher. “Did you hear that?” But he was off the line too.

I sat there, strangling the phone with hopeless impotence, remembering all my other failures, counting them up: Ann Corley and Ginger Watkins and, yes, Ron Peters too. Maybe that’s my cross to bear in life, to always want to help, but to never quite measure up, never be there quite on time to do any good, always to miss the mark.

Suddenly the dispatcher was back on the line. “We have officers at the scene, Detective Beaumont. We had a patrol car that was only two minutes away.”

“Is she all right? Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. Stay on the line. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

He went away again, and I sat on hold, uttering an urgent prayer for Mrs. Grace Simms Morris and for J. P. Beaumont too, that for once in my life I might be the knight on the white horse who wouldn’t be too late. The minutes loomed into what seemed like hours before he came back on the line again.

“We have a suspect in custody,” the dispatcher said. “And an ambulance is en route.”

“Is she okay?” I demanded. “Is she still alive?”

“Mrs. Morris is okay,” the dispather said. “She threw a vase at him and broke a window. It cut him pretty good, but the medics say he’ll make it.”

I felt a war whoop rising in my throat. I wanted to dance and sing and throw a vase through my own window. But I stifled the impulse. Twenty-four stories is a long way for broken glass to fall. I managed to get control of myself.

“Who is it?” I asked. “Who’s the suspect?”

“Just a minute,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll check.” Once more he was off the phone. Soon he was back. “His ID says his name’s Holman, Ray Holman. Does that mean anything to you?”

Jubiliation died in my throat. “It sure as hell does. Is he alone?”

“They found a rental car. No one else was in it.”

I took a deep breath. “Listen to me. This is vitally important. Holman isn’t in this alone. He’s got an accomplice named Wainwright who works for the DEA. Mrs. Morris has evidence, incriminating evidence, that they’ll do anything to lay their hands on.”