Read Online More Perfect Union (9780061760228) by Judith A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B

horns of a dilemma.
    What the hell was I going to do about that name and address? Look into them myself? Why? It wasn’t my case. Turn them over to Manny and Kramer? Fat chance. They were already working on the assumption that Logan Tyree’s death was an accident. I might be totally convinced that their assumption was wrong, but any contradictory suggestion from me was bound to cause trouble.
    In the end, I decided to talk the whole situation over with Ron Peters. Young as he is, he’s got a cool head on his shoulders. What’s more, he has the ability to see several sides to any given argument.
    I glanced up at the sky. It was almost afternoon. Over the past few months, I had made a habit of spending Sunday afternoons with Peters’ two daughters, taking them to visit theirfather at the hospital and then messing around with them for the rest of the day. Our Sunday outings gave their baby-sitter, Maxine Edwards, a much-needed break. It was good for her, good for the girls, and good for me too.
    I wondered briefly if I should go back to Lake Union Drydock and see how things were going, but even thinking about Cassie Young and her moviemaking cohorts filled me with a flood of resentment. It only took a moment to make up my mind. The day was an unauthorized day off, but it was still a day off, a jewel to be treasured. I hadn’t had a break in over two weeks, and neither had Mrs. Edwards.
    Maxine wasn’t just relieved when I offered to take the girls off her hands. She was downright overjoyed. Less than forty minutes from the time I called downstairs to extend the invitation, the girls were at my door ringing the bell—freshly showered, shampooed, and dressed to go visit their father.
    I looked them up and down and gave a low whistle. “Why so dressed up?” I asked.
    Tracie’s answer was serious. “Amy said she has our dresses ready to try on, so if we came over today we should wear our good shoes and stuff.”
    Amy Fitzgerald, Peters’ fiancée, had been busy sewing wedding clothes for herself and for both of the girls as well. With the wedding less than a month away, activity was definitely switching into high gear. Women are like that.If men know what’s good for them, they keep their heads low and go along with the program.
    â€œSo that’s how it is. If Amy wants you dressed up, dressed up you’ll be,” I told them.
    I traded my two-seat Porsche for Peters’ rusty blue Toyota sedan. It was a considerable sacrifice on my part, but I believed in kids using seat belts long before the State of Washington made it a law. Once the girls were securely belted in, we headed for Harborview Hospital on First Hill—Pill Hill according to long-term Seattlites.
    Peters’ room was on the fourth floor, the rehabilitation wing. Over the months the hospital had become far less strange and forbidding for all of us. In the beginning, Peters had been totally immobilized, his back and neck held in rigid traction, but now he had finally worked his way into a wheelchair. Part of every visit included the girls wheeling him around the floor to call on some of the other patients. When they took off on their little jaunt, Amy Fitzgerald and I were left to chew the fat.
    â€œYou sure lit a fire under Ron this morning,” Amy said with a fond laugh.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhen I got here, all he could talk about was some boat that burned up out on Lake Union last week. I’m glad you let him help with your cases, Beau. It’s good for him. It makes me feel like he’s still making a contribution.”
    Of course, Logan Tyree and his burning boat weren’t my cases at all, but I didn’t tell Amythat. After all, why muddy the water with departmental nitpicking?
    â€œHe is making a contribution,” I said. “Just because his legs don’t work doesn’t mean there’s anything the matter with his brain.”
    Amy