Read Online Taking the Fifth by J. A. Jance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Jance
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weary sigh, Alan Dale started once more toward the band shell with me right behind him. He stopped me, shaking his head.
“Look, can’t I talk to you later? I’m busier’n a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. I could talk during the show or after, since we’re doing a two-night stand. But right now…”
I could see Alan Dale had a problem. So did I. It was almost time to report in to the department for the beginning of our shift. Big Al and I still hadn’t taken care of the notification of next of kin, and that had to take priority. We had let it go far too long as it was.
“Sure, that’ll be fine, but one more question before I go. You said Morris was going through a trunk. Do you remember which one?”
“Costumes, I think, but I don’t really remember. That’s not my job. I told Waverly.”
“Who’s Waverly?”
He jerked his head in the direction of the intercom. “You said one question. That’s two. Ask Osgood.” With that, Allan Dale left me and headed off, presumably to work on his revolving band shell.
“Who’s Waverly?” I repeated when Dan Osgood slunk back up beside me on the stage.
“Ed Waverly. He’s Westcoast’s road manager.”
“And where would I find him?”
“At the hotel, I guess. He said he was on his way to see Jasmine.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Mayflower Park, over on Olive. That’s where they’re staying. Why? Do you have to see him too?”
“I will eventually, but not right now. First I’ve got to track down two sets of parents so I can tell them their sons are dead.”
A sallow look spread over Dan Osgood’s highbrow face. I had meant to shock him, wanted to shock him. I don’t know why.
I guess the devil made me do it.
CHAPTER 8
IMET AL AT THE DEPARTMENT AND WE made a dash for the freeway, just minutes ahead of afternoon rush-hour traffic on the Mercer Island Bridge. Doc Baker’s office had confirmed Jonathan Thomas’s ID with his attending physician. Tom Riley had given us Jonathan Thomas’s parents’ address and told us that Mr. and Mrs. William B. Thomas lived in Bellevue in an area called The Summit.
No one from downtown should ever try to find an address on the other side of Lake Washington without taking along the essentials—lunch, a map, and a compass, for starters. It’s not that it’s the boonies—it’s the burbs, and suburban planners, with the clever little cul-de-sacs they love, should all draw mazes for kids’ magazines. In this case, we only had a map. While Al drove us across the Interstate 90 Bridge, I attempted to locate The Summit on my four-year-old map. It didn’t exist.
The address said 16318 Summit Drive, so we took the 148th Street exit and stopped at a gas station to ask directions. The young attendant was as obliging as could be. “Sure,” he said, pointing to a clear-cut hilltop with only a few lonely, spindly trees and a smattering of rooftops showing on it. “That’s it, right up there.”
“How do we get there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Beats me. I can ask my boss.”
The boss, a transplant from some corner of the Middle East, barely spoke English, but he communicated clearly enough that he didn’t know where The Summit was, nor did he care.
We retreated to the car and attempted, logically enough, to drive to the place. It seemed straightforward enough, since The Summit was clearly visible to us from where we were. It happens to be one of those places you can’t get to from here. Three attempts ended in dismal failure, with us wandering blindly through a series of pricey suburban dead ends. We stopped once more and asked directions of a bathrobe-clad lady out walking a pair of golden retrievers. She wasn’t able to help us either. That’s one of the mysteries about Bellevue. Nobody knows where anything is or how to get there.
We made one more assault, up 150th. This attempt brought us closer than any of our previous forays, but it ended in a necker’s knob turnaround blocked by a
“Look, can’t I talk to you later? I’m busier’n a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. I could talk during the show or after, since we’re doing a two-night stand. But right now…”
I could see Alan Dale had a problem. So did I. It was almost time to report in to the department for the beginning of our shift. Big Al and I still hadn’t taken care of the notification of next of kin, and that had to take priority. We had let it go far too long as it was.
“Sure, that’ll be fine, but one more question before I go. You said Morris was going through a trunk. Do you remember which one?”
“Costumes, I think, but I don’t really remember. That’s not my job. I told Waverly.”
“Who’s Waverly?”
He jerked his head in the direction of the intercom. “You said one question. That’s two. Ask Osgood.” With that, Allan Dale left me and headed off, presumably to work on his revolving band shell.
“Who’s Waverly?” I repeated when Dan Osgood slunk back up beside me on the stage.
“Ed Waverly. He’s Westcoast’s road manager.”
“And where would I find him?”
“At the hotel, I guess. He said he was on his way to see Jasmine.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Mayflower Park, over on Olive. That’s where they’re staying. Why? Do you have to see him too?”
“I will eventually, but not right now. First I’ve got to track down two sets of parents so I can tell them their sons are dead.”
A sallow look spread over Dan Osgood’s highbrow face. I had meant to shock him, wanted to shock him. I don’t know why.
I guess the devil made me do it.
CHAPTER 8
IMET AL AT THE DEPARTMENT AND WE made a dash for the freeway, just minutes ahead of afternoon rush-hour traffic on the Mercer Island Bridge. Doc Baker’s office had confirmed Jonathan Thomas’s ID with his attending physician. Tom Riley had given us Jonathan Thomas’s parents’ address and told us that Mr. and Mrs. William B. Thomas lived in Bellevue in an area called The Summit.
No one from downtown should ever try to find an address on the other side of Lake Washington without taking along the essentials—lunch, a map, and a compass, for starters. It’s not that it’s the boonies—it’s the burbs, and suburban planners, with the clever little cul-de-sacs they love, should all draw mazes for kids’ magazines. In this case, we only had a map. While Al drove us across the Interstate 90 Bridge, I attempted to locate The Summit on my four-year-old map. It didn’t exist.
The address said 16318 Summit Drive, so we took the 148th Street exit and stopped at a gas station to ask directions. The young attendant was as obliging as could be. “Sure,” he said, pointing to a clear-cut hilltop with only a few lonely, spindly trees and a smattering of rooftops showing on it. “That’s it, right up there.”
“How do we get there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Beats me. I can ask my boss.”
The boss, a transplant from some corner of the Middle East, barely spoke English, but he communicated clearly enough that he didn’t know where The Summit was, nor did he care.
We retreated to the car and attempted, logically enough, to drive to the place. It seemed straightforward enough, since The Summit was clearly visible to us from where we were. It happens to be one of those places you can’t get to from here. Three attempts ended in dismal failure, with us wandering blindly through a series of pricey suburban dead ends. We stopped once more and asked directions of a bathrobe-clad lady out walking a pair of golden retrievers. She wasn’t able to help us either. That’s one of the mysteries about Bellevue. Nobody knows where anything is or how to get there.
We made one more assault, up 150th. This attempt brought us closer than any of our previous forays, but it ended in a necker’s knob turnaround blocked by a
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