Long Time Gone jpb-17 Read online

  Long Time Gone

  ( J P Beaumont - 17 )

  J. A. Jance

  J. A. Jance

  Long Time Gone

  PROLOGUE

  By standing on the tips of her toes on a kitchen chair, five-year-old Bonnie could just see out over the sill of the window in the tiny daylight basement apartment where she lived with her parents. The sun had finally burned through the low gray clouds, and now splashes of sunlight cast a crazy-quilt pattern across the rain-dampened grass of the yard and the cracked concrete of the crumbling sidewalk and driveway. Sunlit spring afternoons were rare in western Washington, and Bonnie longed to be outside, but she didn’t dare, not with Mama and Daddy gone.

  When they went away on those long Saturday afternoons, they’d tell her that she’d better stay inside and be good until they got home, or else…Bonnie knew what “or else” meant. If they found Bonnie had been outside while they were off drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, Daddy would take off his belt and light into her. Or Mama would go outside and cut a switch from the weeping willow tree and use that on Bonnie’s bare legs or the thin, raggedy panties that covered her equally thin behind.

  The outside door was unlocked. Bonnie could have gone up the stairs and let herself out if she had wanted to. She would have loved to run barefoot through the grass, chasing the butterflies that drifted in and out of Mimi’s garden, or to play a solitary game of hopscotch on the smooth surface of her neighbor’s driveway. But she didn’t. No matter how well she tried to hide what she had done, Mama always seemed to know exactly when Bonnie was telling fibs.

  So Bonnie stayed where she was, watching and waiting, sometimes shifting her weight from side to side and holding on to the windowsill to help keep her balance. Then something interesting happened. A big car came creeping up Mimi’s driveway. Her driveway was far nicer than theirs. It was smooth and clean with no gaping cracks where grass and weeds and dandelions squeezed through.

  The car stopped a few feet from Bonnie’s window perch. It looked new and shiny, and it was red. Not fire-engine red, but a funny kind of red Bonnie had never seen before. She watched as a man got out, a big man wearing the kind of dress-up clothing Daddy never wore, not even on holy days when Mama made him go to church. The man slammed the car door shut. He hurried over to the steps and pounded on the back door. After a while, Bonnie’s friend Mimi opened the door and stepped out onto the porch and stood with her back to the screen door.

  During the week when Mimi went to work, she wore dresses and heels and had her hair pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. Today, though, her long dark hair was in a ponytail, which made her look much younger. She wore light green pedal pushers with a matching top along with white sandals. Even from where she stood, Bonnie could see the bright red polish that Mimi wore on her toenails. Mimi had even offered to paint Bonnie’s toenails once, but Daddy had said, “No. Absolutely not.” And Mama had said Bonnie was too young for nail polish. So all Bonnie could do was look at Mimi’s brightly colored toes and wait to grow up.

  Since Saturday was housecleaning day, Mimi wore a flowery full-length apron. As she talked to the man on her porch, Mimi crossed her arms under the bottom of the apron as though her arms were cold and covering them with the cloth of her apron might help warm them.

  Bonnie couldn’t hear any of the conversation, but from the bright red splotches of color on her friend’s cheeks Bonnie knew that Mimi was angry. So was the man. He waved his arms. His face turned red. And every time he stopped talking, all Mimi did was shake her head. Whatever the man wanted, Mimi’s answer was no.

  One of the car doors opened and another woman stepped out. This one looked familiar. Bonnie thought she might have seen the woman before, coming to the house with a vase of flowers or maybe a covered dish for supper. Bonnie had seen Mimi’s mother occasionally. The woman was old and sick. Sometimes she was in a wheelchair, but mostly she stayed in bed. Mimi worked in an office all day. The rest of the time she was at home taking care of her mother.

  As the second woman walked toward the porch, she opened her purse, reached inside, and pulled something out. Only when the sun glinted off the blade did Bonnie realize it was a knife. That seemed odd. Most of the women Bonnie knew used their purses to carry lipstick and hankies and compacts and change purses. Never a knife.

  Why a knife? What was going on?

  The woman stepped up onto the porch beside the man. She looked angry, too. Bonnie wondered what was wrong. Why were those two people yelling at Mimi? Bonnie didn’t have to hear the words to know they were saying mean and nasty things. At last Mimi turned and started to go inside. That’s when the man reached out and grabbed her. Catching her by the arm, he pulled her off the back porch.

  Bonnie watched in horror as Mimi fell all the way to the sidewalk, where she lay still for a moment, as though the force of the fall had knocked the wind out of her. Bonnie knew how that felt. The same thing had happened to her once when she had fallen out of the apple tree.

  Then, instead of helping Mimi up, the man dropped on top of her, with his knee in her stomach. There was a brief struggle. The man seemed to be hitting her. The woman was standing in the way, so Bonnie couldn’t see everything that happened. She wanted to scream out at him, “Stop! Stop! You’re hurting her.” But her voice froze in her throat. The words wouldn’t come.

  At last the woman reached down and helped the man up. The two of them stood there for a moment, looking down at Mimi. Even from where she was standing, Bonnie could see that the man’s hands were bloody. So was his shirt. After a moment, the man and woman hurried into the house, closing the door behind them and leaving Mimi lying on the sidewalk.

  For a time Bonnie didn’t move. She didn’t know what to do. She might have run upstairs and told their landlady, but Mrs. Ridder was a cranky old woman. Mama had made it clear that she didn’t like children and that Bonnie was never, under any circumstances, to go upstairs and bother her. But still, Bonnie couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. At last she jumped down from the chair, ran up the stairs, and hurried out the door.

  If the afternoon sun was warm on her body, Bonnie didn’t feel it. She raced across their driveway and the narrow strip of grass that separated her backyard from Mimi’s. A few feet away, she stopped and stared in horror. There was blood-bright red blood-everywhere. Mimi’s flowery apron was drenched in it. Blood spilled onto the cement driveway and pooled beneath her. The handle of a kitchen knife that looked just like Mama’s stuck out of her stomach.

  “Mimi,” Bonnie gasped when she was finally able to speak. “Are you okay?”

  Slowly Mimi turned her head and looked at Bonnie. Her eyes searched aimlessly. It was as though she were seeing Bonnie from a very long distance away and was having trouble finding where to look. Mimi opened her mouth and tried to speak, but at first no words came out.

  “Please,” Mimi began finally, but she couldn’t go on. Her lips moved, but Bonnie couldn’t hear what she was saying. The horrified child dropped to her knees, hoping to lean near enough to hear and to understand what was needed. Mimi reached out, but instead of taking Bonnie’s hand, she pushed her away. “Go,” she whispered urgently. “Please go!”

  Just then the back door opened. The woman hurried out onto the porch. “Who the hell are you, you little shit?” she demanded, staring down at Bonnie. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Bonnie struggled to her feet and dodged backward just as the woman lunged toward her. Fortunately the woman’s high-heeled shoe caught on the edge of the driveway and sank into the muddy grass. It was enough to allow Bonnie to scramble out of the way.

  “You come back here!” the woman ordered.

  But Bonnie saw the blood-Mimi’s blood-on the woman
’s hands. Bonnie shook her head and kept backing up.

  Just then Mimi made a strange, gurgling sound. The woman looked down at her briefly. Then she glanced at Mimi’s back door and again at Bonnie, who was still backing across the yard as fast as her short little legs would carry her.

  “You’d better get the hell out of here then,” the woman snarled. “And if you say a word about this to anyone, he’ll do the same thing to you, understand?”

  At that, Bonnie turned and fled. She ran as fast as she could, past the door into the apartment and around to the back of the house, where she ducked into her favorite hiding place, a small passage between a crumbling toolshed and an overgrown hedge. She crouched there in the mud gasping for breath while her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She cried for a while, but then, afraid the man and woman might be looking for her and hear her sobs, she fell quiet and listened-for what seemed like a long, long time. At last she heard the sound of car doors slamming. Moments later, the big red car nosed slowly past the front of the house. Only then did Bonnie creep out of her hiding place.

  She tiptoed around the end of the house, back to the side yards and to the place where she had seen Mimi lying in a pool of her own blood. Mimi was gone, and so was the blood. The sidewalk at the bottom of the porch was wet, as though someone had hosed it off.

  For a few moments, Bonnie stood staring at Mimi’s back door, wondering if Mimi was inside and if she was okay. But Bonnie didn’t go up the steps and knock on the door. It was getting late. Her parents would be home soon. She didn’t want them to find her outside.

  She hurried back into the downstairs apartment. Once she was inside, she looked down and saw that her dress was splattered with mud and blood. Mimi’s blood. If Mama saw that, she’d want to know how it got there. Next would come the switch or the belt. Bonnie was convinced that if she told anyone what had happened-even Mama and Daddy-she was sure the man who had hurt Mimi would find out about it and come looking for her.

  So Bonnie took her dress off. She washed her hands and face and knees, and then she changed into a clean dress. She rolled up the ruined one as small as she could make it. She was standing in the kitchen looking for a place to hide it when she heard the sound of her parents’ car pulling up outside. Desperate, she shoved the dress as far as she could into the space between the back of the refrigerator and the wall.

  Seconds later, Mama and Daddy came in the door. They were laughing and smiling and having a good time. Daddy came over, picked Bonnie up, and swung her around the room.

  “There you are,” he said. “Have you been a good girl?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she told him. “I’ve been a very good girl.”

  He put her back down on the floor and pulled a Tootsie Roll out of his shirt pocket. “That’s for being good then,” he said.

  Tootsie Rolls were by far Bonnie’s favorite candy. Instead of tearing the paper off and biting into it, she held the paper-wrapped candy in her hand and stared at it.

  “What do you say?” Mama asked.

  “Thank you,” Bonnie murmured.

  “Well,” Daddy asked. “Are you going to eat it or not?”

  So she did. Under her parents’ watchful eyes, Bonnie unwrapped the candy and managed to choke down that Tootsie Roll. It was the last one she ever ate. From then on, the very idea of that soft, chewy chocolate reminded her of something that was too awful to think about or remember.

  Over the years Bonnie forgot all about her friend Mimi lying there in the spreading pool of her own blood, but she never forgot that the very act of biting into a Tootsie Roll had the power to make her physically ill.

  CHAPTER 1

  Anyone who is dumb enough to live on one side of Lake Washington and work on the other is automatically doomed to spend lots of time stuck in bridge traffic. Such was the case one January morning as I headed for my job as an investigator for the Washington State Attorney’s Special Homicide Investigation Team, known fondly to all of us who work there by that unfortunate moniker, the SHIT squad.

  I live in Belltown Terrace, a condo at the upper end of Second Avenue in downtown Seattle. My office is sixteen miles away in a south Bellevue neighborhood called Eastgate. That morning’s commute was hampered by two separate phenomena, both of which were related to a mid-January blast of arctic air that had come swooping down on western Washington from the Gulf of Alaska. The first traffic hazard was black ice, which had turned most of the minor side streets into skating rinks. Unfortunately, I’m a world-class procrastinator, and the winter weather had snuck up on me while my Porsche 928 was still decked out in summer-performance tires.

  The other major traffic hazard was mountains-not driving over them, but seeing them. For nine months of the year, the mountains around Seattle are mostly invisible. Hidden by cloud cover, they sit there minding their own business, but when the “mountains are out,” as we say around here, and Mount Rainier emerges in all its snow-clad splendor, trouble is bound to follow. Unwary drivers, entranced by the unaccustomed view, slam into the fenders of the cars in front of them, and traffic comes to a dead stop. The frigid air had left the snowcapped mountains vividly beautiful against a clear blue sky. As a result, I-90 was littered with pieces of scattered sheet metal, chrome-trim pieces, and speeding tow trucks.

  Between ice-and gawker-related accidents, my normal twenty-minute commute had turned into an hour-long endurance test. Adding insult to injury was the fact that this was my first morning back at work after a weeklong stay in Hawaii.

  You’ll notice I said stay, not vacation, because it wasn’t. I was there as father of the groom. Anyone who’s been down that road knows it’s no cakewalk.

  The wedding had come up suddenly when Scott telephoned the day after Christmas to say that he and Cherisse were giving up their long-planned, no-holds-barred, late-summer extravaganza of a wedding in favor of a hastily arranged and low-key affair that would take place on a private beach near Waikiki the second week in January. As plans for the summer wedding had burgeoned out of control, I had been less than thrilled about the way things were going. A low-attendance affair that would consist of bride and groom, best people, and an assortment of parental units was much more to my liking.

  I did wonder briefly if a misstep in birth-control planning had accounted for this sudden change in plans. That certainly had been the case when I had masterminded my daughter’s hasty marriage to her husband, Jeremy. Now, several years and 1.6 kids later, Kelly and Jeremy were doing just fine, and I had no doubt Scott and Cherisse would do the same. So I rented a tux, booked my hotel room and plane tickets, and was on my way. I didn’t find out that I was wrong about the unwed pregnancy bit until after I checked into my hotel room outside Honolulu.

  I had just finished stowing my luggage when Dave Livingston stopped by my room to give me the real story.

  Dave, by the way, is my first wife’s second husband and her official widower. He’s also Scott’s stepfather and a hell of a nice guy. Right after Karen died, Dave and I both made an extra effort to get along-for the kids’ sake. It may have been a phony act to begin with, but over time it’s turned real enough. As far as parental units go, Dave and I are all Scott Beaumont has. Dave had flown in from L.A. the night before and had eaten dinner with Cherisse’s folks, Helene and Pierre Madrigal, who had arrived on a flight from France the previous day.

  There are a number of things I didn’t learn about Dave Livingston until the occasion of Scott’s wedding. For one thing, he speaks French. I have no idea why an accountant from Southern California would be, or would even need to be, fluent in French, but he was and is. In the course of that initial dinner he had sussed out that Pierre, age fifty-seven, had recently been diagnosed with a recurrence of prostate cancer. He and his wife had decided to postpone his next round of treatment until after the wedding. This bit of bad news no doubt accounted for the sudden change in wedding plans, and rightly so. In my opinion, postponing cancer treatment for any reason is never a good idea. Scott and Cherisse w
ere obviously concerned that by summertime his condition might have deteriorated to the point where traveling to their wedding would be impossible.

  And so I found myself in the middle of a wedding event that was complicated by a family health crisis and confounded by limited communication skills. Unlike Dave, I am not fluent in French. My daughter had thoughtfully sent along a French/English phrase book that she thought might be useful. Unfortunately the usual tourist-focused contents made zero mention of PSA counts or prostate difficulties, so I couldn’t have talked to Pierre about his situation even if I had wanted.

  Dave and Pierre got along famously. In the course of the next several days, the two of them carried on lively breakfast-time conversations in lightning-speed French in which they discussed bits of information both of them had gleaned from that morning’s Wall Street Journal, so obviously Pierre’s grasp of English was far better than he was willing to let on. Meanwhile, Helene and I sipped our respective cups of coffee and smiled sincerely but wordlessly back and forth across the table. Come to think of it, idiotically might be a better way of putting it. As far as I could tell, Helene’s English was as nonexistent as my French.

  Thinking the wedding would be a good excuse to use up some of my use-it-or-lose-it SHIT-squad vacation time, I had agreed to come to Hawaii five days before the actual wedding. That turned out to be a big mistake because I’m not much good at taking vacations. Never have been. It’s one of the criticisms Karen used to level at me both before and after we divorced. And my shrink-the one Seattle PD sent me to see after my partner Sue Danielson was gunned down-told me pretty much the same thing.

  “It’s one of the main reasons so many retired cops end up blowing their brains out, Detective Beaumont,” Dr. Katherine Majors had said during one of my departmentally decreed counseling sessions designed to fix cops whose partners have been killed in the line of duty. “They never manage to separate themselves from their jobs. Once they stop working, they lose their identity and, as a consequence, their whole reason for living.”