"That's what I thought. So you aren't to go anywhere near that investigation. Understood?"

"It's too late," I said.

"What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?" Harry roared back at me. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to keep from being deafened.

"Ron and I are still good friends. And I'm friends with his family as well. His wife, Amy, stopped by here a few minutes ago. She told me she was looking for towels in the back of Ron's vehicle this morning and found what she's sure is dried blood. She didn't want to report it. I told her I had to. And I am."

I've never known Harry I. Ball to be caught speechless, but he was right then. He was quiet for so long that I wondered if the line had gone dead. Then he cut loose with a string of colorful and politically incorrect expletives.

"When the h.e.l.l did that happen?" he demanded.

"Like I said. A few minutes ago. I called as soon as she left." This wasn't quite true, but my intervening call to Ralph Ames hadn't taken very long.

"Where's the vehicle?" Harry asked.

"At their house. On Queen Anne Hill." I gave Harry the address.

"Remember, Beau. You're to keep your a.s.s out of this. You'll have to be interviewed, but other than that..."

"Harry," I said. "These people are friends of mine. I can't just turn my back on them."

"The h.e.l.l you can't! You can and you will. Your friend, as you call him, happens to be a homicide suspect," Harry returned. "And in case you haven't noticed, cop-related domestic violence cases are very big right now. You are not, I repeat, N-O-T to be involved in any way. Ross Connors says we can't have even the slightest appearance of conflict of interest on this case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Got it," I said.

"What about that other case?" he asked. "The one I a.s.signed you to yesterday?"

I noticed no one, including the attorney general himself, was concerned about a possible conflict of interest when it came to doing a favor for Ross Connors's old pal from O'Dea High School, but I decided that was something I'd be better off not mentioning.

"I'm working it," I told him.

"Good," Harry said. "And you keep right on working it. Following up on a cold case will keep you out of Mel and Brad's way, which is exactly where I want you. It's where Ross Connors wants you, too."

"Okay, Harry," I told him. "Okay. I can take a hint."

Bent on following orders and hoping to keep my nose clean, I sat down and tried calling the special twenty-four-hour line at the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if I could locate licensing or vehicle information that would give me an address for either of Sister Mary Katherine's parents, Sean and Molly Dunleavy. An unusual recorded message at the DMV told me that due to weather concerns the office was currently responding to emergency requests for information only. All others should call back at a later time. So much for state-run bureaucracies.

I sat there, staring out at the unfathomable blue of Elliott Bay and wondering what I should do next. That's when I spotted the small round globe on top of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building a few short downhill blocks away. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Newspapers have to put out editions every day, snow or no snow. Some of the answers I was looking for might be available in the morgue at the P.-I. at the bottom of the hill where I had watched cars playing crash-car derby in the snow the night before.

I had no intention of taking the 928 out on the street where it was likely to end up being run over by some SUV-wielding nutcase with too much horsepower and only the dimmest grasp of physics. I was going to have to walk. It took a while to locate my long-unused snow boots. Once I did, I realized I was hungry.

I've never been much of a cook. Marshmallows aren't the only thing I don't keep around my condo. Basic foodstuffs are also in short supply. I used to hang out at a neighborhood dive called the Doghouse, but that went away years ago. Since then, I've tried various other joints, none of which have had quite the same fit as the Doghouse. When I choose restaurants, I ignore menu and atmosphere in favor of proximity. The P.-I. office is located on Elliott. So is the Shanty, which may have been a little out of the way, but food is food. It also gave me an excuse for taking a longer but much flatter route to the newspaper.

As I said, the good news about the Shanty is that it's close to theP.-I. The bad news about the Shanty is that it's close to the P.-I. It's also very small. As I stood in the open doorway knocking snow from my boots, I spotted none other than Maxwell Cole ensconced at the counter. If I could have ducked out without his seeing me, I would have, but it was already too late.

"Well, well, well," he said in a loud voice that carried throughout the restaurant. "If it isn't former Detective J. P. Beaumont. I was under the impression you worked mostly on the Eastside these days. Out slumming, I take it?"

Over the years I've occasionally had friends who, for one reason or another, dropped out of my life. Enemies tend to hang on forever. That's certainly the way it is with Maxwell Cole.

Max and I go way back-all the way back to our frat days back at the University of Washington. He was dating a cute girl named Karen Moffitt. I took one look at her, decided she was the one for me, and stole her away from him. Max has been p.i.s.sed about it ever since.

Unfortunately, Max and I work different sides of the same mean streets. He started out as a cub reporter at the Post-Intelligencer about the same time I went to work for Seattle PD. Since he's never forgiven me for poaching Karen, he's never given me anything but journalistic hatchet jobs whenever he's had the chance. I'm a long way short of perfect. That means I've given him lots of opportunity to show me in a bad light. It wasn't so annoying when he was a simple reporter. Back then he more or less had to stick to the facts. Now that he's a seasoned, big-deal columnist, he's allowed to say whatever he d.a.m.n well pleases. And does.

Everybody in the tiny restaurant sensed the underlying antagonism in his voice. They all fell silent as if waiting for the equivalent of a schoolyard fight to break out right there at the lunch counter.

"Just looking for a little grub," I said as pleasantly as I could manage.

For years the man has sported a handlebar mustache. It's an affectation that doesn't suit him. Think overfed walrus, droopy jowls and all. With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the place next to him at the counter, ceremoniously offering me a place to sit. The tiny restaurant was crowded. The only other available spot was at the far end of the counter. Ignoring Max's invitation would be an obvious insult, one I'd be delivering on his own turf. Bad idea. And so, even knowing that it might cause trouble later, I took the stool he indicated.

"Thanks, Maxey," I said. "That's mighty decent of you."

a.s.suming the confrontation was over, the other diners relaxed and resumed their chewing and talking. Max, who doesn't appreciate being called Maxey, glared at me.

"I hear that old partner of yours is in a lot of trouble," he said.

"Is that so?" I asked noncommittally. "Which partner would that be? I've had several over the years."

A harried waitress swooped by and took my order for ham and eggs and coffee. Max, finished with his food, was nursing a cup of coffee. The waitress dropped off his check at the same time she took my order. If delivering his bill was a subtle hint for Max to eat, pay, and go, he didn't take it.

"Peters," he replied. "Ron Peters. His ex-wife was gunned down over the weekend."

"Really," I said.

"Are you telling me you don't know anything about it?" he demanded.

I shook my head, and Max was only too happy to a.s.sume the role of the bearer of bad tidings. "Ron and his ex were involved in some kind of custody dispute. According to what I've heard, the wife's attorney is the one who got the investigation pointed in Ron's direction. Something about a threat Ron made last week."

"You don't say," I said.

"With Peters being a cop and all, that means the Special Homicide division will be handling the investigation, right?"

Those of us who work there may affectionately refer to our agency as s.h.i.t, but outsiders had best beware. They're better off not referring to us by that moniker even if they think we are. As far as I was concerned, Maxwell Cole had made a good choice.

"I suppose so," I said. "In fact, I believe it's a state law."

"What do you think?"

"About the law?" I asked, acting dim.

"About Ron Peters."

"Come on, Max. You know I can't discuss ongoing investigations."

"So you're saying it is an ongoing investigation after all?"

The short-order cook on duty was a regular speed demon. My food came just then. I salted and peppered the h.e.l.l out of it, not because the food needed the extra seasoning, but because I needed to do something with my hands besides throttling Maxwell Cole's bulging twenty-two-inch neck.

"Look," I said finally. "Ron Peters is a good friend of mine. Whatever may or may not be going on in his life, I have two words for you, Max, and they are 'No comment.' If you want official information, I suggest you contact my boss, the Squad B commander."

I grabbed a fresh napkin from the dispenser on the counter. After jotting Harry's name and office phone number on it, I pa.s.sed the napkin along to Max. He studied it for a minute before his portly face broke into a grin.

"You're pulling my leg, right?" he asked.

"About what?"

"You want me to talk to somebody named Harry I. Ball? What kind of joke is that?"

That's something Harry Ignatius Ball counts on. He likes dealing with people who make the mistake of thinking he's some kind of joke. He sucks them in by playing dumb when he first meets them. Later on, when the opportunity presents itself, he revels in chewing those same people to pieces. From my point of view, it's one of Harry's most endearing qualities.

I could have warned Max to tread warily when it came to dealing with Harry, but I didn't. Max didn't deserve to be warned.

"It's no joke," I said. "Call him up and talk to him. It should be a laugh a minute."

"I'll just bet," Max returned.

Max's check was still there on the counter, halfway between my water gla.s.s and his empty coffee cup. He may have expected me to pick it up and pay for his breakfast, but I didn't.

Tiring of my company at last, Max sighed and slapped a meaty paw over the bill, then he got up and waddled over to the cash register. I didn't say good riddance, not even under my breath, but that's what I was thinking.

Good riddance, and don't let the door slam your b.u.t.t on the way out.

CHAPTER 6.

I HADN'T BOTHERED mentioning to Maxwell Cole that I was on my way to visit his digs at the P.-I., and I carefully gave him plenty of lead time. I didn't want the two of us walking in through the front door and stamping snow off our boots at the same time.

In a post-9/11 world, my s.h.i.t squad ID was enough to get me past the guard at the front door. It took my ID, ten minutes of wheedling, and a call from someone in the attorney general's office down in Olympia for me to gain access to the newspaper's holy of holies, the morgue.

Over the years I've done my share of griping about newfangled technology. I've fought integrated-circuit advances all the way down the line-from cell phones to computers-until I finally admitted defeat or came to my senses, depending on your point of view. If I hadn't already succ.u.mbed to the lure of computers, a day spent dealing with microfiche would have sent me plunging over the edge. Computers may be annoying, but microfiche is h.e.l.l.

Because of Sister Mary Katherine's age relative to mine, I knew we were dealing with a time frame that was in or near the early 1950s. Although she wasn't sure, Mary Katherine seemed to be under the impression that her family had been living somewhere in the Seattle area.

Summer comes late in the Pacific Northwest. The rains last from late September until early July, so if Mary Katherine's recollection of the blue dress with the yellow flowers was accurate, we were dealing with summer or possibly very late spring.

People act as though the decade of the fifties was a halcyon June-and-Ward-Cleaver age when everyone knew everyone else and no one bothered locking their doors. Maybe that was true in some places. I'm certain that there weren't nearly the number of homicides back then as there are now. Bearing that in mind, I figured a stabbing death that had occurred in someone's front yard would be page-one news. Even if the murder occurred outside Seattle proper, it would have made headlines in what was then and still is considered to be a statewide newspaper.

A surprisingly helpful clerk who, it turned out, was actually a student intern aided me in locating what I wanted-microfiche copies of newspapers that had been published between April and October, starting in 1949. I wasn't actually allowed to touch the microfiche-the clerk had to load it into the machine prior to my scanning through it.

Lots of people would be amazed at how blindingly boring detective work can be-especially when you're scrolling through page after page after page of blue-and-white microfiche print. My hunch had been right. Back then, homicide cases from all over the state had indeed been front-page fodder. One or two of them seemed promising, but once I read through the articles, the facts didn't seem to coincide with anything Sister Mary Katherine had told us.

By two o'clock, I had finished 1949. I also had a splitting headache, but something good had happened. Headache or no, while I was concentrating on scrolling through those old stories, I most certainly hadn't been thinking about Ron Peters and his problems. Rather than calling it a day, I asked the clerk for the next set and started in on 1950.

Halfway through May, in a newspaper dated Tuesday, May 16, 1950, I found what I was looking for: a headline that read "Seattle Woman Murdered in Her Bed." Bed wasn't quite right, but I continued reading anyway.

Seattle police detectives today released the name of a woman who was stabbed to death in her bed over the weekend while her bedridden mother lay helpless in a nearby room. When Ravenna area resident Madeline Marchbank was murdered, her mother, Abigail Marchbank, was left without food or water for several days. Mrs. Marchbank is hospitalized in fair condition at Columbus Hospital, where she is being treated for severe dehydration.

Madeline wasn't quite the right name, but wasn't Mimi a nickname for Madeline? And having the victim stabbed to death in her bed didn't square with what Mary Katherine had reported either, but I remembered that by the time Bonnie Jeanne had ventured out of her hiding place that day, the body had disappeared. I had a.s.sumed it had been loaded into a waiting vehicle and carted off for dumping elsewhere. Was it possible that the killers had simply moved the body into the house and then arranged the room to make it look as if the crime had been committed there?

Seattle coroner Randall Mathers estimated that the crime most likely happened sometime between Friday evening and Sunday morning, although it wasn't discovered until Miss Marchbank failed to report to work on Monday morning and arrangements were made for someone to go by the house to check on her.

So the time frame fit. Sat.u.r.day afternoon was what Bonnie Jean had said-Sat.u.r.day afternoon while she waited for her parents.

Seattle homicide detective Lieutenant William Winkler, lead investigator on the case, said that when Miss Marchbank's employer was unable to raise anyone at the family home by telephone, they contacted her brother, Seattle attorney Albert P. Marchbank, at his Smith Tower office. Mr. Marchbank immediately drove to his mother's home, where he discovered the body.

I was startled when two familiar names tumbled out at me in the same paragraph. William "Wink" Winkler had been a rough-and-tumble cop whose case-closure rates had helped him rise like a rocket through the ranks of Seattle PD. By the midfifties he had reached the exalted position of a.s.sistant chief of police. In 1950 he had been riding high and was on his way up. Five short years later he had been caught up in the web of graft and corruption that had been widespread inside the force at that time. As the pattern of payoffs and double-dealings became public, Wink Winkler had been one of the first officers forced to resign. As I remembered the story, something like twenty officers had been tried and convicted of various charges. Many of those had gone to jail. I had no idea whether or not Wink Winkler was one of them.

In a different way, Al Marchbank was also a Seattle-area legend. He was a local boy who had made good. He had been sent off to some East Coast boarding school at an early age and had just graduated from an Ivy League law school when World War II broke out. In 1943, he joined the army and spent most of the war working in Washington, D.C.

He returned to Seattle after the war. Using his well-heeled parents' contacts, he established a successful law practice. By the midfifties he and a partner, Phil Landreth, were beginning to put together a collection of small-town radio stations that would soon become Marchbank Broadcasting, a medium-size media fish that would eventually be swallowed whole by a much larger media ent.i.ty. Unlike that of Wink Winkler, who seemed to have disappeared into utter obscurity, the Marchbank name still held sway in Seattle more than half a century later in the form of the Albert P. and Elvira S. Marchbank Foundation. Likewise, Phil Landreth had gone on to make a name for himself in local and statewide politics. I couldn't help thinking that as a child Bonnie Jean Dunleavy had encountered a collection of pretty heavy hitters.

The article continued: Mr. Marchbank told reporters that he last saw his sister and mother on Friday afternoon, shortly before he and his wife left for Harrison Hot Springs in British Columbia, where they attended a wedding. He said that when he found his mother alone and untended late Monday morning, she was delirious from a lack of food and water and had no idea of her daughter's fate. All she knew was that no one had come to look after her.

In addition to caring for her invalid mother for the last several years, Miss Marchbank worked as a receptionist for Harris, Harris, and Rainy, Incorporated, a Seattle-area public accounting firm. Her supervisor there, Hal Rainy, said that Miss Marchbank had been an entirely reliable employee and had always called in to let them know if she was going to be absent.

"That's why we called her home once we realized she wasn't here," Mr. Rainy said. "That's also why, when we failed to reach her, we were alarmed enough to notify her brother. I can't imagine anyone wanting to do the poor girl harm. She was just as nice a person as can be."

Detective Winkler, when asked about a possible suspect or motive, told reporters that as of this time there is no viable suspect. Investigators are working on the theory that Miss Marchbank may have returned home unexpectedly and interrupted a burglary in progress. He said they are conferring with Mr. Marchbank and his wife, Elvira, to determine what, if anything, might be missing from his mother's residence.

The murder weapon, an ordinary kitchen knife, was recovered at the scene and is believed to have come from the victim's own kitchen.

Police are asking that anyone with information about this case contact Detective Winkler at Seattle Police Headquarters. Mr. Marchbank and his business partner, Phil Landreth, indicated that they are posting a $1,000 reward for anyone who can provide information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of Madeline Marchbank's killer. Funeral services for Miss Marchbank are pending at this time and will not be finalized until after the coroner's office releases the body sometime later this week.

That was the end of that first story. The clerk helpfully made a hard copy of that one for me. Then I scrolled through the next several weeks of newspapers, watching as the story unfolded. Madeline Marchbank's funeral at Saint Mark's Cathedral on Friday, May 19, was a well-attended affair that merited front-page attention. The microfiche record indicated the existence of a photo that could be retrieved from the photo file. When I asked the clerk to bring me a copy of that, the picture featured a grief-stricken Albert Marchbank, accompanied by his wife, Elvira, pushing a wheelchair-bound Abigail Marchbank down a rain-slick sidewalk.

Once the funeral was over, stories related to Madeline Marchbank's death gradually migrated from front page to back, growing ever smaller as they went. Despite Detective Winkler's best efforts, no suspects were ever identified. Nowhere was there any mention of a child who may have witnessed the fatal attack on Madeline Marchbank. Without testimony from that small, frightened witness, the case had gone cold-until now, until remnants from a recurring nightmare had awakened Sister Mary Katherine's haunting memories out of their sound sleep.

I sat back in the chair and rubbed my burning eyes.

"Will that be all?" the intern asked. "I was supposed to go to lunch at two. I'm not allowed to leave you alone, and no one else came in today."

She was young and not terribly attractive, but she was also bright and willing to help. She'd gone to the trouble of making her way in to work on a day when lots of other people had begged off. I hoped she'd go far.

"No," I said, gathering my sheaf of papers. "That's all for now. You've been a great help. What's your name again?"

"Linda," she said. "Linda Carter." She shrugged apologetically and added, "My father's last name is Carter. When he was young, he loved Wonder Woman on TV. When I was born, he just couldn't resist."

"Works for me," I said. "You've certainly worked wonders for me today. Hope I haven't made you too late for lunch."

She smiled shyly. "Thanks," she said. "And don't worry about lunch. I don't mind. It's usually so boring around here. It was fun to have something useful to do for a change."

I rode the elevator to the lobby and turned in my visitor's badge. I went outside and joined the clutch of coat-swaddled smokers who had been exiled outside in the freezing weather. Standing in a pall of secondhand smoke, I contemplated the steep climb back up to Second Avenue and wondered if I should once again take the long way around.

The morgue had been so confined that I had turned my cell phone on "silent" while I was there. Still wavering about what route to take, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked it. There were three messages waiting.