Dance of the Bones

“Calliope?” she said. “Yes, that would be me. Who’s calling, please?”


“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’ve been asked to look into the death of an acquaintance of yours, and I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes.”

“Which acquaintance?”

That wasn’t such a surprising question. -People die in homeless shelters all the time. They live outside in all kinds of weather and often in less than sanitary conditions. I knew from reading the papers that over the previous winter several of Seattle’s homeless had fallen victim to cold weather, especially during an unexpectedly frigid cold snap that had roared through western Washington the weekend after Thanksgiving.

“His name was Kenneth Mangum, although I believe you knew him as Kenneth Myers,” I added. “My understanding is that the two of you were close at one time.”

Her sharp intake of breath told me my assumption wasn’t wrong. When she said nothing, I continued, “We could talk on the phone, or I could drop by your home or office. Your address is listed as being on Elliott. My condo is only a few blocks away from there. It’s your call.”

“Why talk to me?” Calliope asked. “Kenny’s homicide has gone unsolved all these years. Why is someone looking into his death now?”

“Because someone who was once a friend of Mr. Myers was viciously attacked during a prison riot earlier today. We’re trying to figure out if there’s any possible connection between today’s attack and the previous homicide.”

“What friend?” Calliope asked.

“A guy named Lassiter.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” she asked.

Even after so much time, Calliope recognized the name right off and without any prompting from me. Sue Danielson had never asked about any connection between the dead man and John Lassiter because, at the time of that interview, there had been no known link between them. Still, when Sue had inquired about Ken’s friends, why hadn’t John Lassiter’s name come up? That’s when I realized Sue had asked about Ken’s girlfriends but not about his male friends.

“That would be the one,” I said.

“And he was attacked?”

“Yes, in prison. He’s serving time down in Arizona.”

“When did this attack happen?”

“As I said, earlier today.”

“Are you a cop?” Calliope asked.

“Used to be,” I answered, “but not anymore.”

“What’s your connection to all this?”

Tenuous at best, I thought, but I didn’t want to go into any of the details, not right then. “I’m working in conjunction with a group called The Last Chance—-TLC. They specialize in solving cold cases.”

“Ken’s case is cold, all right,” Calliope said with a sigh. “I suppose you’re welcome to stop by here if you like, but I don’t see how I’ll be able to help. And my husband and I have a meeting to go to at seven. We’re in the Lofts on Elliott.”

“I have the address,” I said.

“There’s visitor parking in the garage beneath the building.”