Ring in the Dead by Jance, J. A.
RING IN THE DEAD
IT WAS NEW YEAR’S EVE. Back when I was drinking, New Year’s Eve was always a good excuse to tie one on, but now those bad old days were far in the past. Mel was out getting a late-breaking mani-pedi in advance of our surprise (to her) date to walk three blocks up First Avenue for an intimate dinner for two at El Gaucho. Our penthouse condo allows a great view of the Space Needle, three blocks away. That means, at midnight, we’d have ringside seats from the shelter of our bedroom balcony for the Needle’s New Year’s fireworks display. The weather still hadn’t made up its mind if midnight revelers would be greeted by a light sprinkle or pouring rain. It was certain, however, that at least it wouldn’t be snowing.
My wife, Mel Soames, and I both work for the Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team, affectionately dubbed S.H.I.T. Yes, I know. The name is a running joke and has been for a very long time, but we’ve grown to like it over the years. In the brave new world of no-overtime, we both had plenty of comp time available to us, and we had chosen to take it over the holidays, including before and after Christmas. Use it or lose it, as they say.
So I was sitting in my den in solitary splendor, reviewing my life and times and considering a possible list of New Year’s resolutions, when the phone rang—the landline, not my cell. Not only do we have a landline, we still have a listed number for it, although it’s not one that comes readily to mind since that phone isn’t the one I use on a daily basis.
The idea behind keeping a listed number is simple. Being in the directory makes it possible for the people I want to find me—fellow Beaver alums from Ballard High School, for example—to find me. As for the people I don’t want finding me? For those—for the ones who want to sell me aluminum siding for my high-rise condo, I answer the phone with an icy, salesman-repelling voice that works equally as well on them and on others, like people making political robo-dials for their favorite candidates and the guys trying to convince me to sign up for the policemen’s ball—which is a scam, by the way. For the most part, the spam-type calls come through with the originating number blocked. Those always go unanswered, and if they leave a message, those don’t get picked up, either.
This particular call came with a caller ID name: Richard Nolan, and a 503 phone number that meant it was from somewhere in Oregon. Even so, I answered using my pissed-off, ditch-the-sales-pitch voice.
“Detective Beaumont?” a woman’s voice asked.
I haven’t been Detective Beaumont for years now—ever since I left Seattle PD. It doesn’t mean, however, that I’m no longer that other person.
“I used to be,” I said. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Anne Marie Nolan,” she said. “I live in Portland, Oregon. Milton Gurkey was my father.”
That took my breath away, and it also took me back. When I got promoted to Homicide from Patrol, Milton Gurkey, aka Pickles, was my first partner. We worked together for five years, starting in the spring of 1973. In fact, only months earlier, I had spent time dealing with our first case, which, prior to that, had gone unresolved for almost four decades. Pickles died in 1978. I had long since lost track of his widow, Anna.
“Pickles’s daughter?” I replied. “Great to hear from you.”
There was a distinct pause on the phone. “No matter how many times I hear it, I can never get used to the idea that that’s what you guys all called my dad—Pickles. It seems disrespectful, somehow.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. For the guys who called him that, it was almost a term of endearment. How’s your mother, by the way?”
Anne Marie sighed. “Mother passed away a month ago. She was in hospice up here in Seattle when news about that old Wellington case was in the papers. I read the articles to her. She was glad to know that somebody finally solved it. She said that was a case that haunted Daddy until the day he died.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I said. “I wish I had known.”