That’s exactly what I did. While the guys at Motor Pool were gassing up the car, I called Karen and told her I wouldn’t be home. Since she was stuck there alone with a toddler and a colicky baby, she was not happy to hear that I was off on a cross-state adventure, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Captain Tompkins wasn’t thrilled, either, especially with having three members of his Homicide Unit tied up in what he termed a “wild-goose chase,” but he relented finally, too. Larry convinced him that this was basically my lead, but that I was too green to chase after it alone. So off we went, all three of us.
Walla Walla is a long way from Seattle—two hundred and fifty miles, give or take. With me sitting in the backseat, I’m sure people who saw us thought I was a crook being hauled off to jail somewhere. We took turns driving. By the time we got into Walla Walla, it was too late to do much of anything but get a room and wait for morning. We opted for one room with two double beds. Not the best arrangement, but bunking with Watty beat sleeping on the floor or out in the car. The next morning, over coffee, we were all complaining about how everyone else snored, so I guess it was pretty even-Steven on that score.
After breakfast we found our way to Beman Arabians. There was a main house and several immense barns with an office complex at the near end of one of them. There were also a number of outbuildings that looked as though they were occupied by workers of one stripe or another. When we asked for Fred Beman, we were directed to the office, where we found a handsome, white-haired, older gentleman seated behind a messy desk. When he stood up and stepped out from behind the desk to greet us, he looked for the all the world as if he had simply emerged, cowboy boots and all, from one of those old Gene Autry movies I loved so much when I was a kid. One look at him was enough to tell us that this might be Fred Beman, but not the one we wanted.
Larry Powell held up his badge. “We’re looking for Fred Beman, a younger Fred Beman.”
The old man stared at the badge for a moment, then looked back at Larry. “That would be Fred Junior, my son. What’s he done now?”
“We’re actually interested in a friend of his,” Larry said. “A friend from Seattle.”
Beman shook his head. “Don’t know nothin’ about any of those. When Freddie came skedaddlin’ back home this summer and begged me to give him another chance, I figured he was in some kind of hot water or other. He’s out back shovelin’ shit. I told him if he wanted to get back in my good graces and into the family business, he’d be startin’ from the bottom.”
With that Fred Senior led the way out of his office and into the barn. It was pungent with the smell of horses and hay. We found Fred Junior in one of the stalls, pitchfork in hand. He must have taken after his mother because he didn’t look anything like his dad. He didn’t smell like his dad, either. His father carried a thick cloud of Old Spice with him wherever he went. The air around Junior reeked of perspiration flavored with something else—vodka most likely. Anyone who thinks vodka doesn’t smell hasn’t spent any time around a serious drunk. Fred Junior may not have been driving at the moment, but he was most definitely still drinking.
“Someone to see you, Freddie,” the old man said, then he turned on the worn heels of his cowboy boots and walked away. It was clear from his posture that whatever problem we represented was his son’s problem, and he would have to deal with it on his own.
Fred Junior leaned on the handle of the pitchfork. “What’s this about?”
I held up my badge. “It’s about your friend Benjamin,” I said.
A wary look crossed Fred’s face. I had learned at the academy that an assailant with a knife can cut down a guy with a gun before there’s time to pull the trigger. I calculated that the wicked metal tines on the long-handled pitchfork could poke holes in my guts faster than any handheld knife. I was glad I had Watty and Larry Powell there for backup if need be. The problem was, I wanted this guy alive and talking, far more than I wanted him dead.
“What about him?” Fred said.
“He’s been telling us some interesting stories,” I said casually. “He told us you shot a woman a few weeks ago—shot her in cold blood in the parking lot of the Doghouse Restaurant in Seattle.”
The only light in the barn came from the open stall doors along the side of the building and from a few grimy windows up near the roof. Still, even in the relative gloom of the barn, I saw the color drain from his face. The muscles in his jaw clenched.
“I never,” he said. “I was there, but I never shot her. I told him, ‘Hey, man. I’ve got the money. Let’s just pay the woman.’ But Benjy’s crazy. He picked up the gun and fired away.”
“Maybe you’d like to put down that pitchfork and give us a statement,” I suggested.
For a long moment, nobody moved while Fred Junior stood there and considered what he would do. It was quiet enough in the barn that you could have heard a pin drop. Somewhere within hearing distance a fly buzzed.
Finally Fred spoke again. “Can you get me a deal?” he asked.