“Maybe. Maybe not. Our best bet is to work out a negotiated settlement instead of going to court.”
“Will they settle?”
He shrugged. “Justice is blind. Money talks. They’ll settle if the price is right.”
“It pisses me off to think of donating money to that ranting, chanting asshole.”
It was my money. Although I was willing to do whatever was necessary to buy Peters’ kids a chance at a normal childhood, it still made me mad.
Ames regarded me mildly. “You want to bail out?” “Hell, no. I just don’t like that guru making money hand over fist. “
Shaking his head, Ames gathered up his papers and shuffled them into a neat stack.
“What do you want, Beau?”
I eased myself into the chair by his window, aware that my back hurt. Despite the nap, fatigue railed at me from every muscle in my body. “I want to offer a reward.”
“For what?”
“For information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons who murdered Sig Larson.”
He picked up a yellow pad and a pen and made several notes in his small, cramped handwriting. “I can do that,” he said. “From an anonymous donor, I presume?”
I nodded.
“How much?”
“Five. “
“Thousand?”
I nodded again.
“Anything else?”
My mind started to click, like a car that has to be jump-started but runs fine after that. “What are you going to do, once you finish up in Oregon?” “Go back to Phoenix.
Why?”
“You told me I ought to do some investing, remember?” He nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“I understand there are a couple of condo projects in trouble in Seattle. Maybe now would be a good time to look into one of those. Would you mind sticking around and researching them?”
“Not as long as you’re footing the bill.” I got up to leave. “Are you coming back to town tonight?” he asked.
Pausing at the door, I considered my options. Riding with Ames and Peters would be physically uncomfortable but convenient. “No,” I said, making up my mind, “I have some thinking to do. I’m better off here, away from everybody.”
“And because you think Don Wilson is still on Orcas?” He caught me red-handed. “So what?” I flared. “I’m on vacation. I can do as I damn well please.”
“You don’t have any objectivity in this case, Beau.”
“Don’t lecture me, Ralph. I’m your client, not some halfgrown kid. ” I stormed from the room, slamming the door behind me, knowing he was more than half right.
I headed for the Mansion and the Vista Lounge. I wanted the taste of McNaughton’s in my mouth, the feel of an icy glass in my hand. I almost ran over Maxwell Cole, who was about to climb into the hotel room in front of the building. I was surprised to see him. I thought he was already gone.
“What happened to your column?” I asked sarcastically. “Miss your deadline?”
“Deadline!” he echoed. “If you’re talking about the piece I wrote yesterday, the one on Ginger Watkins, I didn’t miss the deadline. ” “So where is it?” I was looking for someone to bait, and Cole was a likely candidate. His handlebar mustache drooped lopsidedly, making him look more dreary than usual.
“They spiked the son of a bitch. The scoop of the year, and they spiked it!”
“Who did?”
“Beats the shit out of me. One minute it was in, the next minute it was out. My editor isn’t talking.”
The driver of the van honked. “Hey come on, man. Them ferries don’t wait for nothing.”
Cole scrambled into the van and settled in an aisle seat. The van pulled out of the gravel drive, leaving me lost in thought. It takes clout to spike a story, a hell of a lot of clout. I wondered who was flexing his muscle, Homer or Darrell, father or son, or father and son. It didn’t matter. Whoever it was had robbed Ginger of her meager revenge, her sole token of defiance.
I charged into the lounge. It was deserted except for two slightly tipsy elderly ladies drinking sloe gin fizzes at a
“Will they settle?”
He shrugged. “Justice is blind. Money talks. They’ll settle if the price is right.”
“It pisses me off to think of donating money to that ranting, chanting asshole.”
It was my money. Although I was willing to do whatever was necessary to buy Peters’ kids a chance at a normal childhood, it still made me mad.
Ames regarded me mildly. “You want to bail out?” “Hell, no. I just don’t like that guru making money hand over fist. “
Shaking his head, Ames gathered up his papers and shuffled them into a neat stack.
“What do you want, Beau?”
I eased myself into the chair by his window, aware that my back hurt. Despite the nap, fatigue railed at me from every muscle in my body. “I want to offer a reward.”
“For what?”
“For information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons who murdered Sig Larson.”
He picked up a yellow pad and a pen and made several notes in his small, cramped handwriting. “I can do that,” he said. “From an anonymous donor, I presume?”
I nodded.
“How much?”
“Five. “
“Thousand?”
I nodded again.
“Anything else?”
My mind started to click, like a car that has to be jump-started but runs fine after that. “What are you going to do, once you finish up in Oregon?” “Go back to Phoenix.
Why?”
“You told me I ought to do some investing, remember?” He nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“I understand there are a couple of condo projects in trouble in Seattle. Maybe now would be a good time to look into one of those. Would you mind sticking around and researching them?”
“Not as long as you’re footing the bill.” I got up to leave. “Are you coming back to town tonight?” he asked.
Pausing at the door, I considered my options. Riding with Ames and Peters would be physically uncomfortable but convenient. “No,” I said, making up my mind, “I have some thinking to do. I’m better off here, away from everybody.”
“And because you think Don Wilson is still on Orcas?” He caught me red-handed. “So what?” I flared. “I’m on vacation. I can do as I damn well please.”
“You don’t have any objectivity in this case, Beau.”
“Don’t lecture me, Ralph. I’m your client, not some halfgrown kid. ” I stormed from the room, slamming the door behind me, knowing he was more than half right.
I headed for the Mansion and the Vista Lounge. I wanted the taste of McNaughton’s in my mouth, the feel of an icy glass in my hand. I almost ran over Maxwell Cole, who was about to climb into the hotel room in front of the building. I was surprised to see him. I thought he was already gone.
“What happened to your column?” I asked sarcastically. “Miss your deadline?”
“Deadline!” he echoed. “If you’re talking about the piece I wrote yesterday, the one on Ginger Watkins, I didn’t miss the deadline. ” “So where is it?” I was looking for someone to bait, and Cole was a likely candidate. His handlebar mustache drooped lopsidedly, making him look more dreary than usual.
“They spiked the son of a bitch. The scoop of the year, and they spiked it!”
“Who did?”
“Beats the shit out of me. One minute it was in, the next minute it was out. My editor isn’t talking.”
The driver of the van honked. “Hey come on, man. Them ferries don’t wait for nothing.”
Cole scrambled into the van and settled in an aisle seat. The van pulled out of the gravel drive, leaving me lost in thought. It takes clout to spike a story, a hell of a lot of clout. I wondered who was flexing his muscle, Homer or Darrell, father or son, or father and son. It didn’t matter. Whoever it was had robbed Ginger of her meager revenge, her sole token of defiance.
I charged into the lounge. It was deserted except for two slightly tipsy elderly ladies drinking sloe gin fizzes at a
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