Injustice for All by J. A. Jance Page A

table by the arched windows. Barney folded a newspaper and shoved it under the bar as I sat down. “McNaughton’s?”
    I nodded.
    “It’s too bad about Mrs. Watkins,” he commented, placing the drink in front of me.
    “She seemed like a real nice lady, from what little I saw of her.”
    “She was.” I agreed. I downed the drink and ordered another. “Too bad about your car, too.”
    “Cars can be fixed,” I said.
    He grinned. “I guess old Ernie’s in seventh heaven. Heard he’s got himself a reallive Porsche to work on.”
    “You know him?”
    “Hell, yes. Went to school together, kindergarten on. Ended up in Vietnam at the same time. Different outfits, though.”
    “That’s where he lost his arm and leg?”
    Barney nodded. “He doesn’t let it bother him. Goes hunting every year, usually gets an elk. He’s got a wife and two kids; another on the way.” “Is he any good?”
    Barney grinned. “You’ll have to ask his wife about that. He’s not my type.”
    “As a mechanic, asshole. Is he a good mechanic?” “He’s good,” Barney said seriously.
    “He’ll put that car of yours back together better than it was before.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    A couple came in and sat at the other end of the bar. Barney left me to serve them.
    I sat there alone, nursing my drink, wondering where to start on a case that was not my case, on a murder that might be suicide or an accident, depending on your point of view.
    In Seattle I knew what I’d do-sit down and try to pull together all the details on pieces of paper, set as many pieces of the puzzle on the table as possible, then move them around, trying to find a framework where they would fit.
    Barney came back to me. “You want another?” he asked. I looked at my glass. “Sure.
    Is that your paper under the bar?” “It is, but you can have it. I’m done with it.”
    He pulled it out and laid it in front of me. I recognized Sig Larson’s face looking up at me from under a screaming headline. I picked up the paper warily. I don’t trust newspapers, don’t like them, usually wouldn’t be caught dead reading them; but this was different. This time I was outside the official circle of information, and I needed a starting point. I was going to do something about Ginger Watkins’ death, jurisdictions be damned. Sig Larson’s death and Ginger’s were inextricably linked.
    I intended to find out how.
    I read every word of the laudatory obituary. A retired Eastern Washington wheat farmer, Lars Sigfried Larson had been widely respected. The article mentioned his volunteer work-at Walla Walla and his involvement with Babe Ruth Baseball east of the mountains.
    It mentioned his widow, Mona, as well as his three grown children, married and scattered throughout the West. The funeral would be held in Welton on the banks of the Touchet River on Tuesday at two o’clock. The governor himself was expected to attend. And so would J. P. Beaumont, I decided. I read on. The family requested that remembrances be sent to A.A. Even in death, Sig Larson didn’t duck the issue of sobriety.
    I had finished the article and was folding the paper when Peters came in and caught me. “What are you doing?”
    “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to fold this goddamned newspaper.”
    “You haven’t been reading it, have you?” Peters’ eyes flashed with sly amusement.
    “You feeling all right, Beau? Maybe a little feverish?” I stood up and struggled to return the newspaper to its place under the counter. When I flopped back down, Peters’ grin faded. “Ames and I are getting ready to take off. Want to have a bite with us before we go?” I signaled Barney for a new drink. When he set it in front of me, I raised the glass in Peters’ direction in a sloppy salute. “Who needs food?”
    “You’re drinking too much c”
    I cut him off. “Butt out, Peters.”
    Without arguing the point, he stalked from the bar. Misery does not necessarily love