More Perfect Union (9780061760228) by Judith A. Jance Page A

party all over the Sheraton. Booze flowed like water. Vaguely I could recall closing down Gooey’s in the wee small hours. There’s an old country-western song that talks about how even ugly girls look good at closing time. I must have been thoroughly smashed. My last coherent thought was that maybe Cassie Young wasn’t that bad-looking after all.
    I finally dared open one eye. Glaring sunlight exploded in my head. Then, cautiously, I peered over at the other side of the bed. Thankfully, it was empty. I was all right so far. Hung over as hell, but otherwise all right.
    Dragging my protesting body into the bathroom, I stood for a good twenty minutes under a steaming torrent of water. I should have felt guilty. Profligate even. It had been such a long, dry summer that the City of Seattle had limited yard-watering and was asking for voluntary cutbacks on indoor water usage. But I couldn’t help it. It was either take the shower or stay in bed.
    I ordered breakfast sent up from the deli downstairs and was beginning to feel halfway human by the time I finished my third cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin. Mornings aren’t good for me even under the best of circumstances. This was not the best of circumstances.
    I was glad I had called in the day before to tell Sergeant Watkins we were done filming and to let him know I was on vacation until after Labor Day. Watty had suggested I go out and have fun, but the Death in Drydock party had been almost more fun than I could stand. By the fourth cup of coffee, I was ready to admit it was just as well my good drinking buddy Derrick Parker was on his way back home to Hollywood.
    As the juices gradually began to flow I turned my mind over to the assignment Peters had given me the day before. After we had finishedtalking, there had been very little time to think about what he had said. On reflection, I could see that there was some merit in Peters’ theory. Maybe Linda Decker was scared and hiding out. Despite what Red Corbett thought, it was possible Katherine Tyree had been jealous of more than just the boat.
    Carrying Peters’ conjecture one step further, I remembered something else Corbett had said, something about there being plenty more fish in the sea. If Logan Tyree had been mixed up with more than one woman in the apprenticeship program, nobody, including Katherine Tyree, had ever cornered the market on jealousy.
    Both lines of reasoning were worth pursuing.
    I already had Linda Decker’s mother’s name, address, and phone number jotted in my notebook. I didn’t have a clue about Katherine Tyree. I turned to the detective’s greatest ally—the telephone book. Logan Tyree wasn’t listed there. K. A. Tyree was. The address given was on the Maple Valley Highway in Renton. That certainly squared with what Red Corbett had told me.
    As I drove toward Renton, I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Katherine Tyree. I’m not predisposed to like women who, deservedly or not, toss their husbands out of the house without much more than the clothes on their backs.
    The house, a small, two-story bungalow, was on a wooded lot and set some distance back from the road. There were two cars parked out front, an older pickup and a late-model Honda.The man who answered the door was still buttoning his shirt. He told me his name was Fred McKinney, but he didn’t say what he was doing there. When I showed him my badge, he invited me inside.
    â€œKate’s upstairs taking a shower,” he said. “She’ll be down in a few minutes. The services are this afternoon, you know. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
    I followed Fred into the kitchen. He located two coffee mugs without having to look in more than one cupboard.
    â€œSugar? Cream?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “Black.”
    He stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup and then offered me a place at the kitchen table. Fred, whoever he was, seemed to have