still eddying around Phil Grimes. "It's just the two of us. No recording devices of any kind."
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.
Maribeth George had short brunette hair with a vivid streak of white that started just over her left eyebrow. Her dark-gray eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, were made darker still by the carefully applied makeup that surrounded them.
"Somebody's dead in there, right?"
I nodded. With Audrey's van emblazoned with a KING COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER logo parked in the driveway, there wasn't much point in denying the obvious.
"Is this victim related to…" Maribeth George paused, "to yesterday's shooting victim down by Pier Seventy?"
I crossed my arms. The response was absolutely instinctive. So far, all that should have been internal law enforcement information only, including the fact that Don Wolf had died of a gunshot wound rather than drowning. As soon as I made the defensive, giveaway gesture, I could have kicked myself for it. Instead, I tried to cover up the instinctive faux pas .
"Shooting victim?" I asked, feigning innocence.
The reporter's somber gray eyes grew troubled and darker still. "The man they fished out of the water yesterday. Is that case related to this one? And if so, who are these people?"
"With regard to the second question, we're withholding names pending notification of next of kin. As for the first one, now that you mention it, maybe you'd like to explain to me exactly what makes you think that the man in the water was shot."
"A woman in a wheelchair told me," Maribeth George answered at once.
"What woman in what wheelchair?"
"The one down at Pier Seventy yesterday morning. She wasn't actually on the pier when I got there, but she said she had been. She claimed she was one of the people who found the body, but she didn't give me her name. In fact, she refused to give me her name. And now…" Maribeth's voice trailed off into nothing.
"Now what?" I prodded.
"I know you were working on that other case yesterday. I saw you there. And I know that homicide cases get passed around in rotation, so you most likely wouldn't be working on a new one unless it was somehow related to the one you were already working on. Right?"
I suppose one of the reasons detectives and journalists are always at one another's throats is that we're so much alike. We're all in the business of finding out what happened and who did what to whom, and we all want to be first in nailing down that information. An observant Maribeth George had put two and two together. Reporters, especially good-looking ones who are smart enough to come up with the correct answer of four, are definitely bad company for the likes of me.
"I trust you'll forgive me if right this minute I can't say yes or no," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a card. "But I would most definitely be interested in whether or not this wheelchair lady of yours calls again."
Maribeth studied my face for a moment before she took the card. "I see," she said. "So that's how it is."
I nodded. She shrugged and stuffed my card into the pocket of her blazer. "I doubt I'll hear from her again," Maribeth said.
"But if you do, you can reach me at any one of those numbers," I said helpfully.
Maribeth George smiled. "Or I could just come across the street from the station and buzz you on your security phone. By the way, whatever happened with that soapsuds thing? The manager told me he thought little girls who live in the building were responsible for making the mess."
Talking to women can be mind-boggling at times. Maribeth George skipped effortlessly from murder to soapsuds in less than a heartbeat. "The girls didn't have anything to do with it," I answered shortly.
"You know them then?" Maribeth asked. "The little girls, I mean."
"Yes." I didn't add that I had supposedly been in charge of the girls at the time in question. Had I been doing my child-care job properly, the finger of suspicion never would have been pointed
"What do you want to talk about?" I asked.
Maribeth George had short brunette hair with a vivid streak of white that started just over her left eyebrow. Her dark-gray eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, were made darker still by the carefully applied makeup that surrounded them.
"Somebody's dead in there, right?"
I nodded. With Audrey's van emblazoned with a KING COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER logo parked in the driveway, there wasn't much point in denying the obvious.
"Is this victim related to…" Maribeth George paused, "to yesterday's shooting victim down by Pier Seventy?"
I crossed my arms. The response was absolutely instinctive. So far, all that should have been internal law enforcement information only, including the fact that Don Wolf had died of a gunshot wound rather than drowning. As soon as I made the defensive, giveaway gesture, I could have kicked myself for it. Instead, I tried to cover up the instinctive faux pas .
"Shooting victim?" I asked, feigning innocence.
The reporter's somber gray eyes grew troubled and darker still. "The man they fished out of the water yesterday. Is that case related to this one? And if so, who are these people?"
"With regard to the second question, we're withholding names pending notification of next of kin. As for the first one, now that you mention it, maybe you'd like to explain to me exactly what makes you think that the man in the water was shot."
"A woman in a wheelchair told me," Maribeth George answered at once.
"What woman in what wheelchair?"
"The one down at Pier Seventy yesterday morning. She wasn't actually on the pier when I got there, but she said she had been. She claimed she was one of the people who found the body, but she didn't give me her name. In fact, she refused to give me her name. And now…" Maribeth's voice trailed off into nothing.
"Now what?" I prodded.
"I know you were working on that other case yesterday. I saw you there. And I know that homicide cases get passed around in rotation, so you most likely wouldn't be working on a new one unless it was somehow related to the one you were already working on. Right?"
I suppose one of the reasons detectives and journalists are always at one another's throats is that we're so much alike. We're all in the business of finding out what happened and who did what to whom, and we all want to be first in nailing down that information. An observant Maribeth George had put two and two together. Reporters, especially good-looking ones who are smart enough to come up with the correct answer of four, are definitely bad company for the likes of me.
"I trust you'll forgive me if right this minute I can't say yes or no," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a card. "But I would most definitely be interested in whether or not this wheelchair lady of yours calls again."
Maribeth studied my face for a moment before she took the card. "I see," she said. "So that's how it is."
I nodded. She shrugged and stuffed my card into the pocket of her blazer. "I doubt I'll hear from her again," Maribeth said.
"But if you do, you can reach me at any one of those numbers," I said helpfully.
Maribeth George smiled. "Or I could just come across the street from the station and buzz you on your security phone. By the way, whatever happened with that soapsuds thing? The manager told me he thought little girls who live in the building were responsible for making the mess."
Talking to women can be mind-boggling at times. Maribeth George skipped effortlessly from murder to soapsuds in less than a heartbeat. "The girls didn't have anything to do with it," I answered shortly.
"You know them then?" Maribeth asked. "The little girls, I mean."
"Yes." I didn't add that I had supposedly been in charge of the girls at the time in question. Had I been doing my child-care job properly, the finger of suspicion never would have been pointed
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