Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) Read Online Free Page B

the cute, Beaumont,” he said. “Whaddya want?”
    â€œAny of those MPs got a tattoo saying MOTHER on a right wrist?”
    Chip Raymond left off sorting papers and turned to a computer. He typed a series of commands on the keyboard, and then sat frowning at the display, waiting for an answer. When it came, he shook his head. “Not so far,” he said. “One of yours?”
    â€œIs now,” I nodded. “He’s a New Year’s Day floater.”
    â€œI’ll keep a sharp lookout and let you know right away if anybody matching that description turns up. What else can you tell me about him?”
    I gave him the same information Audrey Cummings had given me, then Detective Raymond went back to sorting his morass of paper. I stood in the doorway of his cubicle for a moment, watching. “I seem to remember someone saying that the age of computers was the beginning of the end of paper; that we’d all be living in a paperless society by now.”
    Raymond nodded. “I remember people saying that, too,” he said, morosely surveying the stacks of paper littering his desk. “I think I want my money back.”
    Laughing, I went back to my own office. The amount of paper I had to contend with was downright modest compared to Chip’s.
    That day, the fifth floor where the Homicide Squad resides was in a state of relative bedlam if not downright siege. Everybody was milling around, trying to get organized as to how best to deal with the caseload generated by a flurry of year-end violence: two alcohol-related vehicular homicides; an apparently fatal domestic violence case; and two Rainier Valley drive-by shootings that, although not fatal, still fell into Homicide’s jurisdiction. No wonder Captain Powell had asked me if I’d mind working the case alone.
    The first order of business was to track down the lady jogger who had reported finding the floater’s body to 911. I’ve learned that more oftenthan not, the “innocent” people who “discover” the bodies aren’t nearly as innocent as they ought to be. It’s as though they get so antsy waiting for their crime to be discovered that they go ahead and report it themselves, just to get it over with. So I was somewhat skeptical when I tried calling Johnny Bickford’s number a little later that morning.
    When a man answered, I asked to speak to Johnny Bickford. He coughed, cleared his throat, and said, in a clearer and higher-pitched voice, “Yes.”
    â€œAre you Johnny Bickford?” I asked.
    â€œI was last time I checked,” the voice returned. “Who’s this?”
    Johnny Bickford had to be a die-hard smoker. “Detective J. P. Beaumont, with the Seattle P.D.,” I answered.
    â€œOh, hi there,” she returned in an almost welcoming croon. “This has to be about the man in the water. I expected a call yesterday.”
    â€œI tried,” I said. “Nobody was home. In my business, there’s not much point in leaving messages.”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” Johnny said. “I would have called you back right away.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “would it be possible for me to drop by today, maybe later this morning?”
    â€œCertainly. How soon?”
    â€œSay fifteen minutes?”
    â€œThat barely gives me time to get decent, but that’ll be fine. Do you drink coffee, Detective—?”
    â€œBeaumont,” I supplied. “And yes, I do. A cup of coffee would be great.”
    Johnny Bickford’s address on West Mercer led me to the bottom floor of a small eight-unit condominium complex on the view side of Queen Anne Hill. In this case, the view wasn’t all that great, unless you happen to be a fan of grain terminals, which I’m not.
    I rang the bell. The blonde who answered the door was almost as tall as I am. She wore a white, long-sleeved robe edged with something soft and furry, along