Trial by Fury (9780061754715) by Judith A. Jance Read Free Book Online

now?”
    â€œAs much as it’s going to be,” Peters replied mildly. “What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley’s house or stop by the school?”
    â€œThe house first,” I answered. “We’d better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper.”
    Peters rolled his eyes and grinned. “Wonders will never cease.”
    I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It’s always my phone.
    â€œHello,” I snarled into it.
    â€œDon’t sound so happy to hear from me.” It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames’ law firm, and more importantly, Ralph’s personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I’m not one of his more dependable clients.
    â€œI understand you didn’t make your closing interview this afternoon.”
    â€œDamn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?”
    â€œNo sweat,” Ralph told me cheerfully. “Only you’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll show up this time.”
    â€œI swear. Just let me know when it is.”
    When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I’d need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.
    My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joanna Ridley. What was it she had said when she blew up at me there in the waiting room? Something about crossing a line. What line had Darwin Ridley crossed? And why had it been fatal? That was one of the tough questions I’d have to ask his widow the next day.
    It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer’s Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I surfaced in a dream with Anne Corley.
    She never changes in my dreams. She’s always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she’s always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.
    In the dream, I’m always so glad to see her it’s pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I’ve learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.
    I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.
    Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle’s colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.
    I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.
    It’s one way to take your mind off your troubles.

CHAPTER
6
    T he murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital N . The department’s conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a Who’s Who in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.
    Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer has kept us at odds for as long as I’ve been with Seattle