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

it?” Peters asked once the door closed.
    â€œBeats the hell out of me.”
    We went on down to the garage and checked out a car. The first order of business had to be the voluntary search form from Joanna Ridley. That would enable the crime lab to go to work on Darwin Ridley’s Buick.
    Several cars were parked on the street outside Joanna Ridley’s house, including an immense old Lincoln. I led the way to the door and rang the bell. A tall but stoop-shouldered black man opened the door and peered down at us through gold-rimmed glasses. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.
    â€œWe’re with Seattle P.D.,” I said, offering him my ID. “We’re here to speak to Mrs. Ridley.”
    â€œJoanna’s not feelin’ too well.”
    Joanna Ridley appeared in a doorway behind him, wearing a flowing blue caftan. Her eyes were swollen, and she wore no trace of makeup. She looked haggard, as though she hadn’t slept well, either. “It’s all right, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll see them.”
    The old man stepped to one side, allowing us to enter the house. The living room was filled with nine or ten people, all of them involved in various conversations that ceased as Joanna led us through the gathering to a small study that opened off the living room. She closed the door behind us, effectively shutting out the group of mourners gathered to comfort her.
    â€œMrs. Ridley, this is my partner, Detective Ron Peters. We brought along a form we need you to sign so we can search your husband’s car.” I extracted the folded form from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. I watched as her eyes skimmed the lines.
    â€œIt’ll save us the time and effort of getting a search warrant,” I explained.
    A scatter of pens and pencils lay on the desk. Without hesitation, she put the paper on the desk, located a pen that worked, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the form.
    â€œWill that do?” she asked, handing it back to me.
    â€œFor a start. We also need to ask some questions, if you don’t mind.” She took the chair behind the desk. Peters and I sat on a couch facing her. With determined effort, Joanna Ridley managed to retain her composure.
    â€œTo begin with, you told me yesterday that, as far as you knew, your husband had no drug or gambling connections. Had you noticed anything unusual in your husband’s patterns? Any threats? What about money difficulties?”
    She shook her head in answer to each question.
    â€œAny unusual telephone calls, things he might not have shared with you?”
    There was the slightest flicker of something in Joanna’s expression, a momentary waver,before she once more shook her head. A detective lives and dies by his wits and by his powers of observation. There was enough of a change in her expression that I noted it, but there was no clue, no hint, as to what lay behind it. I tried following up in the same vein, hoping for some sort of clarification.
    â€œAnyone with a grudge against him?”
    This time, when she answered, her face remained totally impassive. “Not that I know of.”
    â€œHow long had you two been married?” Peters asked.
    â€œFifteen years.” Peters’ question came from left field. It moved away from the murder and into the personal, into the mire of Joanna Ridley’s private loss and grief. She blinked back tears.
    â€œAnd this is your first child?”
    She swallowed. “We tried, for a long time. The doctors said we’d never have children.”
    â€œHow long did your husband teach at Mercer Island?”
    She took a deep breath. “Twelve years. He taught social studies at Franklin before that. He was assistant basketball coach at Mercer Island for eight years, head coach for the last two.”
    â€œDidn’t they win state last year?” Peters asked. “Seems like I remember reading