Free Improbable Cause by J. A. Jance Page B

said archly in answer to my question about the location of the various shelters in Seattle.
    “What do you mean you don’t give it out?” I demanded. “Not even to fellow cops? Aren’t we playing on the same team?”
    She smiled a chilly smile. “Let me remind you that we’re not all cops, Detective Beaumont. There happen to be a few cops who beat their wives, too, you know,” she added.
    “I’m not one of them,” I snapped back. “I’m not even married.”
    Unruffled, Marilyn McDougal looked meaningfully from me to the wide gold band on Big Al Lindstrom’s ring finger. “He is,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter if you are or aren’t. We don’t divulge the shelters’ locations to anyone. That’s a closely guarded secret. Besides,” she added, “you haven’t said why you want to know.”
    No, I hadn’t said why, deliberately hadn’t said why, and wasn’t going to if I could help it. After all, if Marilyn McDougal was reluctant to talk to us then, how much more reluctant would she be once she knew we were working a homicide investigation, once she figured out that one of her little safe-house chicks, LeAnn Nielsen, was a prime suspect.
    “But CSOs do deliver the women to these safe houses, don’t they? Isn’t that your job?” Al tried attacking the problem from the flank.
    Unperturbed, Marilyn McDougal nodded. “Right. About eighty percent of the time we’re the ones who take them. But not directly.”
    “What does that mean? Either you do or you don’t.”
    Marilyn McDougal shook her head impatiently. “Look,” she said. “The women who work in these shelters put their lives on the line every single day. They’re not cops. They don’t carry weapons. The husbands are frantic to find their wives, want to get them back no matter what. The CSOs take the women to a drop point, some public place near the shelter. One of the shelter workers meets them there, picks the woman up, and takes her the rest of the way.”
    I could hardly fault the cloak-and-dagger mentality. After all, we were investigating a homicide. Frederick Nielsen was dead and his abused wife was under suspicion.
    “So how would we go about getting in touch with someone in one of the shelters? What would you suggest?”
    Marilyn shrugged. “You could call and leave a message. They won’t tell you whether or not she’s there, but they’ll post a message on the bulletin board. She can call you back or not. The choice is up to her.”
    “What do you suppose the chances are that she’d actually return the call?”
    “Not very good.”
    “That’s about what I figured.” The brick wall wasn’t giving an inch. I got up to leave. “Come on, Al, let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”
    Al eased his bulky frame out of the chair while Marilyn McDougal leaned back in hers, a sharpened yellow pencil balanced deftly between two opposing index fingers. She regarded me seriously over the top of the pencil.
    “Are you going to stop playing games and tell me what this is all about, Detective Beaumont?”
    The brick wall won. I sat back down. So did Big Al.
    “It’s a homicide,” I said. If sneaking around hadn’t worked with Marilyn McDougal, maybe honesty was the best policy after all. It couldn’t hurt to try.
    “I figured as much. Whose?” she asked.
    “A man by the name of Nielsen—Dr. Frederick Nielsen. He’s a dentist with a house on Green Lake and a swish office up in the Denny Regrade.”
    “And the woman?”
    “LeAnn Nielsen, his wife.”
    “Why are you trying to find her—notification of next of kin or is she a suspect?”
    “Both,” I said simply.
    Marilyn dropped the pencil onto her desk, got up, and walked to the door of her office. “Wait right here,” she said. It was an order, not an invitation.
    “Now what?” Al asked.
    “Beats me,” I replied. I’ve long since given up trying to understand how women think. It’s too complicated. Besides, Marilyn McDougal was in a league by herself.