Free Long Time Gone by J. A. Jance Page B

“What’s wrong?”
    She looked around. “Where’s Tracy?”
    “Still in the shower.”
    “Thank God!” She spoke in an urgent whisper and then took a deep breath. “While I was putting the chains on my car, I got grease on my hands and needed a towel. Ron usually keeps a supply of washrags in the back of his Camry. I opened the trunk and—” Amy stopped speaking. Her face crumpled, letting loose a fresh spate of tears.
    “And what?” I demanded.
    “There was dried blood inside Ron’s trunk, Beau. Lots of it. Like somebody or something bled out in there.”
    I felt like I was in free fall with no parachute. Tracy’s concerns were one thing. Incriminating bloodstains were something else. “Are you sure about that?”
    She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve worked in hospitals all my adult life, Beau. I know dried blood when I see it. What should I do?”
    “You have to report it,” I said at once. “It’s as simple as that.”
    “But I can’t,” she wailed. “How can I? Ron’s my husband, Beau. I love him. I can’t be the one to turn him in.”
    “Then I’ll have to do it,” I said. “I’m a sworn police officer—an officer of the court. I don’t have a choice. Do you have an attorney? Ron should have someone there with him when the detectives arrive.”
    “The only attorney we have right now is the guy who was representing us in the custody case against Rosemary. It turns out he was the next best thing to useless.”
    Amy and I had been standing in the elevator lobby talking. Tracy came out to where we were. Her light brown hair was still damp from the shower, and she was wearing the jogging suit and tennis shoes she had worn the night before.
    “Mom!” she said. “What are you doing here?”
    Amy Peters wiped away her tears. Then, with extraordinary effort, she somehow marshaled a semblance of composure onto her face. “Dad sent me to pick you up,” she said calmly.
    No wonder men never know what to expect from women. They can change courses like that in a matter of seconds and never miss a beat. And girls can do the same thing. I couldn’t tell if Tracy bought into her stepmother’s “everything’s okay” act. If not, she certainly pretended to.
    “How mad is he?” Tracy asked.
    Amy shrugged. “Medium.”
    Tracy stood for a moment, looking back and forth between Amy and me. I imagine Tracy was expecting a bawling-out. When one wasn’t forthcoming, Tracy tackled the issue head-on. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?”
    “I’m sure you had a good reason,” Amy said. Then she added, “Come on. Let’s go. I’m already late for work.”
    As the elevator doors closed behind them, I went back into my condo, shut the door, and went straight to the telephone. I picked up the receiver and then stood staring at it as though I’d never encountered one before—as though the telephone were some alien instrument I had no idea how to operate.
    Never before in my life have I faced such a clear division between friendship and duty. What I had told Amy was true. As an officer of the court I had no alternative. I had to report what she had told me about the dried blood in the trunk of Ron’s car. But as his friend, I wanted him to have some kind of qualified legal representation available the next time an investigating officer rang his doorbell, search warrant in hand.
    Friendship won out. I dialed Ralph Ames’s home number in West Seattle. “Glad to hear you’re in town,” I said when he answered.
    “I’m not,” he returned. “With all this snow on the ground, why aren’t I down in Scottsdale playing golf?”
    “There’s no explaining some people,” I told him.
    “This doesn’t sound like a social call,” Ralph said. “Is something wrong?”
    My words may have been normal enough, but my voice must have been off. Ralph Ames is better at reading subtext than almost anybody I know.
    “I think Ron Peters may be in trouble.” It was a gross understatement, and