Free Ring In the Dead by J. A. Jance

detail, including the fact that none of the three of them—­Lulu, Benjamin, or Fred—­had seen Pickles Gurkey in the parking lot prior to the moment when he had attempted to intervene in the fight between Lulu and Benjamin. They had stopped their altercation long enough to see him standing there, holding a drawn weapon, and announcing he was a cop. Then he had simply dropped the gun, staggered backward, and fallen against the building.
    â€œI don’t know if the guy was drunk or what,” Fred continued. “Benjy reached down and picked up the gun. The woman had stopped yelling by then because she was all worried about the guy who had just fallen over. I think she realized at the last moment that Benjy had a gun, but by then it was too late for her to get away. As soon as Benjy shot her, he wiped the gun off with his shirt, put it in the guy’s hand, and then dropped it in his lap. The guy on the ground was so out of it, I doubt he had any idea what had just happened. After that, we took off, ran like hell over to Denny, and hopped a bus up to Capitol Hill. Benjy said not to worry, that he was sure both the woman and the cop were dead. Benjy was convinced ­people would think the cop had done it and that no one would ever find us, but you have,” he finished. “You did.”
    â€œIt turns out Medic 1 showed up in time, and Detective Gurkey didn’t die,” I told him. “In fact, he’s the whole reason we’re here today. He’s being charged with murder in the death of Lulu McCaffey. He’s about to go down for what you did. Our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
    â€œYou still don’t understand,” Fred insisted. “I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I’m not the one who shot her. Benjy did.”
    â€œAnd then what?”
    â€œAnd then I had to get out of Seattle. I called my dad and asked if I could come home. Again. He said he’d give me a place to stay and food to eat, but I had to work for it, just like his other hands. And that’s what I did.”
    I looked at my watch. Watty glanced in the rearview mirror and caught me doing it. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be there in time.”
    We drove straight back to Seattle. We dropped by Seattle PD long enough to put Fred Beman in an interrogation room, and then we headed for the Hargrove Hotel. In case Benjamin Smith made a run for it, we stationed two uniformed officers at First and Madison. Watty was parked in a car facing northbound at First and Columbia. Larry Powell and I waited inside the scuzzy lobby of the Hargrave, seated on a pair of swaybacked, cracked leather chairs. The clerk seemed distinctly unhappy to see us. As the moments ticked by, I worried that he might have spilled the beans and Benjamin Smith had already skipped town.
    Instead, Benjy—­I liked thinking of him that way—­showed up right on time, at twenty minutes to three, sauntering along, swinging his lunch pail like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was Wednesday. There was no telling if he’d stopped at Bakeman’s on his way home. As soon as he pushed open the brass and glass door and started for the elevator, I stood up to head him off.
    â€œMr. Smith,” I said, barring his way and holding my badge up to his face. “Detective Beaumont with Seattle PD. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word.”
    I was deliberately in his face, and the man did exactly what I hoped he’d do. He took a swing at me with the lunch pail. Since that’s what I was expecting, I blocked it easily. When you need an excuse to take someone into custody, there’s nothing like resisting in front of a collection of witnesses to give you a warrantless reason to lock some guy up in a jail cell for the next few hours. On the way to Benjy’s interrogation room, I made sure he got a look at Fred, anxious and despairing,