Free Lying in Wait (9780061747168) by Judith A. Jance Page B

more cheerful than I felt. Truth be known, I wanted to put Gunter Gebhardt out of my mind for the time being.
    â€œIn fact,” I added, “if you’d like to, we could invite your son to come have lunch with us. How far away from here do you live?”
    â€œNot that far,” she told me. “Just on the other side of the Fremont Bridge.”
    A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of a bare-bones duplex on Dayton in the Fremont neighborhood. The place was a long way from lavish, but it was in a decent, settled part of the city. From the way the yards had been kept up and from the number of older, sedan-type cars visible on the street, I had an idea that some of thosehomes still housed the original owners—little old people who were just now making plans to sell off their bungalows in order to enter retirement or nursing homes.
    â€œIt’s a long way from Belltown Terrace,” Sue said defensively as she stopped the Mustang in the driveway in front of a minute garage.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œCompared to where you live, this place must seem like almost as much of a dive as that bum’s tent back there over the railroad tracks.”
    I felt a momentary flash of anger. I’ve never made a big deal of my money, one way or the other. All I want to do is to be left alone to do my job without having to justify where I live or how. I glanced at the house. It may have been a humble little place, but a big orange, black, and brown construction-paper turkey covered the entire lower half of the front door. A lot of time and effort and love had gone into that damn turkey. Sue Danielson didn’t have anything to apologize for—certainly not to me.
    â€œYou pay the freight on this place all by yourself, don’t you?” I asked.
    She nodded. “Such as it is.”
    â€œWith or without child support?”
    â€œMostly without,” she admitted.
    â€œSo you earn this place, don’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, where I live is a goddamned accident, Detective Danielson. I’m living in the penthouse of Belltown Terrace because God reached out and struck my life with lightning once, not because I’ve earned the right to be there. So don’t give meany crap about it. And while you’re at it, don’t give me any crap about where you live, either. Got it?”
    After a moment, she smiled slightly and nodded. “The guys down at the department are right about you, aren’t they? You can be a crotchety old bastard at times.”
    â€œDamn straight! Now, are you going to go get that kid of yours, or am I?”
    â€œI’m going, I’m going,” Sue Danielson said.
    And she did.

6
    The instant Jared Danielson trailed out of the duplex on his mother’s heels, I knew why she wanted to brain him. In fact, so did I. On sight.
    He was a gangly, scrawny kid who shuffled along in unlaced high-tops. He wore a Depeche Mode sweatshirt, the sleeves of which ended several inches below his longest finger. Although early November means legitimately winter weather in Seattle, his legs were bare. His ragged jams seemed to be several sizes too large for his narrow hips.
    I know the look. The oversized clothing means only one thing to me, and I was sure it sent the same insulting message to his mother. Jared Danielson was a gang wannabe.
    The drooping crotch of his pants hung down almost to his knobby knees. Had I been walking behind him, I think I would have been tempted to give them a yank. It wouldn’t have taken much effort to have dropped them around his ankles.
    For some unknown reason, kids who insisted on wearing their baseball caps backward six months ago have now, for no apparent reason, collectively turned them bill forward. Jared Danielson was noexception. At least the maroon-and-gray Washington State University baseball cap perched on his head was turned in the right direction. The dark brown hair sticking out beneath