Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(28)

Directly across from the elevator was a wooden door topped by a milk-glass window. Stenciled on the glass in black all-cap letters were the words department head. Since Forensic Anthropology was the only office listed for the B. Level, I assumed this had to be where Professor Raines hung out. There was a combo buzzer/speaker device on the wall next to the doorframe, so I gave the button a solid push.

After a considerable pause, a disembodied voice came through the speaker. “School’s closed today. Come back tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m only in town for today.”

“Are you a student?”

“No, my name’s J. P. Beaumont,” I answered. “I’m a private investigator from Seattle.”

Professor Raines probably knew good and well where Bellingham was, but Seattle has a slightly better ring to it.

“You’re here on a case?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was an audible click as the lock released. As soon as I opened the door to step inside, the scent of a burning cigar assailed my nostrils—cigar smoke mixed with something I suspected to be microwaved Top Ramen. Between cigars and cigarettes, as a former smoker I suppose I prefer cigarettes, and after years of living the single life, I’m all too familiar with the Top Ramen style of home cooking. I was in a dimly lit laboratory with only a few security lights providing illumination through a collection of stainless-steel tables. At the far end of the room was what appeared to be a window-walled private office with plenty of lighting inside that. When no one came to greet me, that’s where I headed.

I walked into a cluttered office where almost every flat surface, chairs included, was covered with an assortment of books and/or a scatter of papers. Seated behind a wooden desk, Professor Harriet Raines, an elfin woman if ever there was one, was barely visible behind yet another dangerously crooked mound of papers and books. In the small cleared spot directly in front of her sat a bowl of some kind with a spoon in it, a mostly-empty rocks glass, and an ashtray with a still-smoldering cigar. Nearby sat an almost-full bottle of Crown Royal.

The woman's iron-gray hair was plaited into thick braids that wound around the top of her head, creating what looked like a crown. Her bulldog face, lined and wrinkled, was reminiscent of Winston Churchill’s, including a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Professor Raines stared up at me silently for a long assessing moment, then reached down, opened a drawer, and pulled out what was presumably a clean rocks glass. She slammed it onto the desk and then looked up at me again.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

“No thanks,” I said. “I gave it up for Lent.”

“It’s not Easter—it’s Christmas,” she declared, pouring herself a generous two-shot portion into the other glass. “What can I do for you, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I’m retired Seattle homicide,” I explained. “I’m here working what may turn out to be a cold case.”

She leaned back in her chair, took a slow sip of her drink, and then shook her head. “This is Alaska,” she told me. “In the winter it turns out all our cases are cold cases.”

She said the words with a totally straight face and then leveled an icy stare in my direction as if waiting to see how I would react. I felt as though I were undergoing some kind of evaluation. Depending on whether I arrived at the correct response, Professor Raines would either help me or tell me to piss off.

“This one may be colder than others,” I said. “It’s from 2006.”

A glint of interest appeared in her otherwise expressionless eyes. She set down the glass. “An Alaska case dating from ’06?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I believe so.”

“Have a seat, then,” she invited, waving at a chair. “Just put that junk on the floor. And none of this ‘ma’am’ crap, please. Most people call me Harry.”

As far as I’m concerned, the name Harry now and forever belongs to Harry Ignatius Ball, aka Harry I. Ball, my old boss at Special Homicide. “If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Harriet.”

“Fine with me,” she said with a shrug, “and you are?”

“J.P.,” I said, “either that or Beau. Take your pick.”

“I’ll opt for J.P.,” she said.

Since I evidently had just passed some critical point in Harriet Raines’s acceptance process, I did as I’d been told by clearing the nearest chair and taking a seat.

“Tell me about your case,” she said, and so I did.

“In 2006 a kid from Homer disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Harriet nodded. “Your missing-persons case,” she said. “What’s the name?”

“Chris—Christopher Danielson. He was seventeen at the time he went missing. The problem is, this isn’t officially a missing-persons case because he’s never been reported missing.”

“What exactly happened?”

“Chris’s family life was complicated. When he was younger, his father murdered his mother. That happened down in Seattle. His folks were divorced at the time of the homicide, and his mother, Sue Danielson, was my partner at Seattle PD.”

I’m not sure why I added that last bit, but somehow I felt a sudden need to provide full disclosure.