Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(70)

“I just crawled into bed an hour ago,” she said. “I got a call out to a DV hostage situation around midnight. It didn’t end well.”

I heard the sorrow in her voice. Mel’s the chief of police in a small city. When something goes wrong, she’s there on the scene, working with her people and usually handling the media.

“How bad?” I asked.

“The wife bled out from stab wounds while we were negotiating with the asshole husband. He shot himself in the head as the Emergency Response Team was making entry. My guys found a four-month-old baby unharmed in a back bedroom. She’s an orphan now, currently in foster care.”

The heartbreak in Mel’s voice made my own heart ache as well, and the accompanying pang of guilt took my breath away. I should have been in Bellingham with her, backing her up, instead of off up here in Alaska on what suddenly seemed like a pointless wild-goose chase.

“I’m so sorry,” I managed. “I’ll hang up and let you go back to sleep.”

“No,” she said. “I needed to hear your voice. As for Sarah? I took her along on the call and left her in the car because I had no way of knowing when I’d get home. Once we got here, I let her out, but when I went to bed, she climbed up here right beside me. She must have known how upset I was. She helped me fall asleep.”

“Damn dog!” I muttered. “I’m away from home for just three nights, she’s already taken over my side of the bed.”

Mel laughed aloud at that, and the sound was music to my ears. Right then a tiny bit of laughter was what we both needed.

“As long as I’m awake now, what are you up to today?” she asked.

At that moment we were motoring down Bonanza Avenue, and Twink’s Travelall was pulling over in front of a small frame house set far back from the street. “I’m doing a few more interviews in Homer,” I told her. “We’re just now coming up on one of the residences. You go back to sleep. Call me when you’re up and about.”

“Will do,” she said.

I ended the call. “Something wrong with your wife?” Twink wanted to know.

“She had a rough night,” I answered. “She’s the police chief in Bellingham. There was a domestic case. Two people died on her watch last night, and a baby girl has been left an orphan.”

“Sorry,” Twink said. From the tone of her voice, I knew she meant it.

I bailed out of the car and made my way up a long shoveled walk to the house. I rang the doorbell twice before I finally heard footfalls inside. The door was opened by a red-haired, freckle-faced kid who appeared to be about fifteen. He was dressed in the bottom half of a pair of pajamas and looked as though he’d just crawled out of bed.

“Yeah?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Betsy Norman.”

“That’s my mom. She’s not here. She’s at work.”

“I need to speak to her. Could you tell me where she is?”

“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a friend of hers?”

“My name’s J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator from Seattle,” I told him. “Who are you?”

“Noah.”

“It’s not a big deal, Noah,” I assured him. “I just need to ask her a few questions.”

“Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“No, I want to speak to her about one of her patients from years ago.”

Noah looked relieved. “You could call her, I guess,” he said. “Do you have her number?”

I did, but I decided to let him help. “Not on me,” I said.

He gave me the number, and I keyed it into my phone.

“But she’s really not in any trouble?”

“None at all, Noah. Thanks for your help.”

I dialed the number on my way back to the car. The call went to voice mail. “This is Betsy Norman. I’m either on the phone or doing patient rounds. Leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you.”

I left my name and number. “Where to next?” Twink asked.

I gave her Jim Brixton’s address on East Danview Avenue. For the first time ever, Twink was stumped and had to dial up Siri on her iPhone to get directions. We didn’t talk much as we drove from the first house to the second. I was still preoccupied with what was going on with Mel.

We pulled up in front of the Brixton residence just as a late-model Lexus entered the driveway and parked in the attached garage. A man, a woman, and three kids exited the vehicle. They were all dressed up as though they’d just come from church—Mass, most likely. The woman and the kids went on into the house. As I exited the Travelall, the man came walking up to me with a puzzled expression on his face.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Jim Brixton,” I said.

“That would be me. Who are you?”

“My name’s J. P. Beaumont,” I explained. “I’m a private investigator from Seattle. I’d like to ask you a question about one of your clients.”

“Which client?”

“Roger Adams.”

“Do you have any ID?”

I presented my ID wallet and passed along a business card as well.

“Has something happened to Roger?” he asked, handing the wallet back to me. “Is he all right?”