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Thirteen

The answering service called Rose to tell her about Paula Reece's message and Rose called the woman back. "Paula, hi. Rosalie Samson. What's up?"

"I need your advice, Miss Samson—"

"Just Rose is fine," Rose said. She didn't much like formality. The creepy clients didn't have enough manners or respect to use it anyway, and those were the ones she wanted to distance, so she felt like she may as well use her first name with everybody. Besides, she found it easier to establish rapport with clients if she could use their first names and it was demeaning to them for her to do it if they couldn't.

"I just watched the six o'clock news and they showed a picture of that little girl who's missing, the singer's girl?"

"Snohomish Quantrill?" Rose asked. She'd been watching the news too.

"Yes, ma'am. Anyhow, the picture of that school uniform of hers?"

"Uh-huh. The red outfit with the black-and-red muffler."

"Yeah. Well, I seen a muffler like that."

"When?"

"Today, at my new job. Now, Rose, I know there's a lot of mufflers look like that but this one was black and red too, just like that one, but what makes me worry that it might be related is, this scarf was all covered with blood. And I don't know, would I be violatin' that man's privacy to report it or not?"

"Oh, I don't think so," Rose said. "Haven't they told you yet that the confidentiality thing doesn't apply where you have good reason to suspect that the patient is a danger to himself or others or to property?"

"No, they didn't. I just started working there today and I guess they were kinda busy."

"Well, that's the rule. It's not just a hospital rule, it's law. So it's really your obligation to report it. Nobody could fault you for it."

"To the police?"

"Well, yes. I'd say without much delay. If the scarf is Sno's and the man either did something to her or knows where she is, she might still be alive. There's not a moment to lose, in that case."

"I guess not. But I sure don't want to call any police."

"You wouldn't be doing anything wrong, Paula, and you might be helping save a young girl's life."

"I know, Rose, but you don't understand how it is for people like me—they're apt to accuse me of planting it, anything. They shot my sister's boy just because he was the same age and color as a boy they were chasing. That child had never done anything wrong."

"Well, then, what shall we do?"

"Could you maybe call them?"

"I guess I could, but you'd have to talk to them just the same. I couldn't hide your identity, Paula. It's a kidnapping and murder investigation and that would be withholding evidence. Besides, there's a reward offered and if you're right and your information led to finding Sno . . ."

"Well . . ." Paula hesitated.

"Look, just before I talked to you the other day I had a call from an officer I know. He's a good guy and fair and he's involved in the case. I could see if he'd come and take your statement personally."

"That'd be good," Paula said. "But, do you think maybe that you could come with him? And maybe I wouldn't have to go back to work with him to find the scarf and that way they wouldn't think I was a troublemaker if it turned out to be nothing."

"I know how worried you are about losing this job, and from what happened to you before, we both have seen how unreasonable hospital administrations can be," Rose said in a careful, professional manner while she was thinking over whether or not she could go, ought to go. She and Paula had established pretty good rapport during their brief contact. Paula was exactly the sort of person Felicity talked about who could be helped—she had asked for food to keep her children alive and hadn't expected anybody to support her, but had gone right out, on her own, and found a job. Now she was understandably worried about losing it. And while Rose knew Fred Moran would cooperate with her as far as he could, the police had pretty formidable administrative snarls too. Paula's fears weren't unreasonable.

Rose was very tired. She had seen something like eighty clients that day, many of whom she couldn't help. She had only been home an hour or two. But there was a seven-thirty ferry she could catch if she hustled. "I'll tell you what. I live cross-Sound so it'll take me about an hour and a half to get back to the city. Give me your address and if I can't come with the police, I'll catch a cab to your place. Okay?"

"I'll be watching for you," Paula said and gave her the address.

She called the sheriff's office before she left and asked to speak to Fred. She expected a long hassle, that they would have to page him and give him another number to call her back, but he was still at the office and answered at once.

When she finished telling him about the conversation she said, "So, what do you think?"

"I think it's fairly slim but if you think it could be significant, well . . ."

"I promised Paula that you'd come personally and that if I couldn't come with you, I'd take a cab over to her place . . ."

"It would be great if you could come along and put Paula at ease. I'd really appreciate it. I'll pick you up at the ferry terminal at 9:10."

"Right." She refilled the dry cat food and cats' water to the brim and petted everyone, then threw a sleep-T, her toothbrush and some vitamins in her purse in case she missed the last ferry and had to stay over in Seattle with Patrick and his wife Gail. Pulling her last clean pair of jeans out of her closet, she tugged them on along with a man's dark green T-shirt, which she tucked in. She drew a vintage souvenir Indian-beaded belt through the loops of her jeans and threw on an oversized men's Norfolk jacket, just to look professional. A pair of beaded earrings from the market and her mustard seed, socks and running shoes, and she'd be ready for work tomorrow in case she didn't get to come home.

After grabbing her recycled kilim duffel purse, she set the security alarm on the house, ran for the car, drove to the terminal, parked, put money in the slot and ran aboard the ferry just as they were about to draw up the ramp.

She caught her breath and her dinner aboard the ferry, in the coffee shop. A foil-wrapper burger, a cup of espresso and a rather limp-looking salad should see her through the evening.

The moon tonight was a thumbnail paring, leaves of dark cloud obscuring the stars so that the water danced only with artificial light. The ferry glided through the water like some half-drowned ghost hotel, people moving eerily through its brightly lit rooms as it slid over the water.

Rose sipped her espresso and thought not so much of Paula as of Felicity. Of course, she had proved absolutely nothing and everything she said sounded crazy, but Rose could have sworn Felicity herself was neither crazy nor a pathological liar. She didn't sound like a deluded New Age guru either. And what if—what if what she claimed was real was real . . .wouldn't that be something? Then things could change. Inevitability wouldn't be quite so inevitable. That would be . . .refreshing, to say the least.

She didn't notice Fred at first because she was expecting to see him in a uniform and a patrol car, but as she turned the corner coming down the steps from the ferry terminal, a blue Ford Escort two-door on the far side of the street, beneath the overpass, honked, and the driver leaned out the window and waved.

Fred Moran smiled a slightly cockeyed smile as she slid in beside him. He was wearing civvies, slacks, a dress shirt and tie, looking very corporate except that in place of a sports jacket he had substituted a windbreaker with the KCP for King County Police on it. On the seat beside him sat a teddy bear in uniform.

"This looks like the bear Gigi had," Rose said, picking up the stuffie and straightening his badge.

"Nah, that's his brother, my new partner. I go through those guys really fast. Different service groups buy the bears and dress them for us to help smooth relations with children we encounter in the line of duty. In cases of domestic disturbance or child abuse, the bear gives the little guys something to hang on to."

"That's great," Rose said. "I could use one of those myself from time to time."

"Yeah, me too," Fred said, patting the bear's head and her hand at the same time. "That's why I always have a backup bear. I'll let you borrow him sometime if you ask nice." The flirtatiousness in the comment hung uncertainly in the air between them for a moment as he negotiated the turn out from under the viaduct and into city traffic. After a while, he said, "You look nice. I like the jacket, only somehow it makes me wonder where's the deerstalker cap and the pipe. It is the same kind Sherlock Holmes wears, isn't it?"

"Excellent, my dear Watson," she said. "Your powers of observation are finely honed. Speaking of sartorial splendor, you were wearing a uniform before. In fact, I think this is the first time I've seen you in mufti. Have you been promoted?"

"Sort of. It's your new progressive policing, ma'am. Since, as every patrolman knows, it's really the cop on the street who is the most important member of your police force at work, the administration in its wisdom has adopted a policy that's been in use in smaller areas for some time. Patrolmen learn detective skills and become crime scene investigators. You are lookin' at one of the same. That was why I called you the other day. I was investigating the crimes or potential crimes in our community, and their scenes, and everyone I knew associated with them. And I want you to know that we do appreciate your help with our enquiries, ma'am," he said. "Now then, tell me again about your friend and what she saw."

When they reached Paula's apartment, Paula was pacing the floor with anxiety. Rose had expected her to be shy and reserved around Fred but instead Paula practically dragged them inside, holding on to Rose's hand with both of her own and squeezing it urgently.

"I just remembered something real important," she said. "There was a letter in the pocket too. It was all crumpled up and bloody but I'm sure the name was some music company and it was to a school."

Fred asked, "What's the name of this patient again, and what are his ward and unit numbers?"

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Framed