Excerpt of Without Due Process by J.A. Jance

Chapter One

Back in the not-so-distant and not-so-good old days, I
remember staying up until all hours every April 14
finishing up my income tax returns. It wasn't because they
were all that complicated because there was never that
much money. No, the difficulty was always nothing more or
less than an almost fatal tendency to procrastinate where
income taxes are concerned. Once I had completed the dirty
job, likely as not I'd reward myself with a couple of
stiff belts of MacNaughton's.

A few things have changed since then, some of them for the
better. For one, I'm trying, one day at a time, to keep
away from Demon Rum. For another, thanks to Anne Corley,
there's a hell of a lot more money in my life, and as a
consequence, a much more complicated income tax problem.
These days, my relations with the IRS are handled by a CPA
firm hired and supervised by my attorney and friend, Ralph
Ames, whose presence in my life I also owe to Anne Corley.
The only thing that hasn't changed is my tendency to
procrastinate.

That's why, on the evening of April 14, Ralph showed up
around eight o'clock, bringing with him my completed but
unsigned returns. The ink was still wet. Ralph, who has
been through this exercise with me now a time or two, had
held a gun to my accountant's head and insisted that, no,
we were not going to file for an extension.

I fixed a pot of coffee, and for a while we sat in my
living room window seat, visiting and watching the
nighttime boat traffic crisscrossing the black expanse of
Puget Sound. Finally, though, Ralph cleared his throat,
switched on the table lamp, and handed me the weighty
manila envelope. "Time to go to work," he said.

As I read over the return, I knew better than to expect to
get anything back, but when I hit the bottom line and saw
that the amount due equaled 80 percent of my annual take-
home pay as a homicide detective for the Seattle Police
Department, I about hit the roof.

"You've got to be kidding! That's how much I owe?"

Ralph Ames nodded and grinned. "Can I help it if you're
making money hand over fist? We lucked into some very good
investments this last year. Stop complaining and write the
check, Beau. You can transfer in enough money to cover it
tomorrow or the next day."

First I signed the return, then I reached for the
checkbook. With pen in hand I paused long enough to verify
that astonishing figure one last time. "What's the point
in working then?" I demanded irritably. "Why bother to
show up down at the department day after day?"

Ralph waited patiently for me to finish writing the check.
When I handed it over to him, he put both the signed
return and the check on the coffee table.

"Good question." He smiled. "Seems to me I've mentioned
that very thing to you a time or two myself. You need to
lighten up, Beau, Work less, learn to have some fun, maybe
even find yourself a woman. That's an idea. Whatever
happened to Marilyn? I haven't seen her around here for
some time."

Marilyn Sykes, the former chief of police on Mercer
Island, had been a sometime thing, someone to chum around
with and take to bed occasionally until she up and turned
serious on me. With a lucrative job offer from Santa
Clara, California, in hand, she had come to me with an
ultimatum to either get with the program as in marriage or
else forget it because she was leaving. She took the job
in Santa Clara.

"She got married," I said. "Just before Christmas last
year. To some big-time electronics wizard down in
California. She sent me an announcement."

"You'll get over her eventually," Ralph said.

I shrugged. "It wasn't that big a thing, really."

Ralph shook his head. "I wasn't talking about Marilyn
Sykes," he said carefully.

Without another word, I got up and went to the kitchen to
get more coffee. Ralph Ames was one of the few people who
knew just how big a hole Anne Corley's death had torn in
my heart. It's not something I like to advertise. Years
later, I still don't much want to talk about it. Not even
with Ralph.

For a few minutes I avoided the subject by dinking around
in the kitchen and making one more pot of coffee. Then,
just as the coffee finished, I was saved by the bell in
the guise of a timely phone call that cut off all further
discussion.

The familiar voice on the other end of the line belonged
to Sergeant Watkins, the day desk sergeant in Homicide. My
partner, Detective "Big Al Lindstrom and I were on call
that night, so the phone call was no particular surprise.
What was surprising was for Watty to be making the call
rather than the night-shift sergeant. Not only that, he
sounded genuinely relieved to hear my voice.

"Glad you're okay, Beau," he said. "I'm more worried about
the guys who don't live in secure high rises. Big Al's all
right too, by the way. I just checked. He's coming in from
Ballard right now. I told him to stop by and pick you up.
We need you both down at the department ASAP. I'll meet
you there."

That meant Watty had called me from home. His coming back
into the department at night was more than slightly out of
the ordinary, so something was definitely up. "What's
going on?" I asked.