Improbable Cause (J. P. Beaumont Series #5)

Improbable Cause (J. P. Beaumont Series #5)

by J. A. Jance

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A spellbinding tale of twisted depravity and blood vengeance featuring Seattle detective J.P. Beaumont from the New York Times bestselling author of Betrayal of Trust

J. A. Jance

Improbable Cause

Perhaps it was fitting justice: a dentist who enjoyed inflicting pain was murdered in his own chair. The question is not who wanted Dr. Frederick Nielsen dead, but rather who of the many finally reached the breaking point. The sordid details of this case, with its shocking revelations of violence, cruelty, and horrific sexual abuse, would be tough for any investigator to stomach. But for Seattle Homicide Detective J.P. Beaumont, the most damning piece of the murderous puzzle will shake him to his very core—because what will be revealed to him is nothing less than the true meaning of unrepentant evil.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780061999284
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 09/27/2011
Series: J. P. Beaumont Series , #5
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 79,597
Product dimensions: 4.20(w) x 7.40(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

J. A. Jance is the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, the Ali Reynolds series, and five interrelated thrillers about the Walker family, as well as a volume of poetry. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.


Bellevue, Washington

Date of Birth:

October 27, 1944

Place of Birth:

Watertown, South Dakota


B. A., University of Arizona, 1966; M. Ed. in Library Science, University of Arizona, 1970

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

WHAT we've got here this morning, Dr. Howard Baker announced somewhat pompously to the crowd of reporters assembled in the small dental office's waiting room, what we've got here is one dead dentist.

Doc Baker, King County's medical examiner, is a political type who likes to be quotable, no matter what. And Seattle's eager newshounds, packed like so many note taking sardines in the impeccably decorated reception area, were only too happy to oblige. They responded with an enthusiastic clicking and whirring of various audio and video recording devices.

As I pushed my way into the room, the news-gathering sounds annoyed me. I can't help it. My name is J. P Beaumont. As a detective with the Seattle Police Department Homicide Squad, I resent it when reporters manage to beat detectives to a crime scene.

Doc Baker was holding forth and waxing eloquent. He's an irascible old bear of a man with a full head of white hair who enjoys seizing the limelight. He towered over the rowdy group of reporters milling around him. Eventually, though, he caught sight of me standing on the edge of the crowd along with my partner. Detective Allen Lindstrom Big Al, as he's known around homicide on the fifth floor of Seattle's Public Safety Building.

The homicide detectives are here now, Baker informed the reporters. You'll have to excuse us. With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared through a door that led to a short hallway. imperiously motioning for us to follow. Doc Baker can be somewhat overbearing on occasion.

There was a short silence after Baker left the room, a silence punctuated by the sound of a woman crying. The muffled noise originated from behind a closed doorjust to the right of the receptionist's desk. There was no time to check it out, however. Doc Baker didn't give us that much slack.

Hey, Beaumont, Lindstrom, he bellowed back down that hall. Are you coming or not?

Big Al started moving, his physical bulk mowing a path way through the crush of reporters. I hurried along in his wake before the narrow opening closed behind him.

The moment we entered the hallway, I knew it was going to be bad. I recognized the faint, telltale stench of decaying flesh only too well.

The waiting room had smelled distinctly of fresh paint and new carpet overlaid with the suffocating scent of some female reporter's exotic, pungent perfume. But the hall way held a different odor, one that became stronger as we neared one of two swinging doors at the end of it. When Al pushed it open, a blast of gagging odor hit us full in the face.

My years on the force have taught me to prefer my murder victims fresh--the fresher the better. This one wasn't. The body had been left unattended for far too long in the muggy summer heat of an unusually warm July.

I stepped through the swinging door only to be blinded by a sudden flash of light. When I could see again, I saw Nancy Gresham, a fairly new police photographer, snap ping pictures of someone seated in a laid back, futuristic looking dental examination chair.

Big Al Lindstrom got far enough around the chair to see what was in it. He stopped short. Jesus! he muttered.

I was right behind him. I guess I've seen worse, but I don't remember when.

It was every kid's worst nightmare of what might happen once you wind up in a dentist's chair. The man's eyes were open and his mouth agape. He looked like a terrified patient waiting for some crazed dentist to start drilling and blasting. But below the open mouth, below the slack chin, was a second opening, a small, round, ugly wound through which the man's lifeblood had drained away.

And there was a surprisingly large amount of it. Blood had soaked down through his clothing and dripped off both sides of the chair, where a dark brown stain etched the outline of the chair's contours into plush, snowy white carpet. Blurred, bloody footprints led back and forth across the rug.

Why the hell would anyone bother to put a white car pet in a dentist's office? Big Al demanded. Seems pretty stupid to me.

Stupid or not, he never had a chance to enjoy it, Doc Baker said. Looks like he croaked before whoever was installing the carpet managed to finish the job.

Excuse me, Detective Beaumont, Nancy Gresham said, coming up behind me and moving a little to one side. I need a little more room.

She knelt on one shapely knee directly where I had been standing and aimed her camera up at the dead man's sagging face. Once more the camera flashed. I noted with some dismay that Nancy Gresham no longer turned green at the prospect of taking grisly pictures. It was too bad. I had liked her better before she toughened up.

I glanced around the room. A plastic garbage can was tipped on its side. A stainless steel tray with an assortment of dental tools beneath and around it lay on the floor. A large plant in a blue and white crock had been knocked off a counter. The crock had broken into three large pieces, and muddy dirt lay scattered on the floor. My professional assessment was that a hell of a fight had taken place in that room. Mentally I took in all the visual information, but I returned to Doc Baker's comment.

What makes you say the carpeting job wasn't finished? I asked.

He raised one bushy eyebrow. Look, he answered, pointing toward a corner of the room. The molding's still loose.

I followed his pointing finger. Sure enough, there in the corner several long pieces of oak molding leaned upright against the wall.

Knee-kicker's there too, Baker added.

Carefully avoiding the bloody footprints, I stepped over to the corner. On the floor beside the molding lay a carpet kicker--a wickedly toothed, five-pound metal tool with a leather cushion on one end. I had seen one like it a few months earlier when carpet installers had laid the carpet in my new condominium. I had watched them shove the sharp metal teeth deep into the carpet's pile; then they pounded their knees against the leather cushion to stretch the rug taut and attach it to the tack strips that lined the room. One of the installers told me that in his business the knees are the first to go.

Without touching it, I bent down to examine the kicker. A dozen or more inch-and-a-half-long metal teeth stuck out of the business end of the kicker. Three of them--the ones on the upper left-hand corner--were covered with something brown, something that looked suspiciously like blood.

Hey, Al, I said, straightening up. Come look at this.

It was then I noticed several long curving parallel gouges in the freshly painted finish on the wallboard, scratches that ended only inches from the sharp teeth of the kicker.

Big Al and Doc Baker both came to see what I had found.

Murder weapon maybe? Al asked.

No way, Baker answered. The hole in his throat is from a single sharp implement. That thing would have turned his throat into a goddamned computer punch card.

I'm finished, Nancy Gresham announced.

Baker turned to her and nodded. Good. Wait outside just in case I need anything else.

I heard you telling the reporters this guy was a dentist. How do you know that? I asked.

His receptionist identified him. She found him about nine this morning when she came in to work.

That's who's crying in the office down the hall? The receptionist? I asked. We heard her as we came past.

Again Baker nodded. I told her to go in there and wait, that you'd need to talk to her when you got here.

What's the dentist's name? Al had taken out a note book and stood waiting with his pencil poised to write.

Nielsen, the medical examiner replied. Dr. Frederick Nielsen. He's been dead a day or two, from the looks of things.

And the smell, Al added. What about this receptionist? Who's she?

Rush. Said her name is Debi Rush. Doc Baker spelled out the receptionist's first name. Al and I both wrote it down.

Just then a pair of crime-scene investigators bustled into the room. Bill Foster tackled Baker. Hey, Doc, are you guys just about done so we can get started?

You bet. Give us a couple of minutes to get him packed up and out of here. Then the place is all yours.

Baker summoned two of his waiting technicians to re move the body. I didn't envy them their odious task. I motioned to Al. What say we get out of here and go talk to the receptionist?

Big Al Lindstrom leaped at my suggestion. He was just as anxious as I was to get away from the gagging stench. Grateful to breathe fresh air again, we retreated through the swinging door and hurried back down the hallway.

Improbable Cause. Copyright © by J. Jance. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Improbable Cause (J. P. Beaumont Series #5) 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 47 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Not up to par for Jance. These books are expensive, you can skip this one and not miss a thing in the background story.
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dr16 More than 1 year ago
Great easy read. I have now read the first five books. I've made a list of all of series. Just wish they were a little cheaper.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I have enjoyed all the J.P. Beaumont books.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
60catladay More than 1 year ago
I'm surprised this series isn't better known. I'm a J.A. Jance fan & only read this out of curiosity. Fun to read about this great 'cop' & that he is learning the tech age as well as solving crimes. Highly recommend.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This series with J.P. Beaumont keeps getting better and better! It's an easy read and keeps you reading till the very end leaving you wanting more and more!
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Read it.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Good book. Good plot
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I enjoy reading his books.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book will interest readers who enjoy Evanovich's writings. I am now on the next book in the series and can't wait to read the next one. I am hooked on the Beaumont series and look forward to continuing this relationship. The reading is light but at the same time keeps you holding on until the end to see who did what. I would recommend this for book clubs. As a matter of fact, one of my friends is in one and they have read one of Jance's books.
Jacqs More than 1 year ago
There is such a great read and I am going thru all her books.
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