Emerald City (10 page)

“So, let me get this straight, ma'am,” the patrolman said, looking at the bullet on the table. “It was in an envelope in your mailbox.”

“Yes,” I told him for the third time. “No address. Someone must have unlocked the box and put it in there.”

Steve sat at the table, staring down into his lap. Since the cop had arrived he'd only spoken when asked a question, his voice barely above a whisper. I'd poured us both a shot of brandy before I called 911, then we'd waited. He'd tried to calm me, but all he did was work himself up even more. I knew he was terrified. So was I. First the calls, then maybe the car, and now this. It was way too real. All I could do was try to hold it together.

I'd told the patrolman about Craig Adler, the story and the threats and he'd written it all down carefully. The bullet was standing on the coffee table; I hadn't been able to take my gaze off it.

“And you don't know who might have sent it?”

“The guy who's been making the phone calls,” I said in exasperation. “It's an obvious connection.”

“You have no enemies, ma'am?” he asked. “No friends who think this
would be a good joke?”

“Only the person making the threats. The one who might have tampered with my brakes.” He was acting as if this happened every day, as if he couldn't see how serious this was to me. To us.

“You told me the mechanic said it was probably just age,” the patrolman said.

“Yes. But he couldn't be certain.” I wanted it on record, noted down.

The patrolman slipped the bullet into a plastic bag. “I don't think we'll get anything from it since you've both handled it but you never know. I'll need the envelope, too.”

“What are you going to do about it?” I asked at the door.

“We'll look into it, ma'am. We'll fill out a report. If you call the precinct we'll be able to give you the number for reference. One of the detectives might want to talk to you both.”

He put on his cap, straightened it carefully and wished us both a good evening. I sat down next to Steve and took hold of his hand.

“They're not going to do anything, are they?” he asked.

“Probably not.”

He shook his head. “That's scared the shit out of me.”

“Me too.” Just seeing the bullet, the brass shining, pointed and deadly, would always stay with me. “I think it's time to drop this story.”

He raised his eyes to mine. “Are you sure?” He tried to sound doubtful but I could hear the hope in his voice.

“Yeah,” I said bleakly. “I'll tell Rob on Monday. He wouldn't want me to carry on after this, anyway.”

We didn't eat; neither of us had an appetite. We hardly said anything during the evening, both of us avoiding conversation, not even sure how to start talking. Even if we'd begun, the bullet would still have stood between us, growing larger with each minute until it filled the room. Instead we watched stupid shows on television, hoping to be entertained.

Later, in bed, after I'd felt his arms around me for a few minutes, enough to take away the chill I felt inside, we rolled away from each other. But sleep wasn't going to come easily. I'd showered earlier but I could still smell the fear on my skin.

“You know, when you think about it, he must be petrified,” Steve said into the darkness.

“How do you figure that?” That didn't make sense. All I could see was a man with power over me and I hated that. I hated the way he was manipulating me, making me scared to go out my door.

“If he sent... that.” He couldn't bring himself to name the object. “It's pretty extreme, right? He must believe you'll find out what he did.”

“What he did was make me quit.” I was angry with myself but I knew it was the right decision. Better to stop before he did even more.

“What did you find out today?” Steve asked.

I told him about the woman Elizabeth Heston had seen.

“What do you think it means?”

“No idea. She's probably a friend of Sandy's.”

“Or maybe Craig was seeing someone.”

“Maybe.”

He turned towards me. “Do you think that's possible?”

“Anything's possible. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I'm done with it.”

“You need to discover who she is,” he insisted. “She might be important.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Maybe you shouldn't give up.”

“Steve...”

“No, think about it. That's what he wants, right?”

“Yeah.” Right now it was what I wanted, too.

“He's intimidating us. There's something bad to hide here. You agreed with me on that.”

“So where is it?” I asked in frustration. “I haven't found it yet.”

“And if you stop, you never will. Do you think anyone else will look?”

“Rob might.”

“But if he doesn't, you're going to spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”

“Am I?”

His hand moved across and took hold of mine. “I know you. You will.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, knowing he was right. It would niggle at me, day after day, year after year.

“Look, don't make up your mind on anything now, okay? Wait until Monday morning. You don't have to decide anything before then.”

Perhaps he was right, the voice of reason that was cutting through everything I was feeling, the turmoil inside me. I didn't really want to give up the story. I was only saying I did out of fear.

“So why the change of heart? An hour ago you were all for me dropping
this.”

“I don't want to see anything beat you,” he answered.

It was everything I could have wanted him to say, his belief in me, his love for me. I smiled in the darkness.

“It's Sunday tomorrow. We could go out and do something.” We needed a change of scene, some distance from Seattle to think about everything. It would do us both good. We needed more time together; there never seemed to be enough of that. “We could go down to the coast if you want. Give that new car a good run.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be good,” he answered, and I could hear the small beginnings of pleasure in his voice.

We were on the road by nine, heading down the Interstate towards Olympia, then across to Westport. The road was fairly empty, the Horizon was running well, cruising easily at the speed limit and there was a promise of sun in the sky. We could walk by the Pacific and put everything about Craig Adler out of our minds for a while.

First, though, I had a surprise for him.

The drive took over two and a half hours and the sun parted the clouds as we neared the sea. With the window rolled down I could smell it on the air; I hoped I could remember the spot.

The sign for the restaurant was faded and barely legible. I pulled into a parking lot that was half potholes. Steve looked at me quizzically.

“Trust me,” I told him. I grabbed his hand and we walked into the sand dunes. The place was hidden away down a small track, a glorified shack of
old, weathered boards that looked out towards the ocean. The door stuck and an old-fashioned bell sounded as it opened. Inside, tables were set for meals; none of the furniture matched, and there were antiques in cases, on dressers or hanging from the ceiling, every one of them with a price tag.

“What the hell is this place?” he asked.

“It's a restaurant,” I explained as he looked at me in amazement. “Come on, let's get a seat by the window.”

It was almost empty, the only other customers a family with two small children. The waitress appeared quickly.

“Two open-faced crab sandwiches and coffee,” I ordered, even before she could hand over the menus.

“This place is weird,” Steve said, still gazing around. He was right, but that was part of its charm. It was the kind of place people discovered by accident and remembered with pleasure, as if they'd stumbled on a little piece of magic.

His eyes widened when the food arrived. The plate was piled high with half a pound of fresh crab meat, topped with melted cheese, sitting on a couple of slices of ordinary white bread. No salad, no vegetables, as basic as could be – and absolutely delicious. Crab was all they served, generous portions, caught fresh every day.

“God,” he said, “I can't eat all that.”

“You'll love it,” I promised. “And we can walk it off later on the beach.”

In the end he managed most of the food, finally pushing the plate aside with a long, contented sigh.

“I don't think I'll ever want to eat again. Damn, that was good. How come
this place isn't famous?”

“We know about it. Who else matters?”

The tide was going out, leaving the sand flat and packed firm. The beach stretched north and south as far as the eye could see. Huge chunks of driftwood, tree trunks, poles, masts, lay above the waterline as we ambled slowly, and the only sound was the soft crashing of the waves nearby. Out beyond the horizon the next land was Asia. The last time I'd been here I'd watched the sun dip down slowly so the ocean looked burnished in orange and gold, one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I'd stood and watched until the horizon darkened, feeling as if my soul was cleaner. Today the sun was pale, almost lemon-colored, and clouds skittered high across the sky.

We held hands as we strolled, saying little, just relaxing and stopping to examine shells or just stare at the water. Two hours later, as we sat in the dunes, Steve said, “This was a good suggestion.”

“We both needed it.” Neither of us mentioned last night and the bullet, deliberately setting it aside. It wouldn't go away, but for a few hours we could try to forget it had happened. We needed some time for ourselves, to feel close again.

“Are we still good?” I asked as we watched the waves crash on the sand. With his big gig coming up, then my story and everything that had happened, I'd started to feel like there was a distance between us. It worried me. If this really was going to last we needed to be close.

“Of course we are.” He sounded taken aback by the question. Steve was like most guys, never comfortable talking about his emotions. He didn't like to discuss them, as if they embarrassed him. I'd grown used to it, but there were still times I needed it all laid out, to hear the words. It's just the way I was,
sometimes I needed the reassurance, knowing we could talk everything out and find a way through it all.

“You don't feel like running away?” I tried to make the question light.

“Only to a place like this. Seattle feels a million miles away right now.” He lay back and looked up at the sky. “Maybe we should move down here.”

I laughed. I loved it when he dreamed like that; it hadn't happened in months. We'd both been too focused on the here and now.

“And what would we do?”

“I don't know. I could wait tables at that crab shack, you could write.”

“The only problem is, we'd be bored shitless,” I said, bursting the pretty bubble.

“You think?” He sat back up, reached for a pebble and threw it toward the water.

I knew it was true. We both had the city in us, we needed to have record shops and bookshops around, bars and gigs for the evening. Down here might seem idyllic but it would pall very quickly

“And what about the band?” I continued. “You can't make it down here. Even the bands from Aberdeen have to come up to Seattle to play.”

He scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers, then glanced all around.

“There's no one here but us. We got the whole place to ourselves.” His eyes were twinkling.

“Oh yeah? Got something in mind?”

“Maybe.” He reached out for me and I rolled into his arms, my hands starting to unbuckle his belt.

The week began as it always did with Steve's whirlwind rush, dashing through breakfast and a shower. The rain was steady enough for me to take the bus, getting off at Second and Pike then walking back through the small groups of street people hanging around the doorways, outside the pawn shops and the Mirror Tavern. I'd thought long and hard on the drive home from the coast. The bullet made me want to run as far from the Craig Adler story as I could, but that was exactly what the sender wanted. He thought that because I was female I'd cower and crawl away. I couldn't let that happen. If he thought I was weak, I'd show him just how strong I could be. And Steve wanted me to carry on; he believed in me.

Pike Place Market was quiet, too wet for the tourists and too early for the lunch crowd. The fish sellers were standing around, waiting for an audience before they'd perform, and the produce merchants were arranging their wares to make them tempting.

I slipped through to the sandwich stall. Mike was flirting with a customer, a young woman in jeans and a thin jacket. I raised my eyebrows when he noticed me, smiled and made a sign. He nodded back.

I waited for him over at the stairway, looking across at the kids scampering merrily in the Market pre-school, and down at the Viaduct and the water beyond. Behind me a busker tuned his guitar, then launched into one of his own songs. Mike arrived next to me, taking a packet of Drum and some papers from his pocket and rolling up.

“Hey, how's the story coming? Found anything yet?”

“A few things,” I said. “But I've got a couple more questions for you.”

“Shoot,” he told me.

“This might seem weird, but was Craig seeing anyone besides Sandy?”

He lit the cigarette and plucked a strand of tobacco from his lip before answering.

“I don't know,” he replied warily, eyes flicking over to me before staring out at Puget Sound. “I probably shouldn't say.”

“Come on, Mike. That's pretty much like saying yes.”

“I think he was, but I'm not sure,” he said with a blush. I felt gooseflesh on my skin. He'd given me a little information; now I needed more.

“Did you ever get a look at her?”

He shrugged. “Only a couple of times in passing.”

“Do you remember what she was like?”

“She was blonde, but it was light, out of a bottle, you know?” He looked at me questioningly. “And she was really thin.”

“Long hair or short?”

“Short.”

“So what made you think Craig was seeing her?” I asked.

“Just...” Mike searched for the words. “You know how sometimes you can tell people are more than just friends? The way they look at each other, the way they move their mouths. That's what it was like. I never saw them kiss or anything, it's just the impression I got.”

I was surprised; Mike had never struck me as particularly intuitive. I thought for a moment. “Where did you see them together?”

“Outside the rehearsal space once, and another time after a gig. I was putting the drums in my car and she drove by. She had one of those old cars, one of the big ones, it kind of surprised me.”

My heart was beating fast. Maybe I really had something. “Green?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me. “You know who she is?”

“Not yet. But I'm going to find out.”

He stubbed the cigarette out on the metal railing. “Is there anything else? I got to get back.”

“Was everything still good on the record deal?”

“Yeah. Why, did you hear something?”

“No,” I assured him. “Just checking. Thanks for telling me about the girl.”

“De nada.”

He shrugged and left. I put a dollar in the busker's guitar case and started the walk home, lighting a cigarette of my own as I walked up First Avenue.

Carla was at her espresso stand, sheltering under the large umbrella. The shoulders of her coat were a darker blue from the rain, and her hair looked bedraggled. Without waiting she made me a latte.

“What do you know about Craig and Sandy?”

“Not much,” she shrugged. “I think I told you pretty much everything.”

“Do you know if he was he seeing anyone else?”

“No idea. I didn't run into him much, like I said.” She looked at me with curiosity. “Why? Was he?”

“I don't know. I've just heard a couple things, it might be nothing. A girl in a big Seventies car. One of the powerful ones.”

“You mean a muscle car?” she asked and I nodded. “That sounds more like the island.”

I hadn't considered that. Maybe it was someone from his past.

“Someone thin and blonde in a green car? Mean anything?”

“Not really. I hardly go back there any more, just to see my folks sometimes. You'd do better asking Craig's brother, he might know.”

“He kind of made it clear he didn't want to talk.”

She shook her head sympathetically. “Yeah, he can be like that. He was always kind of a dick.”

“He said his best friend died of an overdose.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that now. He was pretty broken up about it at the time.” She frowned. “Yeah, I can see how this would hit him.”

I thanked her, took my coffee and walked up the hill. It was definitely interesting. Maybe the blonde really was someone he knew from Bainbridge Island – it was only a short ferry ride away.

At home, I called The Rocket and talked to Rob. I could have stopped in but this was easier on the phone. I told him about the package.

“Fuck, a bullet!”

I could hear his outrage down the line. “The cops have it. I got the
impression they weren't taking it too seriously. We haven't had a detective around for any follow up.”

“I don't care. Laura, I'm pulling the plug on this. It's gotten way out of control.”

“Don't,” I said. I kept my voice firm and even. “I want to continue.”

“After that?” He sounded dubious. “Are you for real on this?”

“Yes.” I was certain. “And before you ask, my boyfriend supports me on this, too.”

“Okay,” he agreed with a sigh. “But on one condition – any more trouble, anything at all, and that's it, okay? I figured this would end up being a pissant little story, not my writer getting threatened. I'm not having you get hurt.”

“Well, it's not like I want that, either.”

“Anything else and we're done with it,” he repeated. “Agreed?”

“Yes,” I said after a small hesitation.

“I mean it. For now you'd better tell me what you've found recently.”

I brought him up to date, especially about the blonde and the car. He listened attentively, and I heard the scratch of pen on paper as he made notes.

“So how do you think she figures into this?” he asked finally.

“I really don't know. Maybe she doesn't. But she's the only thing I've got right now, and from what Mike told me, it sounds like he had something going on the side that Sandy didn't know about.”

“Or maybe she did,” he suggested. “Jealousy can be a pretty powerful motive for murder.”

“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully. “I'm not sure I see it with her, though.”

“Think about it,” he said. “Craig's about to get plenty of money with that record deal. His girlfriend finds out he's seeing someone else and thinks he's about to dump her. So she kills him. It could have happened that way.”

I didn't know much about murder, but I did know that jealousy killings were usually crimes of passion. Craig's death hadn't been like that. If someone had killed him, they'd planned it carefully and coldly.

“What I really need to do is talk to Sandy.”

“Not heard anything yet?”

“Nope. I might go down and see her friend again tonight.”

“Don't push it,” he advised. “You don't want to spook her.”

“I know. But she seems like the one with more of the answers.”

“You hope. If she's responsible she's hardly likely to confess, is she?”

“But she'll be able to tell me a lot more about Craig.”

“There might well be things he kept from her, too. Do you really want to be the one to tell her about this girl?”

“Yeah, okay, point taken,” I said slowly.

“Just keep talking to people. You're doing something right. If you need any help with anything, just let me know. And for Christ's sake watch out, Laura. I mean it; I don't want anything else happening to you. You tell me if something happens. Then we'll pass it over to the dailies and let them look into it.”

“I don't want that,” I said. I poured a cup of coffee and took a drink. “Not after everything.”

“I know,” he agreed sympathetically. “Sometimes it's all for the best, though.”

We hung up and I started to understand how possessive I'd become
about this story. I didn't want to end up reading all the dark secrets in the Seattle Times or the Post-Intelligencer.

In the evening Steve took the car to head off to band practice, driving away slowly in the unfamiliar vehicle. About seven I shrugged into a jacket and walked into town. The rain had stopped but the asphalt still glistened, and car tires made a high hiss as they passed.

The Two Bells was fairly empty, just a few people enjoying dinner or lingering over Monday after-work drinks. Zydeco was playing on the stereo and toes tapped all over the bar while Clifton Chenier played that accordion.

I ordered a Henry Weinhard's and glanced at the menu, although it was hardly necessary; there was only one thing I ever ordered here: the burger with potato salad. It was the best in Seattle – even the local papers all agreed on that.

Dani was behind the bar, dressed in blue jeans and a smock, an apron around her waist, her hair tied back. She looked around, saw nothing to do and came over to talk.

“How's things?” I asked.

She shrugged, looking at me with a slight wariness, as if she wasn't sure how to treat me. “Same old. How about you?”

“Well, I've been threatened, the brakes failed mysteriously on the Pinto, and someone sent me a bullet.” I'd picked my words carefully. Her mouth formed a tight O and her eyes widened. It took a moment for her to collect herself.

“What? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Someone doesn't want me investigating Craig's death, he made that very clear.”

“Shit.” She drew the word out, watching my eyes.

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “It's not good stuff.”

“Has Sandy called you yet?”

I shook my head. “I haven't heard from her. Look, Dani, I need some help. I could really use to talk to her now.”

“I passed on your message,” she told me, keeping her eyes down so I couldn't see them.

“Please, can you ask her again? I don't know what's going on in all this, but I'm going to need to talk to her to try and find out. She's the one who knew him best.”

“I'll go call her again now from the payphone in back. She won't know what's happened to you.” Dani extended her hand and put it on mine. “I'm sorry, really, I am.”

The burger, served on French bread, the juices dripping, was good as ever, the potato salad had just the right touch of mustard and everything else. It made me realize how hungry I was. A few of the regulars came in, taking up the bar stools and filling the place with bright, brittle chatter. I sat and joined in, keeping an eye on Dani as she worked. Finally she took a break and came to sit by me, sipping on a beer and lighting a cigarette.

“I told her what you said. She's willing to talk to you.” Dani paused. “She just needs a little more time, that's all.”

“How long?” I asked cautiously.

“Before the end of the week. She promised. And she'll meet you, it won't
be over the phone.”

I nodded. It was Monday, so by Friday I'd know a great deal more than I did now. Before then I needed to try and find the muscle car blonde and hear her story.

“Thanks,” I said.

“She was really sorry about all the shit that's happened to you.”

I gave her a quick hug, made my farewells to the faces I knew and walked home. The evening was becoming crisp, one of those spring nights where the clouds would roll away and let the temperature drop.

Steve was already home, sitting on the couch with his guitar plugged into a tiny amplifier. I hung back by the door to hear him singing and playing, his voice repeating lines as he tried out different chords, working on a new song. He had talent and he kept improving. Whether he was good enough was a different matter. The critic in me knew he'd never be great, but he loved music, making it, performing it. If luck went his way he might even scrape a living from it for a while, and that was all he asked, to have been there and done it.

Hey,” I said finally. “I like that.”

“Oh.” He reddened with embarrassment at having been heard. “It's got a long way to go yet.”