Blue Molly (Danny Logan Mystery #5) (26 page)

“As soon as she got the briefcase, Libby knew the raid was about to happen, so she scampered on back to the Lyon Gallery, where she locked the areaway door behind her. By the way . . .” I glanced over at the SPD brass, before returning my eyes to Rogers, “at no time did any SPD officer ever even so much as get a glimpse of the briefcase containing the money. It was never in their control. Libby stashed the briefcase behind her desk and ran upstairs like nothing had happened. Her whole trip probably took no more than five minutes—ten, tops.

“Back at Pioneer Square, Laskin hears the SWAT team come through the front door, and he immediately takes off into the areaway. We followed a couple of minutes later and cornered him, and that’s when we heard him banging on Sylvia Lyon’s door, wanting Libby to let him in. Of course she wouldn’t. I figure Libby must have known that Laskin had two strikes on him, and she certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for a pissed-off Laskin bent on revenge. He didn’t know it, of course, but his part in Libby’s plan B was to get caught.

“But Laskin wasn’t going down without a fight. Libby probably didn’t know he had a key to a nearby empty space. While we were waiting for our people to come in behind him, he snuck back up the areaway a couple of spaces, unlocked the door, and then ran upstairs. He ran outside and then into the Lyon Gallery. He was probably confused and acting out of instinct, but he must have recognized the setup and been pissed at Libby Black, because once he was inside the gallery, he grabbed her, and eventually the two of them ended up on the roof.

“Libby planned everything else, but I don’t think she could have planned this. I think once he showed up in her store, her script was out the window. She ad-libbed everything from that point forward. While we were on the roof, I was looking right at her, and I believe she was honestly terrified. She thought she was about to die. And for good reason, because Laskin wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her if he thought it would have gotten him out of there. But at least for a minute, she was more valuable to him as a live hostage, and that’s what gave Libby her opening. When she tripped Laskin and sent him over the edge, she was doing what she could to save her own life. Lucky for her, it worked.

“After that, things got pretty easy for her. No one suspected her of anything—hell, she was the victim, right? She played like she was seriously traumatized, and she gets sent home to rest. But she’s not that bad off. Later that night, when she was supposed to be recovering from her ordeal, she goes back to the Lyon Gallery and collects the briefcase. She makes one final trip back to her apartment, then she and Aaron Cunningham probably take a car or a bus or a train somewhere, and they fly away. My guess is, using false IDs that she’s had sitting around, just in case she ever had to fall back on plan B. She gives one last phone call to Sylvia this morning to complete the illusion—probably on a layover somewhere, probably using a burner phone. We know now that she’s got at least two hundred thousand Blue Molly capsules waiting, plus $500,000 of Mishkin’s money. I heard today she also cleaned out her bank account and her safe-deposit box the day before the raid. And there’s no telling how much money she put away in the past two years or where it is now, for that matter.” I shrugged. “But I think they’re long gone now.” I sat down.

The room was silent for several moments. Rogers took a deep breath, then he turned and looked at the DEA bosses before turning back to me. “Only one problem with your theory, Mr. Logan. We already had Mishkin. He was working for us. We nailed him months ago. He was working on a deal so we could wrap up his suppliers—in this case, whoever was behind Blue Molly. We knew it wasn’t Laskin, but we had no idea who it was.” He shook his head.

I looked at him. “So you’re saying that the money . . .”

He gave me a hard look, the look of a bureaucrat who’d just made a mistake that was about to put him under the spotlight, a place where he definitely didn’t want to be. “It wasn’t Mishkin’s. It was ours.”

I nodded my head slowly. “Oh.” I paused for a second, then said, “If it was your money, why didn’t you just cancel the deal when Libby changed the time?”

“May I step in?” One of the other DEA officials suddenly stood up. “My name is Brian Sullivan and I’m the assistant chief of operations out of Washington, DC. Mr. Logan, I want to thank you for your help in this case.” He gave a hard look at Rogers, then turned back to me. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to answer any questions until we complete our investigation and I’d appreciate it if you’d not divulge anything we may have disclosed here today. If we have any further questions for you, we’d like to be able to contact you.”

I glanced over at Miguel. He gave a little shrug. Apparently, the events had taken him by surprise as well. But I recognized the makings of a serious FUBAR op when I saw one. Unless I was greatly mistaken, DEA heads were going to roll, most likely starting with Collin Rogers.

As for us, though, we were done. I smiled and nodded. “By all means.”

* * * *

There’s an Army-Navy Surplus store downtown on First Avenue, halfway between Lenora and Blanchard. I stopped and picked out a brand-new M65 field jacket in the army’s desert digital camo scheme—the same type I wore ten years ago and had hoped never to have to see again. But here I was. Ten minutes later, I parked near Pioneer Square. I owed a friend a favor.

The sun was peeking out between the clouds, and Occidental Park was more crowded than it had been. Most of the seats were full, but still, I found him in his usual spot. I walked across the parking lot.

“Abraham!”

He turned at the sound of my voice, then smiled. “Sergeant Logan.” He pulled himself up off the concrete bench. “You’re back again.”

I nodded. “I am. How’re things?”

“Things are good, Sarge. They real good.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Say, Sarge, rumor has it that the little girl who give me the twenty dollars was behind the whole drug deal. That right?”

I nodded. “She was sneaky about it, but that’s the way it looks, Abraham. She fooled everyone, me included. She bailed out, and now she’s on the run.”

He shook his head. “Who’d have ever believed that? So little, so young and cute. Seemed like a schoolgirl. Guess it was kind of like one of them beauty-and-the-beast things, her and the Ghost.”

“Beauty and the beast. You got that right. Say, Abraham, speaking of her, that’s partly why I’m here. I believe you mentioned something about getting shortchanged on your deal.”

A puzzled look appeared on his face. “Shortchanged?”

“Yeah. Remember? When I asked you about the 9-1-1 call? You said she put you up to it?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she did.”

“As I recall, you said you were supposed to get a coat, too, as part of the deal. But you never got it?”

He laughed. “Yep, that’s right. She said she’d buy me a new coat.” He laughed again. “Easy come, easy go—right, Sarge? Least I got
something
up front.”

“Well . . .” I reached into the bag. “Today’s your lucky day, man.” I pulled out the field jacket and handed it to him. “I’m finishing off the second half of the deal for her.”

He held it up in astonishment, his eyes wide. “Hoooeeee! Would you look at this.” He turned it one way, then the other.

Then he lowered it and turned to me. His face grew serious. “You didn’t have to do that, Sarge. And you know I got nothing to repay you with but to say thanks.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “That’s perfect.”

He nodded.

“Take this, too, Abraham.” I handed him a brochure I’d picked up.

He looked at it for a second, then back up at me.

“I’m not putting any pressure on you or anything like that. This is one friend giving some information to another friend, and he may or may not find it useful.”

He nodded.

“You heard of them?” I asked.

“Celebrate Recovery? Yeah, I heard of them.” He smiled. “I appreciate the thought, Sarge. I can’t make no promises, but I appreciate the thought.”

I nodded. “Good. Remember—even when it seems dark, you got people who care about you, man.”

He smiled and nodded. “Thank you. That means a lot, Sarge.”

I handed him a business card. “You need anything, you call me.”

“I’ll surely do that.”

“Good. I’m going to check in on you from time to time. You behave.” I patted him on the shoulder and said good-bye.

“I’ve got something for you,” Toni said, her eyes twinkling. It was Friday, February 21, exactly one week after Valentine’s Day, and I finally had Toni out on our special dinner date.

We were seated in a booth by the window at Daniel’s Broiler on Lake Union. Dinner was finished, the table cleared. Toni was working on a cup of coffee. If it had been a little lighter outside, I could have made out our office across the water. As it was, the lights from the offices and the apartments on Westlake and Queen Anne Hill beyond twinkled across the bay. "Do you want to see it?" Toni beckoned to me with her eyes.

“What is it?”

She reached down into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “This is for you.”

I was a little alarmed. “Is it a card? I didn’t . . .”

She smiled. “Relax. It’s not a card.”

I took the envelope and opened it and was immediately relieved. It was a check made out to Logan Private Investigations from our insurance company—the payout for my Jeep.

“Excellent!”

“They were starting to get a little testy about the claim, so I had your dad call ’em and straighten them out. They hand-delivered the check this afternoon while you were in your DEA meeting.”

I nodded. “Good. Good thinking.” I handed the check back to her. “I’m going shopping tomorrow.”

She smiled. She was more beautiful than ever tonight. She wore a long dark-blue evening dress, with no sleeves to get in the way of her ink. I’d learned that her hair length tended to run in cycles—short to long to short again. Now, it was on the longer side, gleaming black, touching the tops of her shoulders. Her bangs were long and accented her beautiful blue eyes. The only piercings she wore were in her ears—three in each. She was magnificent. I was smitten.

“What are you staring at?” she said, knowing the answer already.

I smiled. “You.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful, and I’m lucky.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Yes, I do. It’s true.”

“Well, thank you.”

I looked over at our waiter and gave him what I hoped was a barely perceptible nod. A minute later, “I Choose You” by Sara Bareilles started playing.

“Oh!” Toni said, recognizing it immediately. “Here’s that song.”

I nodded. I let it play for a few seconds, then said, “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded, tapping her fingers on the table to the beat of the music. “Yeah, sure.”

“Serious.”

She looked at me, paying more attention now. The song continued. The tapping stopped.

“When you went down in that areaway, I almost died. I mean, I know how important you are to me, no question. But nothing drives it home like the prospect of losing the one you love.”

She smiled. “Well you don’t have to—”

I lifted my hand. “Let me finish, here. I’ve been thinking—for some time actually, when it comes to me and you, I haven’t even thought of any questions about us for a long time—I can’t remember when.” I shook my head. “I realize that with you, I don’t have any questions. I mean, you still surprise me from time to time and I love that. But question marks?” I shook my head. “None. All the big ones are answered.”

She smiled. “That’s what happens after knowing someone for seven years.”

“Exactly. Toni, I love you with every fiber of my being. Whenever I see you or even think about you, it’s like it suddenly becomes really clear what my mission in life is: to be by you, to live by you, to make you completely, totally, utterly happy. What I mean to say is, I have a proposal for you.”

Her smile vanished. “A proposal?”

I nodded. I reached into my pocket and slipped out of the booth. I took a knee and pulled out the box with the ring I’d picked up two weeks ago. Toni looked at it, and her eyes widened. Then she stared at me.

“Toni—Antoinette Michelle Blair—I propose that we make our union official. Permanent. I propose that we stay by each other’s side, that we always love each other and take care of each other. Forever. I’d like you to become my wife—I choose you. Will you marry me?”

Her hand flew to her mouth. She looked into my eyes, her eyes filling with tears. For an instant, in those deep blue eyes, I saw a reflection of the beauty of the years we’ve spent together along with the promise of the years to come. Then she dropped her hand from her mouth and she nodded. “Yes.”

March 16, 2014
2:30 p.m.

The speaker, an elderly woman, tapped on the microphone. “Is it on? Can you hear me?”

The man beside her nodded. His voice came across the PA system. “It’s working, Aunt Lucy.” He leaned toward the microphone. “Listen up, everyone!” he called in a loud voice. The audience slowly came to order. I gripped Toni’s hand.

“Good,” the woman began, her voice frail. She smiled. “I think I’ve met just about everyone here, but in case I missed anyone, my name is Lucille Tanner. My father was George Tanner the second, son of the man we’re here to honor. I want to start by saying, this is by far the happiest funeral I’ve ever attended.”

The crowd laughed and clapped. Someone cried, “Go, Aunt Lucy!” and the laughing and clapping started again.

Lucille held up her hand, and the room quieted. “But then again, I suppose that that’s because this isn’t so much a funeral as a reunion, isn’t it?”

More clapping.

“I never met my grandfather George—I know you all may find it hard to believe, but he was gone long before I came on the scene. But what a legacy he left. Today, the Tanners are doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, soldiers—from all walks of life, all over the country. The Tanners have made a contribution, and it’s all because of Grandpa George. Without him, none of us would be here.”