Cast in Stone (37 page)

"Maybe
they just leave her there with the Panamanians," said the
Statie with all the stripes.

"Or—if
you take the whole thing one step further—" said Blue
Suit, "what could happen next is that poor Claire Hasu dies
suddenly; the state gets notified; the remains get properly buried,
and the two of them are home free. Nobody is even looking for them."

"Jesus,"
Jed repeated. "So, either way, as soon as she had her paperwork
together, mother and daughter were going to just disappear."

"That's
how it looks," said Blue Suit.

"Any
leads?" I asked.

"We've
got public transportation covered. Nothing there yet. We'll get them.
It just may take a while. But fortunately, Mr. Waterman, that's not
going to be your problem any more."

Blue
Suit sat on the edge of the bed. "We want you

to
know that we appreciate the job you've done. Without you this might
never have come to light. You did a heck of a job."

He
patted my arm twice, nodded at Jed, and then led the procession from
the room.

Rebecca
caught the door just before it swung shut and stepped inside.

"Loverboy
here just skated on enough charges to keep him inside for thirty
years," Jed announced.

"Thanks
to you," she said.

"Gotta
go," said Jed. "See if you can stay out of trouble, will
ya?" I told him I'd try.

"Dr.
Loftus has released you as of five o'clock," Duvall said when
he'd gone.

"Where's
my stuff?" I asked.

"Your
clothes are in the closet."

I
threw my feet over the side of the bed. Even before touching down, I
could tell that I was sore all over. I hobbled over to the closet and
retrieved my clothes.

Rebecca
caught me up, while I struggled to dress. "You made the papers
again. Section two. Page one." "Cheap advertising."
"Carl called."

"What,
pray tell, did Carl have to say?"

"He
said he never wants to hear any shit about his driving again."

Pushing
my second arm through the sleeve pulled a deep groan from me. I
rested before starting on the buttons.

"Your
cousin Paul called."

"Let
me guess; he still expects me for lunch on Wednesday."

"On
the money, honey. Also, the usual assortment of other Watermans
called the hospital, checking on your condition."

"And
you gave them the usual round of thanks."

"Yes,
I did. And"—she crossed the room and pulled a piece of paper
from her raincoat pocket— "Saasha Kennedy called me at home
this morning. She was concerned that you were going to be upset with
her for calling the police."

"Tell
her not to worry. If anything, she may have saved my ass. God knows
what might have happened if the County Mounties hadn't showed up
right after I hit the house."

"Good.
I'll call her this afternoon. She'll be relieved." Duvall
unfolded the paper. "She wanted me to pass something on to you.
It was complicated, so I took some notes." She began to read.
"At the time of Claire Hasu's commitment, there were three minor
children. Terra, who was seventeen. We know about her. There also was
a son named Anthony, who was fifteen at the time. Anthony, as nearly
as Saasha could find out, is alive and well, working as a roofer
somewhere in Southern California."

I
was working on tying my shoes when I suddenly grew numb.

"The
youngest was six. Moderately handicapped. A little girl named Norma."
"Whoa," I said. "Norma?" "That's what she
said." "There's a Norma Hasu?"

"No.
Different last name. All the kids had different last names. Anthony
was a Runyon. Norma's last name was"—she spelled
it—"W-u-r-t-h-o-v-e-r. Wurthover."

"Whatever,"
I mumbled.

"Isn't
that the name of the girl your friend Heck thought was on board with
his son?" "Sure is."

"Surely
she wouldn't—" Duvall went back to reading. "Norma
Wurthover graduated from a job-training program in Bothell three
months ago. Right after that,

she
moved out of her group home in Kenmore. DSHS hasn't heard from her
since." Rebecca checked the back of the paper. "That's it."
"Damn," I said.

"Not
a sister," Rebecca said. "It must be a coincidence.
Nobody would do that to a sister."

"Messes
hell out of your family-values theory, doesn't it?"

"Why
would she do that? Give me one good reason."

"I'll
tell you what I think happened," I said. "After she
graduated from that job program, I think Norma became a serious fly
in the old ointment. I think she asked the Social Services people
where her mother was, and I think they told her. Unless I'm mistaken,
she made her way out to Mountainview and paid old Mom a visit."

"You're
making this up."

"Norma
told a woman at the marina that she'd seen her momma and that her
momma was all better now and had a real important job."

"You're
kidding."

"I
wish I was."

"Why
kill the poor thing?"

"I'm
betting that somebody who plans out every little detail like Allison
Stark is not going to want a loose cannon like Norma wandering around
running off at the mouth. Besides that, having parts of two bodies
recovered only made things easier."

Duvall
looked sick.

I
fought off a wave of dizziness as I tied my other shoe.

"You
don't look so good. Maybe you should lie down," she said. "Let's
get out of here."

"You
are going to butt out of this, aren't you?" "I don't have
any choice. If I knew where they were, I'd sure as hell go after
them. But I don't, so that's

that.
Things are at the APB manhunt stage of things. They could be
anywhere. That's what the cops do best. Let's get out of here."

"Take
the Lakeview Boulevard exit," I said.

Rebecca
jerked the Miata hard to the right, swerving out of the mouth of
the Mercer exit, forcing her way across all five lanes just in time
to dive off at Lakeview.

"You
should go home."

"I
want to check on the Boys."

"You're
on foot, remember."

"I
left that van I borrowed in the Boys' driveway. I'll drive it."

"The
house or the Zoo?"

"I
paid them yesterday."

Four
full-dress Harleys were backed in on the downhill side of Lynn when
Rebecca let me out next to the Zoo.

"Thanks
for the ride," I said. "I'll call you later." She
handed me the white plastic bag. "Don't forget your car."
"How thoughtful of you." "Don't mention it."

I
pulled open the battered door and stepped into the darkness. The aged
bar that ran down the right side was full. Four ancient bikers
occupied the stools closest to the door. The Boys were playing
snooker on the huge six-by-twelve-foot table in the back. I made it
all the way to the table before they noticed me.

"It's
Evel Knievel," bellowed Harold.

The
noise startled George, who got so far under the cue ball he lofted it
completely over the rail and onto the floor, where it began bumping
over the uneven planks toward the back room. Harold gave chase.

"Jesus
Christ. What in hell?" Then he saw me. "Leo," he said.
"It's Lazarus come back from the dead."

"Did
ya really waste a whole house?" asked Ralph.

"As
I understand it, it was just the family room."

He
seemed disappointed. Norman, the Speaker, Earlene, Maryland a short
Asian guy who seemed to think he knew me appeared out of the darkness
to hear the story and offer congratulations on a job well done.

"I
get another shot," said George. "No way," howled
Ralph, waving the ball. "You scratched."

"Bullshit,"
George shot back. "How in hell am I supposta—"

Tuning
them out, I lugged myself up onto one of the tall stools surrounding
the table and flopped the bag up onto the counter. I dumped it out
and began to paw through the dusty contents. The folder full of
Carl's composites. The last four registrations. One eight-track
tape—Moby Grape. Two old Les Schwab tire guarantees. Three
partially melted cough drops. Heck's green bag of receipts. Three
petrified french fries. A pair of sunglasses with one lens. A dollar
forty-seven in change and a road map of Montana.

The
little Asian guy appeared at my elbow holding a pool cue. He was
wearing a soiled blue-and-white baseball cap with a peeling
silhouette of the Space Needle on the front. One of those cheap foam
jobs, the crown several inches too tall. It made him look like a TV
bass fisherman, Billy-Bob Fung. Grinning maniacally, he clapped me on
the back. His eyes were clouded and unfocused. He kept on grinning
until I looked up, at which point he scrambled back across the room
to Earlene and Mary.

I
went back to poking around in the remnants of my beloved Fiat when
wild laughter erupted from the rear. Earlene, Mary, and Billy-Bob all
hid their beads when I turned around.

"Something
funny?" I asked.

If
it wasn't before, it was now. The three of them burst into
beer-spewing torrents of laughter. Billy-Bob lurched over to me
again, jabbed a stubby finger at Heck's bag, and then rushed over to
whisper into the Speaker's ear. It must have been a doozy. Even the
Speaker cracked a smile.

"What?
What?" I shouted. "Somebody want to clue me in here or
what."

No
go. All this produced was more mirth. George missed again.

"Hey,
hey," he groused. "How in hell are we supposed to
concentrate here?"

The
Speaker leaned over and whispered in his ear. George looked my way,
leaned his cue against the wall, and walked over.

"They
think you're a pervert."

"Why's
that?"

"The
bag."

I
held up the white plastic bag.

"No,
the other one. The green one."

I
put my finger on it. "This one?"

From
across the way, Billy-Bob howled, "Spikee butt plug." The
three of them dissolved into a drunken rugby scrum.

"It's
from that pervo shop on First Avenue, you know, the one with all the
rubber gear on display." He tapped the bag. "See the
chains?"

"I
thought they were like interlocking rings, you know, like the Olympic
symbol."

"Leo
been a baaaaad boy," cooed Earlene. Predictably, this
produced another round of hysterics.

"Naw.
They're chains. They got their windows lined with the same paper.
It's like their logo. We all walked past it twenty times a day when
we was lookin' for that girl."

"I
have to make a call," I said, digging in my pocket for change.
"Get the fellas and meet me at the house."

One
of the twins answered the phone. "Flood residence."

"Mr.
Ortega, please."

"Your
name?" .

"Leo
Waterman."

"Hold
on."

Frankie
took his sweetass time. "Yeah." "Frankie, it's Leo."
"Tell me something I don't know." "I need a favor."

"What
makes you think you got one coming?"

"That's
for Tim to decide, I guess."

I
heard him sigh. "Hold on," he said.

Tim
Flood and my old man had started out together working as labor
organizers for Dave Beck and the Teamsters. My father had parlayed
his local notoriety into eleven terms on the Seattle city council.
Tim had gone in another direction. He'd used his Teamster connections
to become the Northwest's biggest and most successful fence. Like any
good conglomerate, Tim had branched out. If Seattle had anything that
could be termed organized crime, Tim was it. These days he was mostly
legitimate. Mostly. Old habits die hard.