Damage Control (20 page)

40

M
ICHAEL
L
OGAN EXPLAINED
that his home sat atop Cougar Mountain in Issaquah, which had not escaped the massive development of homes, town homes, and shopping centers spreading farther and farther east of Seattle. Portions of the top of the mountain, however, had been designated a regional park and had not yet been stripped of dense foliage and old-growth trees. It remained home to an occasional but increasingly rare bobcat, cougar, and black bear. Radio towers were also atop the mountain, accessed by a gated dirt road on plots of land that Logan leased to the state. As the Austin Healey wound its way up the dirt and gravel road past the towers, Dana looked up at a three-story treated pine structure that rose from the ground, as inconspicuous as the huge trees surrounding it. The road circled around the back of the property. Logan drove around to the front. The house had been built around existing cedars and dogwoods. Huge cathedral windows rose to a pitched roof. Like William Welles’s home, it blended into the surrounding landscape and foliage. Tree stumps in the yard had been cored in the center and plugged with ceramic pots overflowing with flowers and vines.

Dana stepped from the car to a symphony of music. Large silver wind chimes hung from overhead tree branches, spinning and twirling in a light breeze. “Did you build those?” she asked.

Logan nodded. “Built it all.”

She looked at the house, then back to him. “You built this?” It sounded more skeptical than she had intended.

He shrugged. “Be it ever so humble.” He started for the front door. “I have to warn you that the inside is still a work in progress.”

“It’s incredible. Who designed it?”

“My wife.” Logan walked across a wood bridge that crossed a creek and led to a large porch. He unlocked the front door, and Dana followed him inside to a slate-floor entry and river-rock wall. A waterfall cascaded into a pond of lily pads, plants, and koi fish. The entry led to a sunken living room with a rock fireplace that stretched twenty-five feet to the pitched ceiling. Timbered logs sprouted through the floor, intersecting with overhead wooden beams to form an elevated second floor. Footbridges spanned between the lofts. With the sweeping views of the surrounding landscape, it felt very much like being outside.

It’s a tree house
, Dana thought, recalling her comment to Logan as they had sat in her bedroom.

Perhaps recalling the same conversation, Logan said, “Sarah loved the outdoors. She loved to climb anything, really—rocks, trees. She said height gave a person a different perspective.” He took Dana’s coat and hung it in a closet near the front door.

“I can’t believe anyone could design this,” Dana said.

“It was part desire and part necessity,” he said, walking back into the room. “The property belonged to her great-grandfather. The state of Washington tried to force a sale, but Sarah refused. She was concerned the state would just turn around and sell the land to the highest bidder. They hassled us over building permits and imposed regulations to prevent us from building anything that would disturb the land. I think they were pretty confident we wouldn’t be able to build anything that complied, and figured we’d get frustrated and sell.” Logan smiled. “They didn’t know my wife.”

“What does she do?” Dana asked, confused by Logan’s prior statement that he was not married.

“She was an architect by education, but Sarah was really an artist.” He pointed to the walls. “The paintings are also hers.”

The walls were lined with abstract art. Dana stepped to one. “She did these?”

“Up until the day she died.”

Dana turned from the painting.

“Sarah died five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” She considered the paintings, then remembered the timing and started to ask the question before thinking better of it. “So she never …”

“Lived here?” Logan said. “No. No, she didn’t. I started it after she died, and it’s taken me five years to get this far. I haven’t had the time to complete it, but I will. It’s kept my mind occupied—helped me to forget when I needed that. Now it helps me to remember.”

“I can’t believe you built this. It’s amazing.”

“I contracted out some of the more difficult parts—it’s next to impossible to get heavy equipment up here,” he said, trying to sound humble. “We had to use some old building techniques to raise the platforms.”

“It’s spectacular.”

“A labor of love, I guess you could say. I’ve become somewhat obsessed with construction details and paranoid about things like dry rot. So it’s taking me longer than it should. But I feel an obligation to Sarah to get it perfect. It’s the last thing she ever designed.” He looked at his watch. “The kitchen’s on the second level. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge or cabinets. It’s not much, I’m afraid.” He stepped from the room.

“I’ll be fine.” Dana picked up a photograph from an end table. In it, Michael Logan knelt with his arm around a woman in a wheelchair, her head tilted awkwardly to the right, her mouth open, her arms and hands twisted and bent.

“That’s Sarah,” Logan said, walking back in.

Dana put the picture frame back on the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

He shook his head. “I invited you here, and that picture is on the table to be seen. Sarah died from complications from muscular dystrophy.” He looked again at his watch. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. Go. You’re going to be late.”

“I’ll call you later. And I’ll have a patrol car sent over.” He walked up the stairs to the entrance. “There’s a guest bedroom, second loft on the right. Just be careful on some of the suspended walkways. I haven’t had a chance to solder all the joints. Some are hanging on clips. They’re safe to walk on, just don’t jump around on them too much.”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing any jumping.” He smiled. “What I’d really like is a computer with Internet access.”

“My office is over there.” He pointed to a loft to the west. “Best view in the whole house. Try to get some rest, though; you’ve been going nonstop for a week.”

“I’ll have all my life to rest.”

He nodded, resigned. “I’ll call later.” She walked him to the door. “You’re not going to sleep, are you?” he asked. She smiled at him. “Lock the door behind me.”

“I’ll be fine, Mike. Who could find me all the way out here?”

41

M
C
C
ORMICK’S
F
ISH
H
OUSE
, at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Columbia Street in downtown Seattle, was well-known. Within blocks of the King County Courthouse and the newly constructed City Hall, it had once been the Oakland Hotel. Built in 1827, it had a brick exterior and an interior decor that maintained a feeling from the past with dark wood booths, Tiffany lamps hanging from a bronze-plated inlaid ceiling, a white terrazzo floor, and hunter-green curtains hanging halfway up the windows facing the street. Logan told the maître d’ he was meeting someone in the bar. The man directed him up three stairs to his left, where he found a traditional bar and an oyster bar. Logan sat on a stool at the corner of the traditional bar so he could watch the front door. On the wall above hung a sign counting down the number of days until next year’s St. Patrick’s Day. He declined a menu from the bartender, ordered a Coke, and watched the television above a huge stuffed salmon mounted on the wall.

After several minutes, Logan felt a tap on the shoulder. The man who stood behind him was heavy, the kind of weight acquired from eating and drinking well. His chin hung over the collar of his shirt, nearly obscuring the knot of his tie.

“Are you Detective Logan?”

Logan had not seen the man come in the front door and deduced that he had entered near the oyster bar. His head was enormous, even for his considerable girth. With a flat nose, prominent ears, and a receding hairline, he looked like a large sow in a suit.

“Yes,” Logan said.

The man motioned to the restaurant. “I have a table at a booth in the back.” Logan followed him through the restaurant, which was in full lunch swing. Waiters in long white aprons and black ties dodged one another, carrying plates of calamari and oysters. Logan detected the smell of butter and garlic. It made his mouth water. The man climbed stairs to an elevated seating area and slid into a booth. He picked up a drink that looked like Scotch and took a drink. The ice rattled in the glass—the man’s hands were shaking. Logan hung his coat on a hook outside the booth and slid in the opposite side, watching as the man combed at imaginary hair on the front of his head, pressing down the few strands remaining. His scalp glistened with beads of perspiration. Logan didn’t want to rush the man, but he had a feeling that nothing would get said unless he started.

“You indicated on your message that you might know Laurence King?”

The man shook his head. “No.” He took another drink from the glass, finishing it and leaving the ice. “I didn’t know the name until I read it in the paper.” Again he paused. “I might know something about who killed him … maybe … I don’t know.”

Logan nodded, patient. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

The man leaned across the table, lowering his head. “This has got to be in confidence. It has to be confidential. Anonymous. You know? I work over at the Federal Building as a clerk for an administrative judge.”

“I understand,” Logan said, making no promises.

The man sat back, his face flushed. “I’m married. I have a wife and three daughters. I’m a lector in the parish, and I’m on the PTA board at my kids’ school,” he added as if making a list. “I can’t be a part of this. I can’t testify or anything.”

Again Logan did not commit. He now suspected he knew how the man had come into contact with Laurence King. “Just tell me what you know. Let’s start with that.”

The man seemed to gather himself. “I, um, I might have been there.”

“Been where?” Logan asked, wanting the man to be definitive.

“At the motel—at the Emerald Inn.”

Logan nodded. “You were with someone. ”

“It’s sort of a … a thing I have for … well, I mean, my wife won’t, you know.” The man pointed under the table and made a face.

“Your wife won’t give you a blow job?”

The man let out a burst of air. “No. It’s more than that. We don’t really have sexual relations anymore. She says it’s something genetic—her mother was the same way. She’s become paranoid about germs and things, you know, like Howard Hughes got. Anyway… I heard about this bar off the highway where, you know, you can find a woman. And then you go to this motel.”

“And you were there the night King was killed.”

The man leaned forward, whispering. “I was in the room next door.”

“All right, Mr.…” Logan tried to make it sound casual. He had deliberately waited to ask the man’s name, not wanting to spook him, but the man’s eyes widened in fear nonetheless.

“Do you need my name?”

“It would help if I had something to call you.”

The man alternately bit at and licked his lower lip as if coveting the last morsel of food on someone else’s plate. He sounded almost apologetic when he said his name. “It’s Jack. Jack Ruby.”

Logan chuckled. “You don’t have to make up a name.”

Ruby raised a hand and rolled his eyes. “I’m not making it up. That’s my name. And please, no jokes. I’ve heard every one you could think of. If I had a dime for every time someone asked if I’m related to
the
Jack Ruby, I’d be rich.”

“All right, I promise no jokes.” Logan reached across the table, and the man gave his hand a perfunctory shake. “Just tell me what you saw and heard.”

“Okay.” Ruby took a breath as if preparing himself for an arduous task. “Like I said, I’m in the room next door, and I hear some things.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

“Well, not a lot. I mean…” He leaned forward again, blushing. “I like it when they talk—when they, you know, give me a little something for the effort.”

Logan eased him along. “We all like a little encouragement.”

Ruby rubbed a graying mustache above an upper lip too small for his face. Logan thought the man might have a heart attack right there in the booth. “Right. Encouragement. So I’m, well, you know, with this woman, and I hear… and then I hear the guy next door banging on the walls, telling us to keep it down. She tells me to ignore them, to do my thing, and she just keeps talking louder, you know, but I’m losing my concentration, and I can’t… and then… then I hear what sounds like an argument.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“I could only hear one … one voice. He’s saying he wants more money. He wants fifteen thousand dollars. I remember that. And then I hear him say … he says … ‘We didn’t sign on for killing nobody.’?”

Logan tried not to overreact. “You heard that? You’re certain?”

Ruby put up a hand as if swearing on a witness stand. “I couldn’t make that up, Detective Logan. And I’m thinking of getting the hell out of there, but the woman, you know, she just tells me to keep going and… well, I was right about to… you know… give her the Cheez Whiz when all of a sudden I hear two sounds like firecrackers going off. Bam. Bam.”

Ruby’s voice carried above the din of the restaurant. He caught himself and lowered farther in the seat. If the man could have blended into the upholstery, Logan was sure he would have. “Hell, I didn’t know what to do. Everything just started happening. The woman’s kicking and yelling for me to get off her. Then I hear a third pop, and it sounds like it’s coming right through the wall. I guess I must’ve panicked, because next thing I know, I’m standing on the balcony in my socks, pulling up my pants and trying to zip my fly. And that’s when I see him.”

“Laurence King?”

Ruby lifted his gaze from the table. “No. Not King. This guy… He’s standing on the deck, and I’m staring at him face-to-face.”

Now Logan leaned forward. “Face-to-face with who?”

Ruby looked up. “The guy,” he said, more emphatic. “The killer. I mean… I assume he was the killer. He had a gun in his hand.”

Logan felt his pulse quicken. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Ruby sat back and shook as if overcome by a chill. He wiped a green napkin across his perspiring forehead. “Yeah, I can describe him. I’ll never forget it. It was night, but he was wearing sunglasses. I remember that. The kind that wrap around.”

“What else besides the sunglasses?”

“He had short hair, not necessarily a crew cut, but short.”

“What color?”

“Blond. Dirty-blond.”

“How tall?”

“Six foot, maybe an inch more or less. Well built, stocky. He was in good shape, I think. He was wearing one of those bomber-type leather jackets—brown, you know, with the collar, and … and he looks at me. I mean he stares me right in the face, you know, and I think I’m done for. That’s it, right there. I’m going to get killed for sure because I’ve looked this guy right smack-dab in the face.” Ruby leaned forward again, his voice straining and hushed as if he were gasping for air. “But you know what he does? He
smiles
.” Ruby’s eyes widened in amazement. “Can you believe that? The guy
smiles
. Then he puts a finger to his lips like it’s our little secret, and he turns and walks away. Can you believe that? He just turns and walks away.”

Jack Ruby had dodged a bullet. Unfortunately, that didn’t get Logan any closer to finding the killer, and unless it did, all of this information was for naught. “You’re lucky, Jack.”

Ruby put up a hand, swearing on an invisible Bible. Then he put the hand to his heart. “You don’t have to tell me. I thought maybe my name was an omen, you know, that maybe the guy was going to stick the gun in my gut and pull the trigger—like the real Jack Ruby did. But the good Lord was looking out for me that night. That was Jesus there who made the man turn and walk away, and he was telling me to go and sin no more. And I haven’t. I’ve sworn off them for good. No more. Not even one. It was a sign, it was. A sign from God. I believe the Lord saved me and is telling me to do the right thing. That’s why I’m here, to do the right thing. I’m doing the right thing in telling you, right?”

“You’re doing the right thing. But what made you come forward now instead of when it happened?” Logan asked.

Ruby sat back and let his gaze roam the table before fixing it back on Logan. “Well, it’s like I said. I was pretty scared, and well, having a family and all, but then… well… then I saw him again.”