Emerald City Blues (5 page)

I had gotten no farther than that when my right side exploded in agony.

Rolling to my left, I fumbled clumsily for the Beretta. My trench coat had become tangled underneath me, and the pistol with it. Above me, a dark shape moved in the shadows and then lashed out with another vicious kick to the ribs. My breath shot out of me in a sickening rush and I flailed helplessly, gasping for air, finding none. I lifted myself to my elbows, struggling backwards until I had my shoulders against the crates. The dark shape watched me vainly trying to get my hand into the pocket of my trench coat beneath me, then reached down to pick something up from beside the building. It was a crowbar, the kind used to open crates like the ones I was leaning against. Except that now it looked like it was about to open me, instead.

The figure took a step to my right, moving away from the building to get a better arc to swing the crowbar. As it did so, it stepped out of the shadow of the stacked crates. In the faint light coming from downtown I saw her face, dusky and beautiful and merciless. She had dark hair and eyes beneath a fur hat... a fur hat Mary Louise had described to me just that morning. With that long wool coat to obscure her figure... I was looking at the blond man's driver, and she was foreign and dangerous and beautiful in a way that hurt me more than what she was
about to do with that crowbar.

"Why?" I croaked, the lack of air making my voice break.

She paused. A razor smile appeared above her narrow chin, exposing teeth as sharp and white as the business edge of a new moon. "For power," she said, the Russian accent crisp and unmistakable. And something more. Something in her voice reminded me of someone. Who could it be?

Then I put two and two together and got twenty-two. Before I could stop myself, I opened by my stupid mouth and said it. "Gerd.
You learned from Gerd."

Her smile broadened. She leaned into her swing. Darkness.

Of all th
e hangover cures I've ever had the misfortune to try, a jail cell has to be the least effective.

My head was three sizes too small for the bongo drums pounding inside it. My mouth felt like half a dozen winos had used it as a sponge bath, and all my clothes smelled like, well, a jail cell. Imagine that. The shadow of prison bars bisected my face, backlit by the unfeeling light of a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. And of all the beautiful things that existed in the world
at that moment in time, the view that greeted me when I opened my sleep-crusted eyes at last was the smirking visage of Lieutenant Sneer.

Damn him, anyway.

"Rise and shine, gorgeous." His nasal drawl was almost comforting. I'd not been certain I would wake up at all. By comparison, even this was preferable. Barely, but preferable. "I hope you like our little bed and breakfast. Now that you've had your beauty sleep, it's time to start singing."

"Why don't you go get me some coffee, maybe a cheese croissant or some quiche or something, and then we can talk?"
My voice was low and hoarse, a crow's guttural croak.

He barked a derisiv
e laugh. "You've got some stones, angel. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not until you talk. I've been waiting to have this conversation ever since you showed up at the Cooke murder site. You thought it would be more fun to play dumb and bull me for a while. But now it’s my turn, wise guy."

"Did they teach you to talk like that in cop school?" I closed my eyes and yawned. Ouch. Mistake. I hurt all over but nowhere was worse than the throbbing ache in my
coconut. It felt like I'd gone nine rounds in the ring with John L. Sullivan. Bare-knuckle.

"They taught me a lot more than that, beautiful." Sneer squatted near the bars and fixed me with his best you're-busted-now glare. "They taught me how to recognize a guilty conscience when it's staring back at me from behind iron bars."

He had me there. But the only things I really felt guilty about were dead on a muddy field in France, ten years back. Unless I counted not helping Tommy soon enough. Dammit. "Nice try. You've got no goods on me. I'll be out of here as soon as someone who can sound out the words
habeas corpus
comes along."

"Not so fast, angel." He
gave me that band saw smile again, drawing it out, savoring my growing unease. "I can only hold you for a day without charging you, true. But I've got some good news for you. You're under arrest. We've got you on criminal trespass, breaking and entering, and arson. You're not going anywhere, sweetness. So why don't you sing me a nice little song about how you just happened by my crime scene up on Capitol Hill the morning after the murder of someone who just happened to mention you in his datebook, and then just happened to show up at a warehouse in Riverside in time for it to burn down to the waterline?"

My mouth was hanging open. I closed it. Then I opened it long enough to say, "I have nothing
further to say until I talk to my lawyer." Then I closed it again, and my eyes as well.

I could hear Sneer grinding his teeth, fuming, deciding whether or not I would budge. Then footsteps. Then the door slammed shut, and I was alone with my bruises and a cel
l full of unanswered questions.

I must have drowsed. The next thing I heard was keys rattling in the lock and the iron complaint of the cell door swinging open. I opene
d my eyes and saw Jesus. Well, close. Maybe he wasn't exactly Jesus, but the face of Gordon Buskins was basically the only kind of absolution I was likely to receive. Legal absolution, that is. Gordon is my attorney. I sort of inherited him from my father. They had worked cases together back when Gordon had been a fresh young lawyer in the District Attorney's office. For Captain Sheehan’s daughter he worked cheap and endured my cash flow issues with silent asperity. Lawyers might be irredeemable bastards as a breed, but this one was my own personal bastard, so he was all right.

"Miss Sheehan, can you get up? Ah, look at those terrible bruises. Once a doctor sees enough of those to testify on the witness stand, we will have to increase the countersuit charges from wrongful arrest and simple excessive force to criminal assault." He leaned down and
put out his hand to help me up.

"Sweet talker." I got
unsteadily to my feet, trying not to show how much moving hurt. "Now tell me we can get out of here without running into any more bullies in blue."

Gordon guided me toward the door of the holding cell, what we flatfoots affectionately called the drunk tank. At least, that's what we called it when we weren't in it ourselves. "Miss Sheehan, as your counsel I must tell you the charges against you are both quite serious and, barring any physical evidence, completely circumstantial. I have taken the liberty of posting bail and obtaining a cab for you. We will need to discuss the case an
d what options are open to us.”

I clo
sed my eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks to my father for bringing this prince among attorneys into my professional life. “Okay, Gordon, whenever you have time. Oh, and that brings up something I wanted to ask you.” His eyebrows went heavenward, as they often did when we spoke. I paused long enough for him to open the door out of the inner sanctum of the Seattle PD and into the waiting room. There we collected my personal effects – thoroughly searched by the Lieutenant, no doubt – and after signing a receipt, escaped into the great outdoors, and freedom. Rainy, overcast freedom, but sweet nonetheless.

It wasn’t until the cab swung up to the curb that I leaned closer to speak what had been on my mind ever since I woke that morning. “Gordon, I need to know what happened to Gerhardt Mueller’s estate
after his death. The executor of his will, any next of kin, beneficiaries, who owns his house now – that sort of thing. Can you find that out?”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I will do my best, Miss Sheehan. There should be some manner of public records relating to it. When will I
see you to discuss the current... matter?”

“Tomorrow,” I told him, certain he could do it that fast. Gordon Buskin would serve a subpoena on Calvin Coolidge and Al Capone on the same afternoon if I asked him to. I hadn’t, but if pressed on it I’m sure he would say I was capable of asking. Gerd’s estate was ten years cold by now. Maybe there were clues to be found and maybe there weren’t, but if someone else was looking for something in Gerd’s personal effects and wanted it badly enough to kill Tommy and use my head for a punching bag, I needed to figure
out what it was and why, fast.

At my attorney’s terse nod and murmured farewell, I ducked into the cab and told the driver to take me down to SoDo. I was looking forward to being home, for once. I needed to get cleaned up, find something
nominally edible to cram down my throat, and figure out what I was going to do next. I craved sleep more than anything else, but like so much else it would have to wait. There were too many moving parts I couldn't see yet. The Russian with the major league swing. The fire at the warehouse. How I got picked up by the police instead of burning to death. There were too many questions, and I was too bone tired to think straight. But sleep would have to wait.

The cab turned the corner and I let my eyes cling to the perfect curves of an elegantly attired woman striding along the sidewalk on Second. Twin bags from Frederick & Nelson swung in her hands, giving me no doubt where she’d just come from. I let myself sigh. A lot of thi
ngs would have to wait, as always. Sometimes I wondered how long I would have to wait for the world to catch up to me. The rest of the time I was sure it never would.

Then my eyes caught a flicker of movement behind us, near my perfectly-coiffed dream dame. Three cars back was a shiny black Ford, A-model. We were being followed.

I tried. You can believe it or not
as you like, but I did try. Still, the devil-may-care grin that cracked my mug would not be suppressed. This was a gift, exactly the kind of lucky break in the case any gumshoe prayed for. I didn’t dare let it get away while I took care of little things like recovering from criminal assault and a night in the drunk tank. If the warehouse had burned then I was out of leads. I needed this tail to show me another angle on the case, and that meant letting it follow me for a while. Then again, I didn’t exactly want them knowing where I lived, either. Where could I go?

“Change of plans,” I told the cabbie, an Irishman to judge from the carrot
-orange hair below his seen-better-days bowler. “Head down to Dearborn and make a left. I need to get to the Mikado.” A true son of Erin, he grunted eloquently and shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth without using his hands. He looked sour, but a fare was a fare. He probably shared the prevailing local attitude on the denizens of Chinatown, a part of the city better known as the Mikado. Tough.

The blocks passed too slowly while I tried to keep myself from turning around in my seat to rubberneck. No good tipping my hand just yet. I’d leave that
for once we reached our destination.

It didn't take long to get there. All I had to do w
as glance out the window and check if I was the only Caucasian in view. At least, it was that way during the day. At night, the opium trade drew sailors and dock workers; it was a short walk from the waterfront, and not everyone who walked there came back. The streets were closer together here, the shadows less willing to retreat. The buildings were covered in black Chinese characters and other unreadable signs. The dark eyes and unreadable expressions of the people who lived here matched them perfectly.

I s
topped the cab at Ninth and jumped out before he could try to take my money in addition to Gordon's. I inhaled deeply, savoring the strange mixture of his departing exhaust fumes with the exotic spices and frying fish. It wasn't home, but I had a friend here. Used to, to be more precise. I strode toward a storefront beneath a bright red awning with gold Chinese characters inscribed on it. Time to pay a call.

The bells chimed brightly when I pushed the door open. The shop was small, but like many things in Chinatown, size was deceptive. I strolled for a moment, pretending to look at the little clay sages and bronzed Buddhas until that black A-Model Ford drove by. Then I turned and went strai
ght to the counter.

"This is for Albert King," I told the wizened man behind the counter, handing him one of my last three business cards. He bowed hastily and retreated - not from me, but from the magical incantation I'd just uttered. Albert King had a reputation here. His father, Ah King, had been the King of Chinatown for longer than I'd been alive. Albert might not have that level of influence, not yet, but he and I had worked together before his father had passed away. I had helped to clear one of the local Chinese community of a murder rap. Oddly enough, no one else would touch the case but a half-trained wizardling trying to get her start as a gumshoe. There are times when it can be a good thing, not giving a damn whose case you take so long as your client pays cash in advance. It meant I was the only investigator who could get answers in Chinatown, and that w
as occasionally damned helpful.

I hoped today was one of those occasions
. It took a few minutes, but eventually the old man returned and made it clear with gestures and a spate of syllables I couldn't understand but nodded at anyway that I was to come with him. We went through a little curtained arch, through a jammed storage area in back, out the back door and into the warren: tiny alleys that seemingly linked every part of Chinatown with every other part. If you knew your way, it probably did. I didn't, but that was why I had a guide. The alley was dark, full of strange and not always pleasant smells, and every inch of it looked like every other inch. At least it did to a round-eye barbarian like me.