Firetrap (26 page)

54. MORE LIES FROM CHESTER

JAMIE ESTEVEZ
>

I began crying after I went to bed last night. It might have had something to do with the first guy I've been most attracted to in the last ten years having dinner at my place and being friendlier than he's been since I met him, and then watching him receive a phone call and rush off to have sex with his blonde while I took a bath and watched an old movie on TV. The whole thing was so damn depressing. I wish I could stop feeling this way, but it's one of those syndromes you can't stop once it begins.

And of course when I woke up in the morning, my eyes looked like I'd glued tea bags under them. Ice, a cold shower, and even a couple of dabs of Preparation H under my eyes didn't help, and when Trey showed up at eight, I was still putting the finishing touches on my makeup. Hard to know why I even tried.

I buzzed him up and met him at the door, searching his face to see if he could tell I'd been crying, but he didn't seem to notice my face, or me even. Not in those first few seconds. And then in a heartbeat everything changed. He took his briefcase off the counter and looked at me with those big gray eyes, and for the first time in our short but contentious relationship seemed to be looking directly at me.
Me.

“How are you this morning?” he said.

“Fine. You?”

When we got into the car, I said, “What do you want to do today?”

Both hands on the steering wheel, he turned to me and said, “You're the boss.”

“Not this again.”

“Okay, I'll tell you what I would like to do, and you tell me what you would like, and we'll see if we even need to say anything else. Heck, maybe we're thinking the same thing.”

“That'll be the day.”

“I'll bet you a lunch we're thinking the same thing,” he said. “If you're honest, I'll win.”

“You're on. And I'm always honest.”

He looked at me and smiled slowly with that contagious grin I'd seen him use on others so frequently. I smiled back limply.

“Okay, what's
your
proposal?” I said.

“I think we should catch Chester McDonald before he can get out of the house. Ask him why he's claiming to own the Z Club. Ask him about Renfrow. What was your plan?”

“That was it,” I lied.

“It was?”

“That was it.”

“So you owe me lunch.”

“Right.”

“I'll buy dessert.”

“You have a deal.” We both laughed. I believe it might have been my first shared laughter with Trey Brown, ever. I'd lied and it would cost me lunch, but maybe there was some hope for the two of us after all; hope that at least we might be friends before this was all finished.

The weather had turned balmy, which it does in the early autumn in Seattle, cumulus clouds threaded through blue skies, sunshine bleaching the clouds a blinding white. Trey drove in silence. I could see there was something on his mind other than our impending visit with Chester McDonald. I was hoping he'd had a fight last night with his girlfriend and they were history, but that was a lot to hope for. More likely they'd figured out a way to spend the night together, and she'd sent him off with a kiss and a pat on the butt just minutes before he showed up at my door. Whatever was on his mind, it caused him to nearly run a red light on Lenora Street.

Chester McDonald's drapes were drawn, and two windows on the north end of the house above the rockery had been boarded over with plywood, shards of broken glass under the camellias.

“Who you?” McDonald asked when he finally answered the door, ignoring Trey while staring me up and down. It was hard to tell if his eyesight was bad or if he was just being rude. I'd forgotten how ugly and frail he was.

“My name is Jamie Estevez. We spoke last week.”

“Don't have time now. Too early. Just got up. No breakfast. Don't have time.” He tried to shut the door, but Trey wedged his foot in the doorjamb so it wouldn't close. At first, McDonald couldn't seem to figure out what was happening.

“Mr. McDonald,” I said, “Chester. Please let us in.”

“Can't find my meds. Gotta find 'em. Feelin' sick.”

“Then this is the perfect man to have at your side,” I said, stepping in past McDonald. “He's trained in emergency medicine.” Trey followed while McDonald remained in the doorway, flummoxed by our invasion.

“Can't be warming up the outdoors,” he said, closing the door and shuffling through the living room and into the kitchen as if we weren't there. Dinner plates crusty with food sat next to the couch. In the kitchen, McDonald opened cabinets and drawers, leaving the doors ajar when he didn't find what he was looking for.

From the doorway, I said, “We noticed some broken windows at the side of the house.”

“They threw bricks! I had the po-lice out here. It's them damn kids up the street. They claim their uncle was in the club, but I think it's bullcrap.”

“When we were here the other day, you led us to believe you owned the Z Club.”

“Can't find shit in this place,” McDonald mumbled.

“You don't own the Z Club, do you, Chester?”

“I got blood pressure medication here somewhere.”

“Chester? Who owns the Z Club?” He stopped scrounging through the kitchen and looked at me. “We're looking for the truth, Mr. McDonald.”

McDonald squinted at me in the dim light of the kitchen. “I
owned
it.”

“I owned a Buick once,” Trey said. “Somebody else owns it now.”

“I sign so much I can't keep track of it myself. That's what I got lawyers for. I buy and sell real estate. I make the calls, and they just come along and suck cash out of every deal. Used to have a good attorney, J.J. Pickles. I trusted J.J. Got himself”—McDonald began rummaging through a pantry near the other doorway to the kitchen—“…got himself drowned in some river out east. Went out there to put his mother in a nursing home and got drowned trying to fish in some dadblamed river had fish you couldn't eat anyway. All polluted and shit.”

“Mr. McDonald,” I said, “who owns the Z Club? We have tax information that says Silverstar Consolidated owns it.” McDonald's rummaging came to an abrupt halt at the name, then started up again, though more slowly.

After a moment he hobbled to the front door. “I'd like you to leave.”

“You sold it to Silverstar Consolidated, didn't you?” Trey said. “Then after the fire, they asked you to pretend you still owned it.”

“I signed papers. Signed lots of papers. Ever since J.J. died, my affairs have been in the shitter.”

“You ever see this man?” Trey asked, holding up a photo of Renfrow. McDonald, who'd been looking more and more annoyed, suddenly became frightened.

“I don't have my glasses.”

“We'll wait while you get them,” Trey said.

“Was in the hospital four times last year. My life isn't as wonderful as it looks from the outside.”

“Your life could get a whole lot worse if you don't answer these questions,” Trey said.

Wearing a mask of anger and stubbornness, McDonald tried to stare him down. He was a little man, but he was tough, and at first I waited for them to finish the staring contest, but then I said, “Chester, who owns Silverstar Consolidated?”

“Look it up in the records.”

“We've tried. They've concealed it pretty well.”

“Okay. That's it. I didn't invite you in. Get out of my house.” He pulled the door wide and stepped to one side, a slight breeze ruffling the flapping cuff of his flannel pajamas against the artificial leg.

“This isn't going away,” Trey said softly.

Outside, we leaned against Trey's Infiniti, and for a few moments neither of us said anything. I could see Trey thinking hard. Finally he said, “Somebody's been telling the mayor everything we're doing.”

I felt like I'd been slapped. “I don't know what—”

“I thought you said you were always honest.”

“I am, but I made promises. When I make a promise…Trey, I'm…”

“Don't tell me you're sorry. I don't want to hear that.”

“Beckmann asked me to give the mayor a daily update. I made the promise before I knew you, before I knew he was your brother.”

“You tell him I was trying to track down the owners?”

“I'm afraid I did.”

We drove wordlessly down the hill to Lake Washington Boulevard. He passed Seward Park and pulled into a parking lot alongside the water. Across the sun-dappled waves sat Mercer Island. To the distant north, the Mercer Island Floating Bridge. Trey shut off the motor, turned to me, and said, “Do you mind explaining why you've been spying on me.”

“I wasn't spying. I don't like that word. He wanted a daily briefing. He had reasons. There are riots. He wanted to know how we were progressing, and…”

“He asked about me, didn't he?”

“He mostly wanted to know how we were getting along.” Trey got out, slammed the door, and leaned against the driver's fender, his back to me. I walked around the back of the car, feeling vulnerable walking toward him in the open air. It was a small parking lot, one car at the other end, probably a homeless guy because the car was old and full of belongings. Arms folded, Trey stared out at the water.

“You were spying on me for my brother.”

“I told you—”

“I can't believe you were doing this.”

“It's not going to have any effect on our findings. It's—”

“You know the history we have together.”

“You're the one running around with your brother's wife.”

Trey glared at me, his eyes full of fury. We stood like that for a while until he relaxed and said, “How did you figure that out?”

“I deduced it. I'm not a fool.”

“Okay, listen. I like you, Estevez. I really do. Maybe we should start again from scratch. You stop phoning the mayor, and I'll…I'll lead my life the way I please.”

“If I stop calling the mayor, he'll think something is up.”

“Something
is
up. He's got a connection to the Z Club he wants to hide. My guess is it was just a loose favor. Silverstar Consolidated was getting some income from renting the place out while they waited for the light-rail line to be completed. After that, they were probably planning to tear it down so they could put up something more profitable. From what I know now, Stone promised Harlan Overby and his minions he would keep the fire department off their backs to keep the costs down. I'm sure the promise meant nothing at the time he made it. So the guys at the club went ahead and played fast and loose with the fire regulations. Then the unexpected happened. And now we're in danger. My ex-brother has Barry Renfrow working on this. That means you and I are both in danger.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I overheard a phone conversation.”

“That's how you knew I was talking to Stone?”

“More or less.”

I don't know why, but I began weeping, the tears pouring out like rain. I didn't want to smear my makeup by rubbing my face, and I might have climbed back in the car, but then he would have gotten in beside me and I would have been trapped, so I simply stood in front of him with my hands at my sides and wept, which of course was the most ridiculous thing I might have done.

And then, in a move as uncharacteristic as it was unnerving, Trey stepped forward and enveloped me in his arms. He didn't say anything, just held me until I laid my head on his chest, which felt like a slab of oak. “I'm so embarrassed,” I said into his shirt.

“Everybody cries.”

“Not in the middle of the day in front of…”

“It's been stressful. Besides, I'm an asshole.”

“I
was
spying. I'm ashamed. And I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. We're doing fine. You and I.”

“We are?” I asked, tipping my head to look up at him. He was smiling. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, my left cheek, and lightly brushed my lips with his.

I was ready for more, had closed my eyes, when he released me and said, “Feel better?”

“A little,” I said, trying to get my bearings. “Okay. So…tell me exactly what you know and how you know it.”

“Here?”

“I don't feel like going anyplace where people can see my puffy face.”

“Here's fine. I was about to suggest it myself.”

“Sure you were.”

“Let's make a pact. We're both going to be completely truthful from now on.”

“Okay. Fine. Were you really going to suggest we stay here?”

“No.”

55. BAD THINGS, BARRY, BAD THINGS

STONE CARMICHAEL
>

Renfrow and I met at Ruth's Chris Steak House, just the two of us, Renfrow bringing his bourbon over to the table, while I studied the menu, breathing heavily as he sat down, a man unused to physical exercise—which was an odd trait for a self-confessed former soldier of fortune, college athlete, and onetime club-level boxer. After college and a stint in the Navy, Renfrow had worked for the CIA for eight years. Then, following a series of incidents involving the deaths of multiple low-level officials in a small South American country, he resigned and spent ten years freelancing for various U.S. spy agencies. When he decided to go into private industry, India's father hired him. Overby and my father had been using his services ever since. He's good. He's a pig, but he's good at what he does.

Renfrow was adept at maneuvering through the bureaucratic process wherever we encountered it, but he was also useful for all the ugly little stuff nobody else knew how to deal with—or didn't have the nerve to tackle. He'd maintained contacts in the spook world and seemed to know at least one man in almost every police department and prison in the country.

The restaurant was not crowded yet, and I was still a little annoyed that this meeting had forced me to cancel a meeting with my divorce attorney. Even though he denied it, Renfrow had been putting me off for a couple of days, so I knew there was something he didn't want to tell me.

It was like pulling teeth to get him to meet you where a free meal was not involved. His suits were always shiny because he'd been wearing them too long, and his shirts were dingy, and unless he was in a company vehicle, he rarely drove a car that wasn't fifteen years old. At home he had two cats, a pet lizard, a condo full of photos of a girlfriend he hadn't seen in ten years, and a seedy sex life he only hinted at. He was a blowhard, too. Had once claimed you could remove all the silverware from the table and he could still find six items to kill you with, two that could be used from across the room. My guess was he'd read about it in a book somewhere.

When his breathing settled down, he said, “So what's going on? You going to have the rib eye well done and a Caesar? You always have the rib eye and a Caesar. A glass of Indian Wells chardonnay? No dessert. A decaf.”

“You've been avoiding me.”

“Didn't I call yesterday?”

“No.”

“Wasn't yesterday Wednesday?”

“Thursday. This is Friday. You didn't call either day. And neither did our little weather lady. I'm beginning to get annoyed.”

“I thought she was a special features person? They have some blond chick doing the weather, don't they?”

“They've got that chubby black dude who makes jokes doing the weather. Right now I haven't heard from her in two days. Or you either. Can you tell me what that's about?”

“Same old, same old. You know. They're interviewing firefighters and witnesses. Had a picnic the other day. Spread their crap all out on a blanket down at the lake.”

“They sweet on each other?”

“I don't think so. So what's this? Friday? Tell you the truth, they might be done with the interviews by now. I'll ask my people.” He flipped open a cell phone, but I motioned for him to put it away.

“What's going on, Barry? And what do you know about my wife leaving me?”

“Your wife?”

“The day she left was the last day I heard from you. What do you know about my wife, Barry?”

“India? Why…nothing.”

“There's something going on, and I have a feeling you know what it is. I'm not leaving until you tell me.”

Renfrow sighed heavily. “She was with him the night she left.”

“Who?”

“Your brother.”

I hadn't thought of Trey as my brother even when he
was
my brother, but now that he'd been disinherited and footloose for years, it seemed an absurdity to think he was part of the family. Even though I'd reintroduced him to everyone, I was planning to ostracize him again as soon as they produced a satisfactory report. “Are you saying India and Trey have been seeing each other?”

“A couple of times that we know of.”

“That's not possible.”

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Are they having sex?”

“I don't know. We're not watching him every minute.”

“They're having sex. Goddamn it. I knew something—”

“I don't know that they are.”

“I do. Who else knows?”

“Me. One other operative.”

“How did you find out?”

“We've been following Trey and the woman. Monday around lunchtime we followed him to the Olympic Four Seasons, where he had lunch with your missus. They drove somewhere, but we lost them in traffic. He also was at your house the night when she moved out. They kissed at the door.”

“Fuck! Why didn't you tell me?”

“I was afraid of how you would react.”

“You had good reason to be afraid. Do you have any idea how much this pisses me off?”

“Mr. Mayor,” came a voice, “I'd like to introduce you to my wife and her daughter. My stepson and his two children.”

I looked up and found the table surrounded. An older gentleman I had no recollection of ever meeting was standing over us with a squadron of relatives. I nodded to my SPD bodyguard across the room that it was okay. The trouble with being recognizable was people recognized you. Fortunately, most of these people were from out of town and weren't impressed with a mayor they'd never heard of, so we were able to quickly dust them off.

Our meals came, and Renfrow began eating with a gusto I found sickening. I should have known something was up at the ball Saturday night when I noticed the way India was watching Trey. It just didn't seem possible that she would be attracted to him…again. “You sure about this, Barry?”

“I was going to tell you. I just didn't know how.”

“This is a hell of a thing for me to have to drag out of you. After my wife has already left me.”

“Marriage is tricky. You want the truth, I don't think it was meant to be.”

“My marriage or marriage in general?”

“Marriage in general.”

“Are they serious?”

“All I know is they've met a couple of times. The last time at your house.”

“Oh, they're having an affair all right. Jesus, Barry, you should have told me right away. You know that call you made Wednesday, before I went to the game? The machine picked it up, so I think our conversation was recorded. I was going to check it when I got home, but the tape was missing. Along with my wife. And now you tell me he was there? You think she gave it to him?”

Speaking around a mouthful of a half-chewed lamb chop, Barry said, “I don't know. How pissed off is she?”

“Pissed off enough to move out and ask for a divorce.”

“Then one of them has it. My money would be on him.”

“Bad things are happening, Barry. Bad things. Okay. This is what we do. You get that tape back, and then you hurt him. Hurt him bad. Do you hear what I'm saying? I thought you were already going to hurt him. Why hasn't it been done?”

“Give me some time to set it up. Listen, Stone. It was probably just something they had to get out of their systems. Why don't you go home and pretend it never happened? I'll get the tape. I've got people who can do that.”

“I want somebody to beat the hell out of him.”

“I can arrange it, but it's not right.”

“It's exactly right. You don't know him.”

“I think I do. I drove him for two hours in a car once and thought he was going to die choking on his own blood the whole way. He's a tough cookie. You ever see him play for the Huskies? The other teams were scared of him. I mean, scared…I went to every home game he played. He was something.”

“Just do it.”

“Listen. Once you get up in the governor's mansion, things will look different. Leave it until then. There's public focus on him now.”

“You tell me some black guy…” I looked around at the other tables and lowered my voice to a whisper. “You tell me this black bastard is boning my wife, and I'm supposed to sit on my nuts and take it? Is that what you're saying?”

“He's not just some guy.”

“Which makes it worse. He's the bastard my father brought into the house because he couldn't keep his hands off the upstairs maid. What I want is for somebody to mess him up.”

“This is not a good thing, Stone.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “With all this rioting…why can't we have a Reginald Denny of our own right here in Seattle? Only a black one. What if some of his own people took him down? Huh? Beat him and maybe hit him in the head with a brick for good measure. He wakes up two weeks later and can't remember his name.”

“We might use some coke, too. Drugs always remove any credibility a victim has.”

“You're a genius. Tell you what. I'm going to Minneapolis for a conference. I want him in the hospital when I get back. Preferably the brain ward.”

“I'll have to clear it with Harlan.”

“You know how he feels. He'll probably give you a bonus for coming up with the idea.”