More Perfect Union (9780061760228) (20 page)

I took the unfinished metal stairway and clambered down to thirty-five. Still no luck. I finally caught up with them on thirty-three. There were six men in the group altogether. Quietly, I attached myself to the end of the procession. I figured the guests would think I was with Gibson, and Gibson would think I was one of the visitors.

And I didn't have any trouble picking Gibson out of the crowd. He was the one doing most of the talking, pointing out building features, gesturing this way and that. Periodically, one of the visitors would stop him long enough to ask a question. Trailing at the end of the pack, it was far too noisy for me to hear much of what was said, but there was a good deal of nodding back and forth among the visitors. Gibson was evidently telling them what they wanted to hear.

At last we got back on the elevator for the return trip to ground level. The elevator operator recognized me and nodded, but he didn't say anything. Once we were back on the ground floor, Gibson stood to one side while the visitors headed for the tool shack to relinquish their hard hats.

I sidled up to him. “Mr. Gibson, could I have a word with you?”

He looked startled that I hadn't gone off with the others. “Sure,” he said.

Pulling him aside, I discreetly showed him my identification. “My name is Detective Beau
mont,” I said. “I'm with the Seattle Police Department. We need your help.”

Not nearly as cordial once he realized I wasn't a potential leasee, he glanced nervously toward the tool shack. “What do you want?”

“We need to get a look at that film of yours, the one with the lady who fell off the building.”

Gibson swallowed. Clearly he didn't want his prospective tenants hearing about a police investigation into Angie Dixon's fatal fall.

Then he frowned. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “I thought that was all settled, that it had been ruled accidental.”

“Maybe not,” I answered. “How do we go about seeing the film?”

“I don't actually have it,” Gibson said.

“I know you don't have it. Camera Craft does, but they won't show it to us unless you give them permission.”

The first of the visitors was coming back from the tool shack. Gibson nodded hurriedly. “Okay, okay. I'll take care of it. Come along back to my office.”

I did, trailing behind as before. When I sauntered into the Masters and Rogers office behind Darren Gibson and his guests, the look of absolute consternation on Paul Kramer's face made my day.

Gibson paused for only a moment beside the ice-lady's desk. “Call Camera Craft,” he ordered brusquely. “Tell them to show this gentleman…What did you say your name was?”

“Beaumont. J.P. Beaumont.”

“Tell them to give Mr. Beaumont here whatever help he needs.” With that, Gibson swept into his private office with the entourage of potential customers following behind like so many trailing puppies.

“How'd you do that?” Kramer demanded in a startled whisper as he and Manny both stood up.

“Experience,” I answered.

We started toward the door. “You're not going to wait then?” the receptionist asked.

“That won't be necessary now,” I said, returning her chilly smile with a cool one of my own. “You just be sure to make that call to Camera Craft before we get there. It won't take us long.”

W
e were there at nine, waiting outside on the street when Jim Hadley opened the doors to Camera Craft and let us in. “The secretary already called,” he said, in answer to my question about Darren Gibson. “She said to show you whatever you need to see.”

I was careful not to look at Paul Kramer. That was the only way to stifle a triumphant grin. Kramer was still dismayed by how easily I'd wrested permission out of Darren Gibson to see the film. I didn't want to shatter the fragile truce between us. My ability to keep my promise to Linda Decker depended totally on Kramer's grudging willingness to work together. One complaint from him, and Watty would have pulled me off the case in a minute.

“So when can we see the film?” I asked Hadley.

The owner of Camera Craft glanced at his
watch and shook his head. “Not just yet, I'm afraid. Kath doesn't come in to work until almost three. The editing is one hundred percent her baby. If I go into that room and stir things up, she'll raise hell for weeks.”

“Can't you call her at home then?” Kramer asked. “Ask her to come in early?”

Jim Hadley gave Kramer a derisive look and laughed aloud. “Are you kidding? No way. You've never worked with free-lance editors, have you? They're independent contractors, mostly a night-crawler variety, who won't answer telephones or show their faces before mid-afternoon. If I woke her up at this hour of the day, Kath Naguchi wouldn't ever work with me again, and she's damn good.

“Stop by around three,” he added. “She'll be on her third cigarette and her second cup of coffee. By then she'll be about half civilized.”

So there we were, stuck again. This job is like that. You get up early only to stand around and wait. Out on the street, Kramer was still in a hurry, still crabbing about finding Kath Naguchi early. His grousing was in direct opposition to Manny Davis' easygoing view of the world.

“Why'd you want to do a thing like that?” Manny asked, shutting off his partner's litany of complaint. “Sounds to me like we'd be better off tangling with a hibernating grizzly.”

In the end, Manny's cooler head prevailed. I made arrangements to meet them back at Camera Craft at three.

“I suppose you're off on your hot date,” Kramer noted sarcastically as I turned to make my way back home. I studied him for a long moment, wondering if I had been that ambitious in my youth, that ambitious and that obnoxious.

“Not hot,” I corrected. “As a matter of fact, I'm taking two little girls to Bumbershoot. Care to join us?” Turning on my heel, I headed up the street just as the first real raindrops in more than a month began to fall on downtown Seattle.

It wasn't one of the Northwest's customary dry drizzles that you can walk for blocks in and not get wet. Instead of a light, gentle mist, this was a sidewalk-pounding, clothes-soaking downpour. I was completely drenched by the time I'd walked the six long blocks between Camera Craft and Belltown Terrace.

Annie, the building's concierge, was on duty in the lobby. She opened the door to let me in before I managed to get my key in the lock. Rivulets of water coursed down my face and dripped into my eyes. Looking for something dry, I wiped my forehead with the underside of my jacket sleeve.

“You're all wet,” Annie observed unnecessarily.

I nodded, matching inanity for inanity. “It's raining out,” I said.

“You're not really taking Heather and Tracie Bumbershooting in this weather, are you?”

I've long since learned that living in a high rise gives you about as much privacy as living
in a small town. Which is to say, none. Everybody's business is everybody else's business.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

Annie laughed. “The girls did. They were down here just a few minutes ago looking up the street to see if you were coming. As far as I'm concerned, it's a rotten day for Bumbershooting.”

“At least it won't be crowded,” I replied.

She held the elevator door until I got on. “It won't be crowded because most people have sense enough to come in out of the rain.” The door closed before I could manage to think of one more cliché and heave it in her direction.

While I was waiting for the girls to show up at the apartment, I reluctantly took Annie's hint and went searching for an umbrella to take along. Although the word “bumbershoot” means umbrella, it's usually not necessary to carry one the last weekend in August, even in Seattle. I scrounged around in the back reaches of my coat closet and resurrected a broken-ribbed relic that would have to suffice.

At exactly ten-thirty, the girls rang the bell. Mrs. Edwards had seen to it that they were properly dressed in matching yellow slickers that covered them from head to toe. When we stepped out onto the street and I cracked open the ancient umbrella, they both burst into giggles.

“Where'd you get that thing, Unca Beau?” Heather asked, pointing. “It's broken.”

She was right. The umbrella, broken and not exactly waterproof either, was more a philosophical statement than it was protection from the weather. The plastic had torn loose from one of the ribs, and the resulting fold of material dripped a steady stream of water that ran down the back of my hand and up my sleeve.

“It'll be fine,” I told the girls. “Let's get going.”

The main gate to Seattle Center is only about three blocks from Belltown Terrace. The site of Seattle's 1962 World's Fair, it contains the Emerald City's signature landmark, the Space Needle, as well as eighteen or so acres of park that include exhibition halls, amusement rides, live theaters, a sports arena, an athletic field, fountains, and a building full of shops and fast-food vendors. On any given Labor Day weekend some 250,000 to 300,000 people find their way through the center to see live music and theater performances, hands-on exhibits, arts and crafts demonstrations, jugglers, magicians, and almost anything else you want to name. It's called Bumbershoot.

I've been there when that last bash of summer has been so crowded that it was all but impossible to move. You inched along, carried forward by the crowd, going whatever direction it was moving at the moment. But on this rainy, dreary Friday morning, that was certainly not the case. The place was almost deserted.

The Bumbershoot workers were delighted to
see anybody who might be a potential customer. The girls raced ahead of me collecting a batch of goodies—free balloons and two totally unnecessary sun visors.

They darted past a jazz band playing halfheartedly on the steps of the semi-empty Flag Pavilion. I caught up with them just as they reached the edge of the International Fountain and before they could scramble over the low wall.

The fountain is a huge deep basin some two hundred feet across. The bottom is bordered with a matting of rough white rocks while the heart of the fountain is a slightly convex concrete mound studded with pipes and lights. A varied water show, programmed in concert with classical music, erupts periodically from the pipes. Despite the clearly posted
DANGER
signs, the interior of the fountain is regarded as a children's free-for-all playground on hot summer days.

“Can't we go in, please?” Heather begged. “Just for a little while. We won't get very wet.”

“No way,” I told her. “Mrs. Edwards would have a fit.” Only a promise of immediate food kept them out of the fountain.

The area around the fountain was lined with wooden outdoor food booths. Every year crafts people, musicians, and food vendors bring samples of their ware to Bumbershoot in a gigantic outdoor festival. The food, with its wide variety of tastes and tantalizing aromas, is easily the
most popular part of the weekend, and it's usually the most crowded. But not today. There were no lines, no jostling crowds. We were the only customers at a Mexican food place where the girls ordered bean burritos. I paused next door at a Thai booth for some beef
sate
with peanut sauce.

After lunch we sauntered through the arts and crafts display in the Exhibition Hall and on into the children's area in the Center House. While the girls listened to stories, touched the animals in the petting zoo, and posed briefly for a quick charcoal portrait, I watched from the sidelines with a cup of coffee in hand.

I watched, but my mind was elsewhere, restlessly sifting through the tangled web that led from Logan Tyree to Jimmy Rising. I kept one eye on the girls and the other on my watch, waiting for enough time to pass so I could go back to Camera Craft and see if Kath Naguchi's pictures held any answers to the questions circling in my mind.

At two-fifteen, when I announced it was time to leave, there was no argument. The girls were tired and more than ready to go back home. It was still sprinkling intermittently when we reached the main gate.

A ticket taker offered to stamp our hands. “That way you can get back in if you want to,” he said.

Fat chance, I thought. I started to say no, but Heather pitched such a screaming fit that I gave
in and we all three had our hands stamped.

On Denny Way Tracie walked briskly along beside me, chattering about all she had seen and done. Heather, tired and whiny, trailed along behind. Finally, despite my aching shoulder, I picked her up and carried her the last block and a half. She was sound asleep when I packed her into their apartment and deposited her on the couch.

Mrs. Edwards shook her head. “Looks like you wore her out.”

“It works both ways,” I told her, rubbing my shoulder while the difference in pressure again made me aware of the tender spot in my heel, the one my doctor jokingly refers to as my middle-aged bone spur.

“Thank you for taking us, Uncle Beau,” Tracie said, as I bent down to give her a good-bye hug.

“You're welcome,” I said.

I went upstairs and made myself a small pot of coffee. There was just time enough to gulp down one quick cup and to swallow one of my bone spur anti-inflammatories before I had to go meet Manny Davis and Paul Kramer.

Usually, I would have walked that far, but the hours in Bumbershoot had done their worst and my heel hurt more than it had for weeks. I opted for taking the Porsche, parking it at a meter across the street.

With a name like Kath Naguchi, I suppose I expected Jim Hadley's slugabed film editor to be a petite, dark-haired Asian. Wrong. When the
owner of Camera Craft led us upstairs into the small, dimly lit editing room with its thick pall of cigarette smoke, Kath Naguchi turned out to be a behemoth of a woman, as tall as she was wide, with short, bright red hair, thick glasses, and the sickly-white skin of someone who shuns the light of day.

“These are the guys I was telling you about, Kath,” Jim Hadley said without physically venturing any farther into the room than was absolutely necessary.

Kath Naguchi made a slight face but she didn't bother to look up. She was sitting in one corner of the room in front of a complicated-looking piece of machinery which I recognized from my
Death in Drydock
movie days as a flatbed editing table with a small viewing screen and numerous levers, knobs, and digital readouts. Three separate reels of film were loaded on the table. A long snarl of film rested in her lap and trailed across the floor under and behind her chair. The edge of the table was lined with a fringe of cut pieces of film. Trims, they call them in movie lingo.

“Watch where you step,” she ordered sharply. “I'll be through here in a minute.”

We waited patiently while she rewound the tangled film in her lap and hung the trims on clips over the trim bin at her elbow. She worked quickly and silently, with such total concentration that she could just as well have been alone. Only when she was completely finished did she
light another cigarette, pick up her cup of coffee, and turn to face us.

“So you guys want to see the Masters Plaza film, do you?” she drawled.

“Yes, that's right.” I answered for all of us. “The whole series of frames both before and after the one that was in the paper.”

She shrugged. “Okay. No problem. Wait here.”

Heaving her massive frame out of the chair, she huffed out of the room with the cigarette in hand. She was gone several minutes. When she returned, she was carrying another reel of film under her arm, a full coffee cup in one hand, and the cigarette in the other.

Effortlessly she cued up the film. “I think it's pretty close to the beginning of this one,” she said. “I'll just run it.”

We watched in fascination on the viewing screen while the building seemed to grow, floor by floor, before our eyes. The four-minute intervals between shots gave the movement of cranes and other machinery a jerky, fast-forward look, while shadows marching across the screen showed the rise and set of the sun. Five or six days must have flashed by like that before Kath Naguchi stopped the film.

“Here it is,” she said.

At first all I could see was the building. Squinting, I moved forward until I was leaning directly over Kath Naguchi's ample shoulder. At that distance, I could see Angie Dixon—barely.
She was hardly more than a pin-sized figure on the gray face of the building.

“Are you sure this is it?” Kramer asked. “The picture in the paper was lots closer than this.”

“I can make it bigger,” Kath Naguchi said. “But not here. This table is just for mixing. The blowup was done from a zoom shot we did down at Cine-tron.”

“Where's that?” Kramer asked impatiently.

“Just up the street.”

Kramer seemed to be antagonizing her, so I stepped in with the voice of sweet reason. “Could we go there? This might be very important.”

“Maybe. It depends on whether or not the equipment is free. I don't usually schedule it until late at night.”

“Would it be possible for you to check?” I asked.

“All right,” Kath Naguchi agreed reluctantly. She wasn't going to offer anything on her own. We'd have to coax her every step of the way.