Emerald City (11 page)

“There's real potential in that one.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do.” I came over and kissed him, feeling sudden contentment at being home and with the man I loved. “How was practice?”

“Really good.” He smiled. “We're going to do one more session on
Wednesday then we'll be ready for the gig at the weekend.”

I knew how important the show was. Opening for Soundgarden at the Central was a big-time opportunity. There was a guarantee of a big crowd and record company people in the audience – every label was after Soundgarden if all the rumors were true, and there was talk of serious money advances and massive recording budgets. Steve's band would be bottom of the bill, playing while people came in, but those people would still hear them. It was the kind of break every band in Seattle dreamed about.

Steve had insisted that I hear none of the band's new music, so I'd come fresh to it at the gig. The singles they'd released had shown promise and he said they'd come a long way since then. I loved to see him so excited about it all, to believe in it. I knew just how much this show meant to him, how he'd been building it up in his mind. He believed the band had the chance to make it, to find a deal with a big label, make an album and tour. He'd heard all the same rumors I had, that record company executives were in town every weekend, and a feeding frenzy could be coming soon. He didn't talk about it, but I knew he kept his secret dreams of a Craig-type advance. Most of the musicians in town did.

The reality was likely to be different. Unless they were really good, with something different to offer, the best Gideon's Wound could hope for would be another couple of singles, maybe an entire LP if they were lucky, on some obscure label. From that they might be able to string together a small tour, and that might end up being their entire claim to fame. And even that would be stretching things. Most bands never moved beyond gigs in local bars.

He knew that just as well as I did, but he buried it beneath the faith that his music had the special quality that set it apart, that made people desire it. Without that he might as well never have picked up a guitar. And if he trusted
in his music, I would too. I loved him, it was the least I could do. I'd put the critic aside and let the fan and the lover stand there at the Central. And I'd be there to pick up the pieces if it didn't work out.

He was still playing when I went to bed, the sound turned all the way down, stopping every few seconds to scribble on a legal pad, crossing words out, thinking, putting in others. He was wrapped up in his art, excited, transported. Later I felt him settle beside me with a long sigh that could have been either contentment or frustration. Slowly his breathing leveled into rest.

The phone roused me from work the next morning, the bell loud and angry inside the apartment. I answered from reflex, without even thinking who might be on the line. Only as I said hello did it occur to me that it might be the message man.

“Laura?”

“Hey, Anna.” A small wave of relief flooded through me.

“Listen, I might have someone for you to talk to about that car, if you're still interested.”

“Hell, yes I am.” I started to reach for a notebook and pen.

“I remembered this guy who works on them for people, you know, boring out the engines and stuff like that. But he also goes to a lot of the shows and knows people in car clubs. If he can't help you, I don't know who can. His name's Ed. I told him you'd probably give him a call.”

“I'll do it right now,” I said. “And thanks, I really appreciate it.”

I poured another cup of coffee and dialed the number. It rang for a while before a voice answered. In the background echoes and bangs I could hear the cavernous space of a garage and the sound of an air compressor and
drills. I could feel the adrenaline inside and tried to calm myself. This would probably lead nowhere. I asked for Ed.

“Hold on,” the voice said, “I'll get him.”

When the man came on the line the sound was much smaller – in an office, probably. The noises were still there, but faint and distant.

“You're Anna's friend,” he said in a voice made raspy by too many cigarettes. “Yeah, she told me about you, the writer.”

“That's me,” I answered. “Look, this is going to seem really strange.”

“Oh honey, strange is good,” he chuckled. “I only start getting problems at weird.”

“Well, it might even be weird. I'm looking for a green early Seventies muscle car.”

“Plenty of those around. You know what make?”

“No,” I admitted.

I expected him to sigh in frustration. Instead he simply said, “Then there's not a lot I can do to help you.”

“How about if I tell you it's driven by a woman. Young, blonde.”

He laughed. “Then I'd say you were looking for Jenna.”

“You know her?” I felt light-headed.

“Yeah, I know Jenna. Seventy One Plymouth Sport Fury GT, four forty engine with the six pack option.” He recited the car mantra as if it was holy. “I've done a lot of work on that beast for her.”

“Do you know how I can get hold of her?” I asked.

“I might,” Ed said cautiously. “Depends what you want with her.”

“All I want is to ask her a few questions.” I could hear the urgency in my voice. “I'm working on a story and I think she might be involved. Call Anna back if you like; she'll vouch for me. I'm not going to cause any trouble. If Jenna wants to talk to me, that's fine. If she doesn't, that's okay too.”

He thought for a long time, so all I could hear was his breathing and the muted noises and shouts of work in the background.

“I'll give you her number,” he told me finally. “That way it's up to her if she wants to meet you and talk. How about that?”

“I'd be very grateful.” He passed it on, I thanked him once more and hung up, staring at my scrawl on the paper. I could just call Jenna and see what happened. Or I could check the reverse directory at the central library. That would give me her full name and where she lived. With that information I could turn up at her door, where it would be much harder for her to say no.

Ethically I knew what I should do. But after threatening phone calls and a bullet in the mail I was growing tired of the proper way; I needed some answers. I found my address book on a shelf, thumbed through it and dialed a number.

“Central library. This is Monica,” a crisp voice answered. No matter when I called, she always sounded prepared and in control.

“Hi, it's Laura Benton.”

“Hello again, Laura. Two calls in a week? You must be busy.”

“It's this story. I'm looking for an address from a phone number.”

“I think I can handle that for you.” Her voice seemed to twinkle. “Just tell Auntie Monica.”

Three minutes later I knew where Jenna lived. An hour after that I was in the Horizon. The traffic on Interstate 5 was still quite light, before the rush
hour crawl home, and I made good time out past the King County line. The address was on 196th Street Southwest, one block off a main drag, a small complex of eight apartments that was shielded from the street by a high hedge. There was nowhere to park close by that wouldn't arouse suspicion from the residents in their identical tract houses, so I drove into the empty lot for the apartments and turned off the engine.

According to the mailbox, Jenna Wright was in apartment four; no other name was listed next to hers, so she lived alone. I rang the bell but it brought no answer. I went back to the car, cracked the window, took a book from my pocket, and settled down to pass the time.

By my watch it was five-sixteen when she appeared, the exhaust rich and throaty on the Fury. The paint might have been an ugly color, but it had been buffed to a high gloss and the chrome shone; she was proud of her ride.

Jenna was small and thin, just as I'd been told, dressed in polyester whites like a nurse or a dental hygienist. Her blonde hair was gathered back in a neat ponytail and a pale blue jacket covered her arms.

She turned as I closed the door of the Horizon, eyes running over me to see if I was any kind of threat. I smiled and said, “Jenna Wright?”

She nodded, then turned her head as if judging the distance to the front door. If I'd been a man she'd probably have bolted.

“My name's Laura Benton. I think you knew Craig Adler.” Her eyes widened at the mention of Craig and she compressed her mouth. “It's okay. I just want to ask you a few questions, please. I'm writing a story about his death.”

For a moment I believed she was going to say no and tell me to go away. Then her shoulders slumped fractionally and she said, “How did you find me?”

I could hear the hard nasal twang of Eastern Washington in her words. It was desert country out there, with plenty of small towns and redneck attitudes. Looking at her more closely, I could see the high cheekbones and long nose that spoke of generations of hardscrabble living.

“I got lucky,” I admitted. “It was your car.”

“I guess you'd better come in.” It sounded more like an admission of defeat than an invitation. She pulled the keys from her purse and led the way along the hall to her apartment. It was a typical one-bedroom, not unlike mine, but newer, smaller, and more cheaply constructed. The furniture was anonymous, the only personal touches a few photographs on the windowsill. There was Jenna with her parents, and a studio portrait of someone younger, a little sister perhaps, in her graduation robes. “Do you want a beer?” she asked.

“Sure.” I watched her in the kitchen, moving quietly. She looked like a lost little girl.

Jenna brought two bottles of Bud and settled at one end of the couch, drawing her legs up and under her. She took a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and lit one, blowing the smoke out slowly.

I gave her a moment, then began. “So, you and Craig.”

“We had something going on,” she said, starting to blush. “But I didn't think anyone knew about it.”

“People always see things, even when you're careful.”

“Did his girlfriend...?”

“I don't know,” I told her gently. She wiped some of the condensation off the dark glass and took a drink.

“It was only for a couple months,” she explained, glancing at me quickly then looking away. “I went to one of his gigs down in Pioneer Square. A couple of friends took me out because my boyfriend had just dumped me.”

“And you started talking?”

“Something like that.” She gave a wistful smile. “I thought he was cool.”

“He was,” I said, watching her nod agreement. “How often did you see him?”

“Six times,” she replied with certainty, every occasion etched in her mind. “A couple after his band had been rehearsing, and the rest over at his place. He told me he was involved with someone, he didn't lie about it.” She shrugged. “I just liked being with him, it wasn't a real biggie, you know?”

“When did you see him last?”

“The Wednesday before he died.” She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I had the afternoon off, and I knew his girlfriend was at work, so I went over.”

“How long did you stay?”

“I don't know, two, maybe three hours.”

“Was Craig shooting up?”

“No.” She looked at me in surprise. “I know they said he died of an overdose, but all we ever did was smoke a few bowls. I wouldn't have done anything with a junkie.”

“You know he used to?”

Jenna shook her head. “He never told me that.” She paused for a second, sadness creeping across her face. “But I guess there's a lot he never said.”

“Did you make plans to meet again?”

“This week. He said he had to go down to LA but he'd be back.”

“Did he tell you why he was going?”

She shrugged. “Just business is all. Why, was it important?”

“He was going to sign a big record deal.”

Jenna's mouth opened wide for a second. “He didn't mention anything about that.”

“What kind of relationship did you have with him?”

She stared at the carpet before answering, that blush returning, as if the truth embarrassed her. “We got high and we fucked. That was about it. He was fun.”

“No romance?”

Jenna shook her head. “I knew how things were. It would probably have ended soon, anyway. I think he was starting to feel guilty about cheating.” She stopped and stared at me. “Don't get me wrong, I didn't feel that great about it myself. But sometimes a thing gets a hold of you, you know?”

I could understand, even if I'd never been so casual. It was an attitude I didn't really get. Back in my twenties I'd briefly dated someone who was married. He didn't tell me when we met. Once I knew the truth I left, telling him
he should be grateful I didn't call his wife.

“How did you feel when you heard he died?”

She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.

“I didn't even know until last Wednesday. I don't really watch the news. A friend of mine called. We were talking and she said, hey, did you hear about that guy in the band we saw... I couldn't believe it.” Her eyes glistened with tears and she wiped them away. “I'm sorry. None of my friends knew. I didn't tell anyone and I don't think he did.”

“He didn't, at least as far as I know,” I assured her. “It was just the way things worked out that someone saw you and I was able to find you.”

“You won't tell anyone?” Jenna asked, suddenly worried. “I mean, my name?”

“I've no reason to,” I said gently. I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don't worry.”

“Thank you.” She gave me a small smile. “I don't know what else I can tell you, though.”

“You've been very helpful,” I told her. “But there's one thing I've got to ask you. Why a muscle car?”

“It was my daddy's. He left it to me when he died.” She smiled, more broadly this time. “So it's kind of special to me.”

I stood up, the small mystery solved, even if it brought me no nearer to the truth about Craig's death.

“Thanks for talking to me.”

“You know what?” she said with relief. “It was good to finally be able to tell someone. I'm going to miss him.”

As I drove back down the Interstate I replayed the conversation in my head. She'd told me the truth, I was certain of that. I felt sorry for her; she'd be stuck with the guilt of that relationship for years, unresolved and incomplete.

Steve was home before me, sitting out on the deck with a beer and his feet up on the railing. I grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator and joined him, sharing a long, passionate kiss before I sat down, breathing in the familiar scents of heat and dishwashing liquid.

“How was work?” I asked.

“Same old,” he said with a shrug. “I'm just starting to get nervous about Saturday.”

“You'll be fine,” I promised him.

“Maybe.” He tried to smile. “Between that and...” He didn't need to say it. The bullet and the threats were in both our minds. “Anything new on the story?”

“I was out talking to the muscle car blonde.”

He sat up, alert and focused. “You found her? Really? Wow. I'm impressed.”

I told him about her. “Jesus,” he said slowly. “So Craig was just horny. Shit. Are you going to tell Sandy when you talk to her?”

“God, no,” I replied. “If she doesn't know already I'm not going to say anything. She's hurting enough right now.”

“Maybe she found out and killed him.”

“No,” I answered. “If she'd wanted to do that she'd have been more direct. And none of these calls. So I need to look back at the other things.”

“The band?” Steve suggested.

“What reason would they have? With Craig they were going to sign their big record deal. Without him...” I pursed my lips and shook my head.

“So if it's not the band and it's not sex, what's left?”

“I wish I knew. Business, maybe?” I lit a cigarette; from the corner of my eye I saw Steve's disapproving glance. “If this guy hadn't started threatening us I'd have given up long ago. Now I just need to find out how he managed it. And why.”

“Just don't get yourself hurt doing it.”

“I'll be fine,” I told him, even though I wasn't sure I really believed my own words. I was toughing it out on bravado, on the determination to prove I was a strong woman. I reached out and played with Steve's long hair.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“And I love you, too.”

We finished the beers slowly, letting idle talk fill the minutes. I cooked some pasta while he brought his guitar into the living room and played, flexing his fingers and doing the vocal warm-up exercises a coach had taught him. He put the instrument aside for dinner, eating on the couch as we watched the news on KIRO.

“You mind if I spend the evening playing?” he asked later. “If you want to go out somewhere, it's fine.”

“I'm good.” There was no one gigging that I wanted to see, and after a couple beers with the meal I didn't feel like going out for a drink. I could see the tension about Saturday growing on his face, the pressure to play the gig of a lifetime. I had a good book, plenty of music and a pair of headphones.

The way it turned out, I dozed on the couch with the book open on my lap
and an LP of Scarlatti sonatas playing. Steve gently shook me awake.

“You've been crashed out for a while,” he said. “It's almost eleven.”

“Have you been playing all this time?”

“Pretty much.” He flexed the fingers of his left hand. “Come to bed.”

He slept but I couldn't. A week ago all this business with Craig had seemed like another story, a bigger one than I'd ever attempted but still just a story. Now it had become all I could think about; the threats gnawed at me and pushed me on to discover what was behind them. I felt guilty. Even Steve's big gig was taking second place and I wasn't supporting him the way I should. And so far all I'd run into had been dead ends. I'd pinned so much on Jenna, thinking she could be the answer, and she'd proved to be no help at all.

Now I had to hope that Sandy could push me in the right direction.