Emerald City (16 page)

She lit a cigarette, her fingers moving quickly. “I've taken some time off.” She gave a tiny, wan smile. “I don't really know if I still have a job, we'll see when I'm ready to go back. I just couldn't...”

“I understand.”

“Look, do you mind if I have some time alone here?”

“Of course not.” I'd asked all I needed. For now, anyway.

“Do you think you'll find an answer?” she asked as I turned to leave.

“I'll try,” I told her. I'd do everything I could to find the killer. And stop the
calls and the fear that was infecting me.

“I want you to do something for me.” She was managing to keep her voice steady, the words only wavering slightly. “When you find out, let me know. Even if you can't prove it. You can tell Dani, she'll pass it on.”

I closed the door quietly. After the stuffy, dead air of the house, outside smelled clean and fresh, a breeze pulling off the Sound with a tang of the sea at the edge of it. I walked back down to the car, but stopped before unlocking the door. Instead, I headed down the path into Lincoln Park. There were a few mothers walking with their infants or pushing strollers, but still plenty of silence and space. I walked all the way to the point. Container ships moved in the distance, tiny against the vastness of the water.

Sandy had given me plenty to think about. I had a lead to follow, if it went anywhere. I'd seen where Craig lived, and how he lived, a reminder that musicians weren't all wild, sloppy creatures. He liked things ordered and in their place.

The wind began to pick up, bringing darker clouds in from the horizon. I made my way back to the car, turned in the ferry lot and headed back to Queen Anne and home. For once I couldn't enjoy the music on KJET; it seemed vapid and pointless. Even the abrasive drone of the engine was better.

I sat at the table and made notes of everything Sandy had told me, along with my impressions of the house, writing while it was all fresh in my head. Then I transcribed the tape of our conversation at the OK Hotel, adding the sheets to those already in the folder for the story. It was tedious work; I was a slow typist, pecking away with two fingers on each hand. Sometimes I wished I'd followed my mom's advice and taken a secretarial course.

When I finished I made coffee and read through everything. All Sandy had told me fleshed out my picture of Craig, and the small things, like the tidiness of the house, gave me insights into what made him tick. I felt like I was inching toward the truth. It was still tantalizingly out of reach, but coming closer. I looked at Nelson's number for a few minutes before dialing.

“Yeah.” His voice was low and lazy, a purr like a lion who'd just eaten his fill.

“Sandy Armstrong said to get in touch with you,” He didn't reply, waiting for me to continue. “My name's Laura Benton.”

“So? What do you want?” he asked finally.

“She said she bought from you last fall.” I took a deep breath. “Don't hang
up on me, okay? I'm a music journalist and I'm doing a story about Sandy's boyfriend's death. It was an overdose.”

“Go on,” he told me, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.

“I'm not out to sic the cops on you or anything like that.”

“I'm glad to hear that, lady.” He still sounded entertained, but I could hear the edge of a threat underneath.

“All I want to know is why and how he died.”

“Sounds like you already have the how if he ODed.”

“Yeah, but he'd stopped using.”

“Maybe.”

“So what are you saying? He was still buying?”

“I'm not saying anything,” he replied firmly. “And I'm damn sure not going to say anything on the phone. If you got questions, I'll answer them. But I'll only do it in person, so I can make sure you're not recording or wearing a wire.”

“That's fine,” I agreed readily.

“Okay.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You know Pioneer Square, right? I'll meet you by the totem pole there tomorrow at ten.”

“That's fine. How will I know you?”

“Tell me what you look like.”

I described myself as honestly as I could.

“You got a Mariners hat?”

“Yeah, somewhere.” Someone had given me one as a well-meaning present long ago. I'd put it in a drawer and never even worn it.

“You have that on and I'll find you.”

It seemed too mysterious, like a spy movie, but if that made him happy it was fine. All I cared about was finding the information I needed. I'd be there on time, dressed however he wanted. After a moment's thought I called the number for library information.

“Central library. This is Monica.”

“It's Laura Benton again.”

“Did you find that address okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” I smiled; Monica had the sharpest memory I'd ever come across. “Tell me, are there any statistics on heroin dealing in Seattle?”

“Last week it was heroin, today it's heroin dealers. Something you're not telling me?” she said playfully.

“Just for a story. Really.”

“If you say so, sweetie. Give me five minutes and I'll call you back.”

I went out on the deck to smoke a cigarette and waited. I'd just stubbed out the butt, making an arrow pattern in the ashtray, when the phone rang.

“It's Monica. There isn't much to find. A couple of articles in the Times from a few years ago, some old police stats. Nothing very useful. From a quick read it looks as if no one's really sure how many there are. The police believed about sixty back in 1980. Five years ago a reporter thought it was maybe a hundred. Go figure.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Sometime you'll have to tell me what you're working on. It sounds intriguing.”

I laughed. “We'll see.”

“I think I'm starting to feel like a sidekick.” She giggled. “Should I buy a cape and mask?”

“Librarian Girl?”

“Ooh, I like that. But if you're dealing with druggies, look after yourself.”

“I will,” I promised, and hoped I could.

By the time Steve arrived home the rain had begun, a light, airy drizzle. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing away the water, and pulled me close for a long kiss that held a promise of fun and romance for later.

“How'd it go with Sandy?” he asked as he hung up his jacket. “Do we have any beer in the refrigerator?”

“There's still a couple,” I answered. “It was interesting. She took me over to the house.”

“Did she tell you anything?” He brought out two bottles, popped the caps and handed me one.

“She gave me the number of their dealer. I called him, we're meeting tomorrow.”

“What?” He stopped, the bottle halfway to his lips and looked at me in astonishment. “Jesus, Laura. We've been threatened by some fucking whack job, he's sent us a bullet and you're going off to meet a heroin dealer? I think this thing is making you crazy. I mean, fuck, enough's enough.”

“I'm going, and that's it,” I told him. “You wanted me to follow this, remember?”

“I didn't think you'd be hanging around with skag dealers. For Christ's sake!”

It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice to me. I knew he meant well, but I didn't like it. I could make my own decisions. Craig's death filled my time, but it was the story I was working on.

I stared him down. “This guy's not going to tell me anything on the phone. It's in person or nothing. So I'm going and that's it.”

“Where are you meeting?” he asked eventually, trying not to sound sullen.

“Pioneer Square. Safe enough.”

“What if he wants you to go somewhere?”

“I'll think about that if it happens.”

He was silent for a while, putting the bottle on the table and running a hand through his hair. “I just don't want anything to happen to you. Have you told Rob?”

“I'll call him in the morning,” I said. I wanted to change the subject, to put everything back on an even keel. “How was work?”

“The usual. My head's already in Saturday.”

I put my arms around him but he pulled back.

“I'm going to change and practice for a while. Do you mind making dinner?”

“Sure.”

I took a container of chili from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. I could hear the sound of him playing, muted by the bedroom wall. I knew he was on edge; that was partly why he'd said what he did. But he'd surprised me by raising his voice like that.

By the time the food had cooked he was banging at chords, whether in
frustration or deliberately I couldn't be sure. When he joined me at the table he seemed calmer and more composed.

“Better?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He smiled sheepishly and ate for a while. “I guess I should do laundry so I have something to wear on Saturday.”

“There's always tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I can't be bothered tonight. Let's just have a quiet evening, okay?”

We left the dishes and just sat on the couch with a diet of bad television. It was a good way to turn off the thoughts and the worries, diving into the sea of stupid sitcoms. I cuddled up against him, trying to mend fences with body warmth and kisses. He was reluctant at first, then he gave in. It all felt strangely domestic, as if we'd turned into our parents, worshiping at the nightly altar of television.

About eleven, just before the news, we went to bed. I reached out for him, my hand moving down his belly and slowly teasing him, first with my hand, then my mouth, before I straddled him, pushing down hard. I could feel him working off the last of his anger as he bucked under me. This was the way to make up.

After, while the sweat was drying on my skin, he was comfortably asleep and I lay uneasily awake, thinking ahead to the morning and meeting Nelson. All I knew was he had supplied Craig. What else could I ask him?

I didn't need to call Rob the next morning. Just after nine, as I was hunting for my Mariners cap, the phone rang. I stiffened at the sound and picked up reluctantly.

“Hey,” Rob said, and I felt my body relax. “How did it go with Sandy?”

“It was good. I'm heading off to meet their dealer and see if Craig bought from him that day.”

“Where are you meeting?”

“Pioneer Square.”

“Can you stop by the office after?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“It's kind of important.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “What is it?”

“I'll tell you when you get here,” he said, the words sounding awkward. “Good luck,”

“Thanks,” I replied, mystified. “I'll see you later.”

Friday was a day of wind sweeping in off the Sound, whipping against pant legs, turning umbrellas inside out and pushing the rain into gusts that drove hard along the streets. I'd taken the bus, and walked down First Avenue from Pike Place Market, past the Lusty Lady strip joint and sports stores advertising guns, down to where a couple of new hotels were springing up in the old buildings, giving them new, trendy life and boutique prices.

Pioneer Square was the oldest part of downtown, rebuilt a hundred years before, after a fire destroyed the area. These days it was where the nightlife met the tawdry. After dark the bars that lined the place were always busy, especially on the weekends when frat boys and suburbanites came out to party to the cover bands that made money entertaining the masses. Only the Central held on to its policy of original music. During the day it was a tourist
area with shops of all kinds, along with street people, native, white, brown and black, who sat on the benches, bottles in bags, dogs at their feet, asking for spare change until the police came along and moved them on. The heart of it all was the totem pole that rose out of the sidewalk. It was meant to be proud, to capture the spirit of the place; instead it just looked worn and tired.

I pulled the Mariners hat down over my hair. As ten neared I stood close to the pole, trying to look inconspicuous but feeling curiously on display. Glancing around, no one was looking at me. I was just another anonymous body. The antique store on the corner rolled back the steel shutters that protected its windows, and just up Yesler someone was cleaning the window of an art gallery. Another normal day in Seattle.

The tap on my shoulder took me by surprise and I turned quickly.

“You wanted to see me,” he said, his voice just as lazy as yesterday. He was tall, looking down at me, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes, mouth curved slightly upward as if he found everything humorous. He had long blond hair, parted at the side, the wind swirling it away over his shoulders. An expensive rain jacket was zipped up around his neck, and he wore jeans artfully ripped on both knees and a pair of black, shiny Doc Marten boots, the yellow stitching bright around the soles.

“Nelson?”

“Come with me,” he said, and walked away without looking back. Nervously, I followed him to the parking garage up the street where he unlocked a BMW and sat in the driver's seat. After a moment's hesitation I settled next to him. If he started to drive away I could get out.

“Take your jacket off,” he said. I obeyed. He checked the pockets, searching for a tape recorder. “Now I'm going to pat you down.” I held my
breath but he was fast and efficient, very practiced and professional, avoiding my breasts and between my legs. This was strictly business. “Right, we can talk now. What do you want to know?”

“It's like I told you, I'm looking into Craig Adler's death. You know him?”

He considered his answer. “I knew him. And yes, he used to buy from me.”

“He died of an overdose.”

“Yeah, you said that yesterday.” He stared out of the windshield at a blank wall.

“Had he been buying from you again?”

“No.” He turned to look at me. “What do you know about dealing?”

“Nothing.” I bought pot from someone I knew. Beyond that I had no idea.

“You got to be careful. There are a lot of bad people out there. And it's changing. You heard about these gangs down in California?”

“I've read a little.”

“They're selling crack cocaine down there. Weird shit,” he said meditatively. “There's big money in it, and people get hooked on the rock fast. Next thing you know they'll be selling heroin, too. They're going to want all the market and they'll kill to get it.” He glanced over at me and raised his eyebrows. “When that happens I'll be out of the business. Those fuckers will shoot you as soon as look at you. They'll be up here soon enough. They're already down in Portland.”

“And what then?” I asked out of curiosity.

He paused. “Then I'll be history. Adios, bye-bye.”

His thoughts about the future were interesting, but nothing I needed to
know.