Rogue Justice (28 page)

Zora took a sip of coffee, leaned awkwardly against a wooden post. She did not like talking about herself, but this man had such a comfortable way about him, it put her at ease. "Guess I come by it naturally," she said. "My parents were real adventurers, but they were gone a lot of the time, so I learned to fend for myself. Didn't think much of it, figured that's just the way it was. Besides I loved the outdoors, rode my horse everywhere. It was a great life until it wasn't."

"Yeah, how so?"

After taking a deep breath, Zora forced herself to reach back into memories three decades old. Even after all this time she could still feel the terror of that awful day. She told Mickey about Callie: how she'd dared her to ride into the dark ravine... the rattlesnake... the spooked horses... the deadly fall... the horrifying screams... waking up in the hospital. "They kept me in that awful place for three weeks," she said. "Busted tibia, bad head injury. The leg healed okay, not the head. I developed something called post-concussion syndrome. The headaches were relentless, drained my will to live for a long time. I was losing whole parts of myself until it became a landslide that nearly swept me away."

"How long did that last?"

"Depression comes and goes. My drug of choice is adrenaline. It keeps me from looking too hard at myself."

Mickey motioned Zora to sit on the staircase steps, inched in beside her. "What about the screams?" he asked.

"Awful. They get their claws into you and they just rip. When I don't hear them, it's usually because I haven't slept, which is more often than not." She hoped he wouldn't ask about her parents, about her father running off, then taking his own life. He didn't. Instead, Mickey gently brushed her cheek with his finger and remained quiet.

The silence lasted a full minute, their thoughts rapped around the magnitude of the events swirling around them.

"This stuff with your mother," he said. "It's going to be okay."

"I hope so, Mickey," Zora replied, momentarily forgetting all that happened over the past seventy-two hours. Their gazes locked then she felt the light touch of his other hand on her back, sending sparks of electricity jumping through her body. "Anyway, I should let you get back to work. Besides, I have a date with a homicide detective, remember? Twelve noon sharp."

Mickey removed his hand from her back. She wished he hadn't. It felt good to be touched.

After a long pause, he said, "I really should be going with you."

"No, it's okay. You need to track down your folks, make the arrangements for Katrina."

Another long pause.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

Zora bent her face to his. They hugged a soft, tentative hug.

There was so much to say... and yet so little.

* * *

Mickey insisted on making breakfast and, after devouring a batch of whole grain flapjacks, yogurt, and raspberries, Zora hit the road. It was 8:45 a.m. Traffic was light, the sky overcast. As the miles rolled past, she kept one eye on the highway, the other glued to her rear view mirror. No sign of any tail, though she felt sure someone had to be following her. A dark blue sedan stayed close for several miles before turning off just after crossing Hood Canal. She tuned in a classic rock station for a while, but even her favorite Eagles song,
Desperado,
couldn't dislodge the dark thoughts smothering her mind.

Around 9:30, Zora stopped at Espresso Gardens, one of the many roadside coffee shacks that dotted the route. She ordered a double latte and a slice of homemade banana bread. It smelled heavenly. The caffeine jolt helped lighten her mood a bit too. So did the sign above the takeout window.

I DON'T REPEAT GOSSIP. SO LISTEN CAREFULLY.

An hour after that, she arrived at the Bainbridge Island dock. The trip to Seattle took another thirty-five minutes. As the big ferry sliced through Elliott Bay, the sun began to peek through a gray slate of low-hanging clouds, turning the city's skyline into a brilliant sheen of glass. After disembarking, Zora drove up Columbia, turned right on Fifth Avenue, then pulled into the multi-level parking structure directly behind police headquarters. The home of Seattle's finest was located in an uninspiring ten story building on the corner of Fifth and James. The Municipal Court was next door, the Correctional Facility across the street.

Zora parked the car, walked inside, and collected a visitor's pass from an old timer manning the security desk. She then rode the elevator to the seventh floor.

It seemed to take forever.

Chapter 30

1 April, 11:50 AM PDT

Seattle, Washington

As the elevator doors opened, Zora was greeted by the disarming smile of Detective Cloyd Steiger. She recognized him immediately from the photo that had run with the
Seattle
Times
story. He was stocky, taller than she'd expected, with a bristly mustache, tufts of unruly white hair, and whimsical dark eyes that glinted with a sense of the absurd. He was dressed in a crewneck T-shirt, blue jeans, and brown loafers.

"Ms. Flynn," he said, in a big commanding voice. "Cloyd Steiger. If there's one thing this screwed-up old world of ours needs, it's more heroes. I'm truly honored to meet one of them."

"I appreciate that," Zora replied, stepping out of the elevator. She shook his meaty outstretched hand, thinking he wasn't the
Vanity Fair
type. She noticed a simple gold wedding band on his left ring finger.

Maybe his wife subscribed?

Steiger led her down a wide, carpeted corridor. Daylight poured through a wall of windows that looked out on the city. From here she could see the piers that jutted out into the blue expanse of the bay and beyond that, to the west, snow-covered mountain peaks. The homicide unit was a large, open area divided into several functional work spaces with identical government-issue desks and swivel chairs. Radios, files, three-ring binders, and other trappings of the police trade covered most of a communications desk in the center of the room. There were two flat-screen TV monitors suspended from the ceiling near the side and back walls. Both were blank.

The place was mostly deserted.

"Most of the guys took an early lunch," Steiger said, directing Zora to a chair that faced his cubbyhole. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?"

"Water would be great."

"You got it. Be right back."

Zora felt tense. She sat down, taking in her surroundings. The detective's desk appeared neat and organized. A couple of family photos were perched on one side, a large gold-embossed plaque on the other. The caption read: "The Proverbs According to Steiger." Zora couldn't help but smile as she scanned the list.

(1) We will solve no crime before overtime.

(2) The simplest explanation is the most likely.

(3) Assume nothing.

(4) The answer is always evidence.

(5) Plea is a four-letter word.

(6) Shit happens.

(7) Everybody lies.

Steiger returned a few minutes later with a mug in one hand, a plastic bottle in the other. He handed Zora the water, sat down, and took a sip of coffee.

"Nice," she said, nodding toward the plaque.

"Yup, that about sums up three decades in this racket." Steiger set the mug on his desk and leaned back in his chair, fingers locked behind his neck. "It all comes down to those seven proverbs and a little sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, if you will. See, I view my job as basically that of a glorified salesman peddling time shares at Walla Walla and other fine institutions in the Washington State penal system. That means convincing bad guys to say things they don't want to say... to someone they don't want to talk to... and do it voluntarily."

"From what I read in the paper you do okay."

"Yeah, I hold my own, I guess." And for the next fifteen minutes, the affable detective explained why. He also talked about his family—married thirty-one years to the same woman, two sons on the force, a third son in college studying, what else, Criminal Justice. He then expounded on some of his more unconventional interrogation techniques, like the time he tricked a murder suspect into identifying his victim. With a robust laugh he added, "Besides me and my partner, the goof was the only other person who knew her identity. Man, you should have seen the look on his face. Talk about your Master Card moment. It was priceless."

The more he talked, the more Zora was able to relax. The DA said she could trust this man and now she knew why. She stared at the detective, looking for answers on his face.

"Listen," Steiger said. "I thought it would be easier to meet here, parking and all, but this place will get real crowded real fast. Why don't we go grab some lunch? My treat."

"Sure, whatever works."

The First Hill Bar & Grill was located on the corner of Ninth and Madison, a short drive from the station house. Zora was only mildly surprised when Steiger rolled his Caprice onto the sidewalk, just steps from the front door. Parking in Seattle, he explained, was worse than Manhattan. Moments later, they strolled inside and grabbed a table near the back. Zora picked up her napkin and surveyed the room. There were several men sitting alone, none of whom seemed to fit the profile of a tail, whatever that was. The owner of the establishment, a plucky little terrier named Laurie, promptly arrived with menus and water.

Steiger gave her a big bear hug and ordered the special, souvlaki chicken with Greek salad.

Zora made it two. "So, how long have you known the DA?" she asked after Laurie left.

"Let's see, I met Scott Rosekrans about two years ago now. We helped him out on a couple of homicides up there in Jefferson County. He's a good man, plays by the rules even when the deck is stacked against him."

"And you don't," Zora said matter-of-factly.

Steiger feigned surprise. "Let's just say I've been known to wander off the reservation from time to time."

Zora laughed dryly. "Uh-huh, right. So when the DA talked about bringing in Seattle PD to investigate Katrina's murder, he meant
you
?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Okay, makes sense. What I'm having a tough time with, though, is why he gave me your number to begin with. I've been trying to figure that one out since last night."

"To tell you the truth, it caught me off guard too... at first."

"What do you mean?"

"I knew why the call from the governor's office pissed him off, but it took me a little longer to figure out the other, the part about your mother and the killer whale, I mean."

Zora sat ramrod straight in her chair, eyes boring in on Steiger. "I'm not following you."

"Why don't we tackle 'em one at a time," he said, leaning in close. "Starting with that phone call to the DA."

Zora nodded.

"I don't suppose you've ever heard of SIU?"

"No, what's that?"

"Special Investigation Unit. A bunch of hacks who report directly to Governor Ryan." Steiger explained that the unit had been formed back in the early eighties to help hunt down Gary Ridgway, the so-called Green River Killer. Ridgway was convicted of murdering forty-nine women, mostly prostitutes and runaways, eventually confessing to nearly twice that many crimes."

"I remember reading about him," Zora said.

"Yeah, tough case," Steiger added, sipping on his water. "Took a huge task force of federal, state, and local cops over two decades to collar the guy. SIU didn't contribute a goddamn thing, but of course nabbed most of the credit. Governors have come and gone since then, but the unit is still around, probably hiding under some bogus counterterrorism façade."

"So who called the DA then?"

"The guy who runs the unit now, a hatchet man named Jake Towers. He spends most of his time digging up dirt on Ryan's political opponents, that or providing cover for his allies. I mean this guy blows smoke up his
own
ass. Anyway, he played the executive privilege card, something about the governor being a fan of the Kincaid woman. It's all bullshit."

"Why do you say that?"

"Ryan leans to the right of Attila the Hun. He'd probably go off and capture that killer whale of yours himself if he had the balls for it."