West Seattle Blues (6 page)

“Your grandfather’s a musician.”

“What?” He almost dropped his mug. “You’re joking, right? You’re sure he’s my grandfather?”

“Yes,” I told him. “From what you just told me, I’m certain.” I gave him a few moments to absorb that, although I knew it would take a lot longer to sink in properly. “Have you ever heard of someone called Carson Mack?”

He looked at me as if I’d just made up the name.

“Are you serious? Who has a name like that?”

“Serious as a heart attack. That’s your grandfather. He was a minor country star. Probably about the time you were born.”

“Wow.” He looked at me again to be certain this wasn’t all a hoax, then shook his head, still trying to absorb the information. “Shit.”

“What do you play?”

“Guitar. Our own stuff. Kind of grunge, I guess.” I tried not to wince at that word.

“Were you born in Bellevue?”

“Spokane,” he said and pulled a pack of Drum from his pocket, making a production of rolling a cigarette and lighting it. “My mom took me to Bellevue after she and my dad split. That’s where she met my stepdad.”

I let him draw down the smoke. So far he’d taken it all pretty well, I thought. It was time for the next step.

“Do you think you’d be interested in meeting your grandfather?” I asked, and I was glad that he paused before answering.

“Yeah,” he said finally, but the word came out with caution.

“I can go call him if you like, set it up.”

He hesitated again, gulped down more coffee, then answered, “Okay.”

There was a payphone in the entrance to the coffee shop. I put in my quarter and Carson answered on the first ring.

“It’s Laura.”

“You’ve found him?” he asked.

“No.” There was going to be no easy well to tell him. “Listen, Carson, I’m sorry. I’m afraid your son’s dead.”

There was a long silence, then he took a breath and said, “Thank you for finding out.” His voice was as bleak as Alaska. “Do you know how it happened?”

“I haven’t asked yet. But I’m with someone who’d know. Your grandson.”

“Grandson?” He said the word quizzically. The idea of a grandson had probably never occurred to him.

“I’m sitting with him on Capitol Hill. James David Clark the Second. And he’d like to meet you, if you want.”

“Hell, yeah.” He didn’t try to hide his eagerness. “When? Where?”

“That’s up to him. If you’re going to be around, I could see if he wants to come over now. Or arrange some way for you guys to meet.”

“Bring him over, please,” he replied quickly. “I’d like to see him.”

The young man followed me from Capitol Hill. He was driving a big old Newport, the fenders dented and the paintwork half primer grey. Once we hit West Seattle, he stuck close all the way to Beach Drive. I waited at the top of the path to the house as he smoked a cigarette, his hands shaking a little.

“Ready?” I asked as he stubbed it out, and he nodded.

The door was open, Carson standing behind the screen.

“Carson, this is James David Clark, your grandson. People call him Jim. Jim, meet Carson Mack.” I turned away and walked back to the road. They didn’t need me around now.

Five

That was it. I drove home with a smile on my face, feeling like I’d done a good deed. And, even better, I’d be paid for it. The house was quiet; Dustin had taken Ian out somewhere. I made coffee, the silence of the house strange, then stood out on the deck.

My husband had obviously made a start on the raised beds. He’d dug out the turf, down about six inches, and he’d measured and cut the boards: They were lying in a pile on the grass, surrounded by a pale lake of sawdust and some tools. A few minutes later I was wearing my hiking boots and sorting out the drill and some screws. With luck, and some hard work, we’d have homegrown tomatoes this summer.

It was well after dark when the phone rang. I was passing through the kitchen and picked it up without thinking.

“It’s Carson Mack,” the voice declared. He sounded gravelly, as if he’d spent too long talking and become hoarse.

“How did it go? Was it good to meet him?” I asked, smiling inside.

“Yeah,” he answered, then paused as if the enthusiasm had taken him by surprise. “He left just a few minutes ago.”

“He stayed all this time?” I checked my watch; they’d been together for seven hours.

“Yeah, it was good. He’s coming back at the weekend.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“Thanks for finding him. I’ll send you a check.”

“Okay.”

“I’m wondering,” he spoke slowly, “if you might want more work.”

“What kind of work are you talking about?” I asked warily. “If you’re still thinking about a book, it’s not a great idea. I don’t think anyone would go for it.” It was best to be honest.

“It’s not that. It’s to do with my son’s death.”

“What about it?” I asked. “Didn’t you ask your grandson what happened?”

“Of course,” he answered. “And he told me.”

“Then I don’t follow.” Carson already had his answers. What more could he need?

“You found my grandson,” he reminded me.

“You know, all that took was a little information and plenty of phone calls. And some luck.”

“And you found who killed that guy a few years ago.” I didn’t reply. We’d already gone over this and I didn’t like where it was headed. “My son was murdered. I didn’t even know about that until a couple hours ago.”

“Murdered?” I drew in my breath.
No
, I thought. No. I wasn’t going anywhere near this.

“I never knew him but it still hurt like hell,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Four years ago… that’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Carson. Did they find out who killed him?”

“No, they never did. That’s what I want you to do.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I won’t do that.”

“I wasn’t part of his life. The least I can do is find out why he died.”

“Hire a private detective.”

“You found Jim in just a few hours. You found out who killed that guy a few years ago.”

I sighed. “That…that was different, it wasn’t what I set out to do. Believe me, the way it turned out wasn’t what I ever wanted. It screwed up my life for a long time. You need a private detective. He’d know people I don’t, and he could find things out no one would ever tell me. Or she,” I added lamely.

“Do you know any?” he asked.

“I’ve never needed one.”

“Look,” Carson said wearily, “will you at least read up on it and see what you think? That’s all I want. Go back and look at the papers, what they said about it. Nothing more than that. I can’t think straight about it. I need someone else to help me on that.”

“Just the newspaper reports? That’s all?” How had it gotten this far? From an interview and an article to finding his grandson and now researching a murder?

“I swear to God.”

I was in no hurry to answer. After the Craig Adler business I’d felt frozen in the darkness for the best part of a year. There had been too many nights when I couldn’t fall asleep. Way too many tears and times when I just felt numb, like someone looking through a window at the world, unable to get in. And with no Steve then; I had no one close, no one to hold on to when I really needed it. The months had passed like years. Even now there were times when shards of it all would come back in dreams and leave me waking up scared. I never wanted to experience anything like that again.

“Just research at the library?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“I guess there’s no harm in that,” I agreed finally. I liked Carson, and I felt sorry for him. As long as it
was only reading about the case and telling him what I believed, there couldn’t be any harm in it. But that was as far as I was going.

“Why don’t you swing by tomorrow?” he suggested.

“Could you come by here?” I countered. Dustin would be back at work so I’d be looking after Ian all day.

“Sure,” he answered easily. “About ten?”

“That’s fine.”

The first thing he did was hand me a check. I put it on the kitchen counter, ready to deposit later. I’d already made coffee, and we settled in the living room, watching Ian crawl around as we talked.

“I’m so sorry about your son,” I said.

He nodded. Today Carson looked like the joy of life had been battered out of him.

“Yeah, it kind of hit me hard when James told me the details yesterday.”

“It happened four years ago? That’s what you said, right?”

“Yeah.” He pulled a piece of paper from his jeans and read out: “February 7th, 1990.”

I made a note, then asked, “Where?”

“Pike Street, up on Capitol Hill. Someone shot him. He was dead by the time he reached Harborview.” He spoke like a newsreader, keeping the emotion out of his voice.

“And they never found who did it?”

He shook his head and pursed his lips. “The police looked for a killer, then I guess they gave up pretty quickly.” He raised his head and looked directly at me. “My son was a criminal. He’d been in and out of jail. He’d only been out a week when it happened.” He shrugged. “I know what that means. They’re not going to search too hard.”

I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to find out that the flesh and blood you’d never even known was in the ground after a short lifetime on the wrong side of the law. I glanced over at Ian, glad he’d be close to me for years yet. I could protect him and guide him, and keep all the bad things away. Maybe I’d never completely succeed, but I was damn sure going to try.

“All I know is what my grandson told me yesterday,” he said. “I’d like you to look around, find newspaper articles, whatever you can find. Anything. I just need to know about it.”

That was something I definitely could do. The newspapers would be on microfiche at the library. I could find the post-mortem report at the coroner’s office. That was safe, I assured myself. There was no danger in just doing that.

“You’ll need to give me a few days.”

“I’ve waited over forty years, so a couple more days isn’t going to hurt,” he replied with a thin, sad smile.

“I’ll give you a call when I’ve put everything together. That okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

For the rest of the day I played with Ian, reading to him, crawling around on the floor with him, and taking him out in the stroller around the neighborhood. He tried one faltering step, so close to real walking that I held my breath. It would happen very soon, I knew. After that I’d need to watch him constantly. That was the way it happened. From the moment they were born, kids started growing away from their parents. It was meant to be like that. I’d love him, do all I could to keep him safe and happy, but I was determined I’d never be a clingy mom. And he was going to be an only child. Dustin and I had discussed it when I was pregnant. One was enough, so he’d had a vasectomy last fall.

As Ian napped, I made the preparations for dinner. It looked special and needed work, but it was really pretty simple – scallops and crabmeat in a white wine and cream sauce over fettuccine noodles. Dustin had spoiled me with dinner out; now it was my turn to impress.

In the morning I’d fill my purse with dimes and quarters for the copy machine and head on down to the library. I was curious to learn what had happened to the late James David Clark.

“This is wonderful,” Dustin said as we sat at the table, eating. A bottle of wine stood between us, a good Washington state white, and my glass was almost empty. Except for Ian in his high chair with pureed squash smeared all around his mouth, it could have been a very romantic scene.

“I’m glad you like it.” I’d made the same once before, when we were dating and I wanted him to believe I could cook; he didn’t remember.

“So this guy was murdered?” he asked, picking up the thread from a few minutes before.

“That’s what Carson says, anyway. I guess I’ll know more tomorrow.” I leaned over and wiped Ian’s face, and he grinned. Sometimes I believed he knew exactly what he was doing. I spooned up some chocolate pudding and saw his eyes sparkle. “Do you want it?” I asked and his mouth opened expectantly. Pavlov’s baby, I thought as his tongue obediently licked it all away. Just add chocolate and he was happy.

“What will you do if he asks you to go deeper into it?”

“Say no.” I poured myself more wine and took a sip. “I don’t want to go near anything like that again. I told you what the last time did to me.” I felt a shadow pass over me, a small shiver down my back.

“You know you’re already involved?” Dustin pointed out. “You just found his grandson and now you’re pulling together all the articles about the killing.”

“That’s different. It’s research, nothing more than that.”

Dustin laughed. “Laura, I love you, but that’s bullshit. He’s gotten you suckered in. Once you’ve done this it’ll be something else. Little by little, he’ll have you doing it anyway.”

“No,” I answered firmly, after a while. I could feel my hackles starting to rise but I wasn’t going to let it show. I knew where I could draw the line better than anyone. Because I’d been there; Dustin hadn’t. “The research is something I can do better and easier than him, that’s all. I know what to look for and where to find it. And,” I pointed out, “he’s paying me.” To finish everything off, I played my trump card. “Anyway, I
couldn’t do anything more. Not with Ian.”