Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (13 page)

We pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a small café. No name. Just CAFÉ
in white letters on a green sheet of plywood. A boat ramp led from the parking
lot down into the stinking estuary. The Buick, covered with mud and debris,
wrapped in yellow police ribbon like a macabre gift, was sitting sadly at the
far end of the lot. A guy that had to be either a cop or a high school football
coach got out of an unmarked TPD car and walked over to us. We got out.

He was a typical twenty-year cop. Brawny, running toward fat, with a full
head of salt-and-pepper curls. Looked like a perm to get more coverage. Yellow
sport coat and tie, brown pants with a grease spot on the right leg.

"Bill," he said.

"Allen, this is Leo Waterman, pain-in-the-ass extraordinaire."

"Where did they find him?" I asked.

"Nose down on the boat ramp. The tide was out so it stuck about halfway
in, halfway out. High tide it might have floated out to the middle."

"Nobody saw anything?" We were no more than thirty yards from the
café. Somebody must have seen something.

"Café's open from five A.M. to four P.M. You know, breakfast and lunch
for the fishermen and factory workers. No dinner. The car wasn't here at
four-thirty yesterday when the owner left. It was here when he got back at
four-thirty this morning. After dark this whole area is deserted. It's all
commercial for two, three miles in every direction. We're checking, but you
know how it is. The owner, name's McCarty, he called it right in. You could see
somebody behind the wheel." He let it sink in.

I walked across the lot to the Buick. The driver's window was down. The
passenger window was a spiderweb of cracks surrounding a single one-inch hole.
The water hadn't gotten up past the seats. The interior of the car was
splattered with what appeared to be oatmeal. I knew better. I turned away.
"What else did they find in the car?"

Allen consulted a notebook from his inside pocket.

"Three empty pints of whiskey. They looked new enough so we - " I
assured him the pints were in character. "A case of oil and a blue plastic
funnel." He started to say something else, stopped, and snapped the
notebook shut. "That was it."

"How many quarts of oil were left?" He checked again.

"Four. Eight empties."

I wandered back to the boat ramp in silence. Trask and Allen followed.

"The car," Allen said, "was turned on. We figured they just
popped it into gear and let it drive itself into the slough."

I looked around. Allen was right. Nobody was going to come forward. He kept
talking. "We'd have notified SPD sooner, but those plates don't match that
car. The old guy had no ID. I called the number in his notebook and got your
machine. Then I called SPD. So . . . you want to tell me about it?"

I told him the same story I'd told Trask and got much he same result. He
didn't believe it either. They spent most of the time I was talking passing
looks back and forth between them.

"So, you've got no idea what he was doing down here?" Allen asked
when I'd finished.

"None." More looks.

"Last you knew he was watching this building in South Seattle."

"That's it," I said. He checked his notes.

"Stay around your house, Mr. Waterman. I'll be sending some people over
something this evening."

Rather than making any promises, I changed the subject.

"Whenever you and SPD are finished with the car, can you arrange to
have it towed to this address? On me." I wrote Arnie's address down and
gave it to him along with one of my business cards.

"Sure, no problem," he said, slipping the papers into his
notebook.

Trask and I said our thanks and good-byes and made our way back to the freeway.
Neither of us spoke until we were nearly back to the city.

"Listen, Waterman, this isn't my case. It's not going to be my case.
It's probably going to end up with TPD, so it's no skin off my nose either way,
but that crock of shit you gave us is never going to float. You know that,
don't you?"

"I know."

"This business about refusing to name your client isn't going to float
either. You're not an attorney. You don't get privilege."

"I know."

"TPD's going to want to know who you were working for and what in hell
you were doing. Any shit about how you were home watching. "The Munsters'
last night is not going to be well received."

"I need to call my client," I said.

"What, you need to ask permission?"

"The client just needs to know it's going to come down, that's
all."

"You sure you don't want me to turn around and take you back down south
to make a statement? I don't mind. I'll wait."

"I'm sure. Thanks."

"The only reason Detective Allen didn't take you with him is that it's
not his case either. You're not going to get a night's sleep, you know. Your
ass is going to be back in Tacoma before morning."

"I know." We crested the interstate n silence. I could see the
Save the Earth building from the car. I'd have tot tell the rest of the crew.

"One more thing, Waterman," Trask said through tight lips. "I
know about you. You've got a reputation as a cowboy. This isn't the wild West
anymore. You let the TPD handle this. You've got enough problems on this one
already. You hear me?"

"I hear you," I said. Trask wouldn't let it go.

"You're in no position to screw around here, Waterman. I don't suppose
it's a scoop to you that one of the quick ways to fame and fortune for any cop
in this town is to either put you inside or find a way to pull your ticket. I
don't know how in hell you managed it, but Captain Henry Monroe's got a wild
hair across his ass about you. Waterman. A very wild hair. He'd like nothing
better - "

I played my trump card. "Monroe's married to my ex-wife," I said.

Trask thought it over. "That so?" he mused, smiling for the first
time.

"You work directly under Monroe?" I asked. He was wary

"I do. Why?"

"Then I don't have to tell you about Henry Monroe, do I?"

"You said that. I didn't." He quickly changed the subject.
"Your father used to be mayor or something, right?"

"City Council."

"Monroe claims you've got no right having a P.I. license. Claims your
old man's cronies arranged it for you. That true?"

"It was true twenty years ago," I said.

"But you're deserving now, right? You've earned your spurs."

"You find anybody who does anything for twenty years and doesn't get
better at it, then you'll have a scoop."

"Military background?"

"Nope."

"No law enforcement training at all?"

"Nope."

Before he could respond, I went on. "Ask around, Trask, you won't hear
many complaints. I've got people who swear by me and people who swear at me,
just like everybody else in this profession. Ask around."

"I have, Waterman. I have. After I ran into you the last time, you remember
that shooting over in Broadhurst." I nodded. "After that, I asked
around. That's what makes this little discussion so interesting. Word is you
give honest effort for honest pay. They say you've got a real knack for finding
people and things that don't want to be found."

"That does seem to be my niche," was all I could come up with.

"So how come every time we've got some absolutely lunatic situation
like the other morning at the hotel, you always seem to be involved?"

"Cream rises?"

"Yeah, either that or the light turd floats."

In spite of my best intentions, I cold feel my anger rising.

"What is it with you guys? Is it part of your genuine police department
training to give P.I.s a hard time whenever you get the chance? Is it mandatory
or something?" He started to open his mouth, but I beat him to it.
"It's not like we're competing with one another. All I do is the shit work
you guys aren't willing to do. You gonna try to tell me that you guys were
going to spend three days looking for little Jason Greer, who's known to be in
the company of his father? No chance. Don't bullshit me. You guys would have to
find his body before you started asking questions." I'd gotten his
attention.

"Hey" - he took one hand off the wheel and pointed a meaty finger
at me - "the police department's the last line of defense around here,
pal, and we're seriously overburdened. Without us, this whole city would go
down the shitter. The scumbags would make it do decent people - " He
caught himself. "Maybe you never thought about it, asshole, but people
become real cops because they - "

I jumped in. "- want to be in a business where the customer is always
wrong."

"Cute, Waterman. More people like you helping out and - "

"You guys can use all the help you can get."

"Not from amateurs. Amateurs are a danger to themselves and others. Ask
Buddy Knox."

"Don't flatter yourself, Trask. You guys may have the latest technology
at your disposal, you may be able to tap into all the information sources, but
it doesn't help much, does it? Yeah, you can send an army of cops out into the
streets, but that doesn't help much either, does it? You know why?"

"Why's that, Waterman? Enlighten me."

"Because nobody wants to talk to cops except other cops. On the
undesirable scale, you guys run a close second to the slimeballs. That's why
you manage to resolve less than half your cases. People are goddamn near as
scared of you guys as they are of the criminals."

"So what we need are more helpful amateurs like you out there, is that
it? Is that what you've got in mind?"

I laughed at him. "What makes me an amateur and you a professional?
You're flattering yourself again, Trask. Don't kid yourself. I can dig up
information around this town a whole lot more effectively and a whole lot
quicker than you can. I live here. I was born here. This used to be just a big
town. Most everybody knew most everybody else. If I didn't go to high school
with them, then I played sports against them. If I didn't do either, I've got a
friend who did."

"You sure as hell haven't got any friends in the department."

"That's because I don't need any friends in the department."

"Tell that to Buddy Knox," he growled. "And be sure you tell
it to TPD when they get here. I'm sure they'll be most anxious - "

"fuck you, Trask. It was a routine surveillance."

We kept it up all the way back to my place. I wanted to strangle him, but he
was right. I had maybe two hours before I got unwanted visitors. They might
even be there waiting for me now. That I'd have to risk. There were things in
the apartment I needed. Detective Allen would report in and the ball would get
rolling. Two hours, at most.

Whoever was in charge down there would assign the case, and I'd be first on
the agenda. Trask slipped the Dodge to a stop in front of my building.

"Have you heard any of this, Waterman, or have I just been talking to
myself? ‘Cause you sure as hell don't look like you've been listening."

"I heard, Detective. Thanks for the ride and the dazzling
repartee."

Trask yelled something at my back as I was opening the lobby door, but I
didn't hear that either.

"Let me see if I've got this straight, Leo. The police have the
Buick."

"Right."

"It's impounded down in Tacoma."

"Right."

"Now you want to know borrow the red pickup."

"Right."

Having meticulously cut the sinsemilla bud into pieces with a pair of nail
scissors, Arnie scraped the pot off the edge of his kitchen table into a single
rolling paper without losing so much as a shred. A lick of the tongue and a
flick of the Bic later, he had a joint the size of his thumb fired up.

"interesting," he rasped while holding is breath.

"You'll have what's left of the Buick back in a week or so."

The pot came back out of his lungs with a rush. Arnie sat back in the chair.
He sucked down another massive hit. His eyelids headed south. I waited. He
exhaled again, took another toke, then snipped off the end of the joint and
dropped it in his shirt pocket.

"Kinda reminds me of the old days, Leo. You remember. People would give
your name to other people they met out on the road. Folks you'd never seen in
your life would show up on the doorstep wanting to crash for a few days. It was
like a perpetual party." He walked over and refreshed his tea.

"Heck, that's how I got the truck. Young couple from back East crashed
here for a couple of weeks. They were out of gas money. Then this other dude
who was on his way up to the Queen Charlottes showed up and they decided to
travel with him. Said I could have the truck.

"Can I borrow it?"

"Is it going to end up trashed and impounded too?"

"Probably."

"Cool." I didn't know people still said that. "Sure, why not?
I like it. We'll bury them in their own garbage. Yeah, I like it. We'll have to
scrounge the battery out of the Opel."

"How are the tags?"

"What tags? The only tags it ever had were from Iowa or someplace.
We'll use the original plates from the Buick. Tags you'll have to liberate on
your own.

"No problem," I said. Arnie knew what I meant. When we were
younger and couldn't afford to register our cars, we'd become expert at slicing
the renewal tags off other cars and gluing them to ours.

"You've got to promise me though, Leo."

"What?'

"You'll take them off a Beamer."

"I promise."

"In Bellevue," he added.

"I wasn't planning on driving that far without tags."

"But off a Beamer."

"I promise."

Forty-five minutes later, I was almost ready to go. I had my gear stowed
back in the genuine Caveman camper and the plates bolted on the truck and was
tightening up the last battery terminal when Arnie reappeared.

"Here, you'll need these." He was holding a razor scraper and a
small tube. "Careful when you go for the tags. I put in a new blade.
They're using better glue than they used to. If you're not careful, they just
disintegrate." I eyed the tube. "Super Glue," he said. "Waterproof.
That way you don't have to worry about them falling off."