Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (29 page)

I started to answer, but he cut me off. "Never mind, don't answer
that."

He paced about the little room, finally coming to rest at the far end of the
table. "Sit here," he said. I walked over and deposited myself in the
chair. Jed slid one cheek up on the table and leaned in close.

"Listen, Leo, just because they're incompetent doesn't mean that they
can't eventually stumble upon the proper paperwork. Even a blind pig will get
an acorn once in a while, if you catch my drift."

He glanced derisively over his shoulder.

"The only way to get these guys out of your hair is to at least
partially cooperate, so here's what we're going to do. I'm gonna invite the
Three Stooges back in here. Out of the goodness of our hearts, we're going to
help them out. I'm going to stand right behind you. I'll hold on to the chair
like this." He bounced off the table and walked around to my back,
slipping his fingers between my back and the chair. "If they ask you
anything you don't want to answer, just lean back against my fingers, and for
Chrissake be subtle. Don't have a grand mal or anything. You got it?" I
said I did.

"Tell me about it. Just the facts,  none of your suppositions.
Nothing you've found out. Just what you were hired to do," he said.

I did. He listened intently, stopping me several times at junctures where I
was rolling over into areas he didn't want to know about.

"You're going to have to name your client, you know."

"I know."

    "Is Mr. Flood aware of this?"

"Yes."

"Really?" He rubbed his chin. "Amazing. We can let them take
it up with the ubiquitous Mr. Flood, then." He hesitated. "You're
sure he's willing, now? Rumor has it that sending him a surprise package of
cops would not be the recommended procedure for living a long and fruitful
existence."

"What I'm sure of is that they're going to have a hell of a time
getting anywhere near Tim. He's had lots of practice."

"That's their problem. Let's go for it."

They filed back in. Van Pelt, using prescribed interrogation technique,
dragged a chair from the far end of the table, getting as close to me as he
could. The two detectives held up the far wall. Van Pelt started.

"Is it correct that Mr. Knox was in your employ at the time of his
untimely death?"

"Yes," I said. The D.A. eyed Jed warily, as if expecting an anvil
to fall from the ceiling. Relieved, he continued.

"Do you have any knowledge whatsoever as to the identities of the
perpetrators of this act?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

From the other side of the room, Trask made a noise like he was choking on a
fishbone. Van Pelt carried on.

"What specifically was Mr. Knox doing for you?"

"Surveillance."

"Of what?"

"A building."

"What building?"

I gave him the address. Trask and Allen already had it. Van Pelt wrote it
down anyway.

"Why did you have Mr. Knox watching the building?"

I unobtrusively leaned back in the chair. Jed jumped in.

"Any answer to that question would constitute not only bad faith
regarding Mr. Waterman's duty to his client, but, more to the point, would be
merely hearsay. Mr. Waterman has only his client's word as to the particulars
of the circumstances."

I moved off his fingers. Van Pelt leaped.

"He has no privilege. He's not an attorney. As I'm sure you're aware,
Mr. James - " Jed poleaxed him.

"If you want the particulars of Mr. Waterman's employment, take it up
with the employer. As I'm sure you know, Mr. Van Pelt, you have a legal
obligation to pursue all primary sources of information first and not to rely
on hastily harvested hearsay." I winced.

"He's - " Van Pelt stammered, looking back at the two detectives.
"Mr. Waterman is prepared to name his client?"

"Of course."

"Well," said Van Pelt.

"I was working for Tim Flood." I recited the address. Nary a soul
bothered to write it down.

"Doing what?" Allen asked. Trask looked confused.

"Ask Mr. Flood," Jed shot back. "He's the primary source for
this information. Do your job. Stop asking us to do it for you."

Allen started to speak, but clamped down.

They kept at it for over an hour, without getting anything else. Halfway
through, obviously disgusted by Van Pelt's pitiful lack of progress, Trask
strode the length of the room and slid a paper onto the table in front of me.

Jed snatched it up. "What's this?" he asked without curiosity.

"An arson report," Trask snapped.

"Snohomish County is a tad out of your jurisdiction, isn't it, Detective?
You seem to be having enough trouble handling even your own meager
responsibilities." Trask ignored the rip.

"Snohomish County arson's got a cabin burned to the ground, and what do
you suppose they find in the vicinity?" he didn't wait for an answer.
"A car antenna. From a Fiat. Not your most common car."

"So?" Jed inquired.

"So your public-spirited client here drives a Fiat."

Jed waited for me to lean back. When I didn't, he continued, rapid-fire.

"Have you, in some way, connected these pastoral pyrotechnics with the
death of Mr. Knox? Have you forensically linked this alleged antenna to Mr.
Waterman's car? Have you asked Mr. Waterman if you could examine his car? Have
you accomplished anything other than this pathetic fishing expedition?

Trask lost his temper. "We tagged Mr. Waterman's goddamn car, but the
fucking thing disappeared." Jed looked down at me quizzically.

"I'm having it serviced," I said.

"We're the ones getting serviced around here," Trask thundered.

"How many Fiats do you suppose there are in the state?" Jed asked.

"Screw you," said Trask.

"No need for that type of unprofessional behavior, Detective." Jed
in his most annoyingly calm tone. "I'm sure a review board, especially in
light of our cooperation, would find your demeanor - "

Van Pelt wheedled things into a calm. He tried, I'll give him that, but the
poor guy was a lion tamer in a pork-chop suit. Jed ate him for lunch.

We were back on the street at one-thirty.

"You owe me one," he said as the revolving door deposited me on
the sidewalk. "Get this cleaned up, co I can get you back to doing
something socially useful."

"Right now a shave and a shower sound socially useful."

He looked me up and down. "In this case, I agree." He got serious
for a moment. "All we accomplished here today, Leo, was to get you a
little breathing room. As soon as they find they can't get to Tim Flood,
they're going to circle back to you."

"A couple of days is all I need. If I don't have it by then, I'm not
going to. By the way - "

"What?"

"Hastily harvested hearsay? Spare me."

"I just couldn't get on a roll this morning." A gleam appeared in
his eye. I knew what was coming. "I was up all night worrying about this
case you won't handle for me."

He started off. I yelled after him.

"Don't lose sleep over it, Jed. Only the mediocre are at their best all
the time."

Between the carefully combed rows of George's white hair, his scalp was
bright red. "You callin' me a liar?"

"No, George, I'm not calling you a liar. I'm just - "

"I'm telling you, Leo, these little jerks are planning to burn down a
fucking boat shed."

"No way," I said.

"Earlene seen ‘em. Sounded weird to me too, so I followed up like you
told me. I went down there last night myself. She's right. That's where they been
going. No goddamn doubt about it."

"Nobody'd go to this much trouble to burn down a plywood boat shed. It
just doesn't make sense.

"I'll show ya, goddammit," insisted George.

"They got it stuffed full of gas cans," Earlene said. "Been
bringin ‘em in one at a time every night for a week. One of ‘em just strolls up
the street like his car run out. Natural as can be. Ask Mary. She come with
me." Mary nodded. "She was with me when the cops chased us off."

"The cops?"

"Said my big ass had better find some other place to hang out. Told me
to get back downtown where I belonged. Said if he saw me down here Wednesday
night, I was going to do county time. The bastards," she added as an
afterthought.

"Why Wednesday night?" I asked. They gave a communal shrug.

I should have been more specific with George. When I told him to show up at
four, I'd meant him and maybe Harold and Ralph. He'd brought everybody. My
apartment looked like the circus was in town.

Thirteen damp, disreputable-looking characters were scattered around my
apartment, perched on every available surface, fingering anything that wasn't
nailed down and a few things that were. A half dozen of them were sacking my
kitchen at this very moment. I made a mental note to take inventory after they
left.

"You know what's going on, Leo?" asked Harold.

"Not the foggiest. Maybe - "

My explanation was interrupted by Nearly Normal Norman, who came shambling
out from the kitchen. His massive, knobby hand was holding a blue Tupperware
container. The cover was in his other hand. My stomach rolled. To the best of
my recollection, whatever was in that container had been there for well over a
year. Norman held it in front of my face.

"What's this?" he demanded. I held my breath and peeked inside.

Whatever it had been, it wasn't anymore. A metamorphosis had taken place. A
forest of purple and green cilia sprouted from the original pile, lending a
soft, furlike texture to the substance. It looked like it was about to moult. I
grunted and waved it away, unwilling to expend any of my precious air.

Norman straightened up, stuck his rubicund nose nearly into the contents,
and inhaled deeply. "A bit piquant," he pronounced, heading back
toward the kitchen.

"For God's sake don't eat any of that," I hollered after him.

"Why? What could happen?" asked Ralph. A mistake.

Norman's head reappeared from around the corner.

"What could happen?" he bellowed, striding into the center of the
room, fixing everyone with his maniacal stare. "I'll tell you what could
happen. Two days from now, I could be down on the Square when suddenly my
tongue could swell up to the size of a snowshoe. Then, with my luck, I'd get it
caught in the zipper of my jacket. My eyes would bug out of my head and hang
down, you know, like on springs." He gazed about.

Satisfied he had everyone's undivided attention, Norman began to augment his
gruesome recitation with a robust pantomime, clutching his throat and
staggering bug-eyed about the room. "I'd be flopping around on the
sidewalk like a beached tuna, puking my ethereal fluids all over my
shoes," he rasped. "Then - then - "

He gave it a pregnant pause. "The whitecoats would come and take me.
They'd finally have their way with old Norman. They'd use me for their accursed
laboratory experiments. I'd end up on a cold steel table, with my guts pinned
all over - "

George gently interrupted. "Never mind, Norman," he said
soothingly. "That's a fear we all have to live with."

Norman, seemingly appeased, disappeared back into the kitchen for further
research. George turned to me.

"Norman's kinda running' his own movie," he explained.

Even though the Mexican lunch I'd treated myself to on my way home was now
moving around alarmingly, my brain had been slapped into consciousness by
something that Norman had said. I was talking to myself out loud. "The
boat shed sits on Ship Canal, right?"

"Good, Leo," giggled Earlene. "Good thing he's a detective,
huh fellas. Not much gets by old Leo. Yeah, Leo, boats work better if they got
water."

They yukked it up. I let them have their fun.

Things had been pretty tense ever since George had tried to tell me that
Save the Earth was planning a terrorist campaign on a boat shed. The relief was
welcome. It gave me time to regroup my thoughts.

"What's on the road side of the shed?" I asked.

They had to think about it. Finally, George said, "A construction
site."

"That's right," remembered Earlene, "Some university
building."

"they was putting' carpets in all day yesterday," said Mary.
"Me and Earlene watched ‘em from the bridge, didn't we?" It was
Earlene's turn to agree.

"Interesting," I said, reaching for the phone.

I called Duvall. She answered before the end of the first ring.

"Pathology."

"Rebecca, it's Leo."

"Be still my heart."

"Are you still on the University Medical School faculty?" School
you've got in mind, this is going to take significant alterations of your
school transcripts. I'd recommend sanitation work as a more realistic
choice."

"Are you?" It came out harder than I'd intended.

"A little testy today, aren't we?"

"Sorry," I said.

"No and yes."

"No and yes what?" I tried to keep my voice modulated.

"No, you're not actually sorry, and yes, I'm still a faculty
member."

"You remember that animal research lab that somebody torched?"

"How could you forget? I'd like to get my hands on whoever - "

"What are they doing to replace it?"

"Not doing - done. It's opening Wednesday night. Big dedication
ceremony. A ribbon cutting, all of that." She misread my silence.
"Don't worry. I weaseled out. I figured you'd be under lock and key by
then. You won't have to put on a suit and take me."

"Okay, well - " Something in my hesitancy put her on alert.

"Why?" she asked. "Is there something - Leo, if you know
anything about who - "

I broke the connection, leaving the phone off the hook. Rebecca wasn't
inclined to let questions hang. She'd be calling right back.

I was so immersed in thought that it was a full minute before I realized
that there were a dozen pairs of eyes boring holes in me. Even the scavengers
in the kitchen had stopped their marauding long enough to tune in.