Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (32 page)

Something wouldn't let me. Probably the memory of the smell. Involuntarily,
as I stood in front of the house, my circuits had conjured up the stifling heat
and the decaying smell of Tim's solarium. Disgusted with myself, I wondered
back down the street.

As I approached the camper from the rear, I could hear the murmurings of
conversation from within. Separate voices.

Shivering now, I strolled around some more, once again wondering about the
heating bills in this august old neighborhood. Fifty minutes passed as I
wandered frozen about the darkened streets.

The camper door opened. Kennedy got out. She closed the door.

"Take us back to my car," she said. "Caroline's going to
spend the night with me."

"What then?"

"We'll see."

"You sure?"

"You didn't leave her many other options."

"You better keep both eyes on her. She's - "

"A very mixed-up, very disconnected kid," she finished for me.
"I'll make some calls in the morning."

"She'll probably be gone by morning."

"Where's she going to go, Waterman? She's not even wearing a
jacket."

I started for the camper. She stopped me.

"You just drive. Right now, she doesn't need any more of your
ham-handed moralizing."

Before I could argue, Kennedy climbed back inside with Caroline and locked
the door.

The Lord divides up the good stuff and parcels it out. Charles Hayden's
secretary was pretty, but she wasn't quick.

"Mr. Hayden's in conference at the moment. If you'd like to wait -
"

I kept right on walking. She'd told me all I needed to know.

"Just a minute, sir. You can't -  Sir. Sir."

She was still trying to disconnect herself from her headset when I hit the
door. she must have meant conference call.

Hayden had the phone to his ear and was facing away from the door, his feet
on the windowsill, gazing comfortably out over the city. He swiveled his chair
angrily, his face still registering bemused tolerance when it fell into his
lap.

"How's the Toxic Avenger this morning?" I asked.

The secretary was babbling apologies behind me.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Hayden. I told this gentleman" -  her
inflection suggested this last word might not be altogether accurate -
"that you were - "

"It's all right, Nancy."

He spoke into the receiver. "I'll have to call you back." He hung
up.

"Never mind, Nancy," he said to the girl.

She stood dumbfounded. He shooed her off, waving the backs of his hands at
her. I could feel her gaze on the back of my neck as she reluctantly
sidestepped out of the room. He watched her go.

"What are you doing here? We had a deal. If you think - "

"I lied." Now it was Hayden's turn to be dumbfounded. I helped out.
"Quite a splash in the media the other day. Nice suit. Understated, but
elegant. Looked good on the tube. I especially liked the part about the months
of dogged investigative work paying off for your agency. A nice touch. You
could move up a few floors with this one, Charlie."

I pulled the nearest chair over to the side of the desk and sat in close,
grinning at him. "Daniel sends his regards."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to meet a genuine American hero, that's
all."

"I don't have any money. Wendy bled me dry. If you want  money -
"

"I don't want your money." I waited for him to ask me what it was
I did want. He was either unwilling or unable to oblige.

"I want some information." I gestured expansively out over his
desk. "I'm willing to bet that what I want to know is somewhere here in
your tidy little desk. You know what they say about tidy desks, don't
you?"

"What do you want?"

"You're starting to repeat yourself, Charlie. Keep that up and you'll
have me thinking that you're not glad to see me."

He sat and stared at me. I decided to give him a break.

"How's the investigation progressing?" I asked.

"Slowly."

"Any leads?"

"It's only been a couple of days."

"In an investigation, three days is an eternity. Come on, Hayden. By
now, even a government employee must have come up with something."

A wave of color moved up his face. He rose to the bait.

"Take a look at this." He slid a piece of paper across the desk.

It was a bank statement. Everett branch, First Interstate. Howard Short.
Present balance, one hundred eighty-one thousand and change.

"The tribe was paying him forty-two thou," he said.

"Frugal fella."

"That's what we thought," Hayden said smugly. "We're checking
back on him now."

"What about a list of possible PCB recyclers?"

"Do you have any idea how many users of PCBs there are? It could -
"

"Not users. Recyclers, remember. I was there. Too much for users. Has
to be a recycler. Let me see a list of local recyclers."

He started to protest, had a spasm of lucidity, and reached up into his in-basket.
He dropped a blue-and-white computer printout onto the desk in front of me and
glared at me over laced fingers as I worked my way down the columns of company
names and addresses.

The list was statewide, nearly a hundred entries. Ecology was big business.
I moved back to the first few listings. The third one down read Rainier
Recycling, 400 Second Avenue, Seattle, Washington.

"What's this?" I asked, turning the printout so he could read
under my finger.

"Rainier Recycling. They do mostly plastic for - "

"It's downtown on Second Avenue. Yuppies. Suit City. The only thing
they're recycling in that neighborhood is cappuccino. What's the deal?"

"That's just the office address."

"Where's the recycling facility?"

"That's in the Inspection Guide."

"Where's the Inspection Guide?"

He exhaled noisily again, turned, liberated a beige hard-bound book from a
bookcase beneath the window, and plopped it down in front of me.

Grabbing the printout and the Inspection Guide, I stood up.

"Thanks," I said. "Keep up the good work." I started for
the door.

"Hey," he whined. "I need those."

"Fill out a requisition form, " I said over my shoulder.

I gave Nancy my most dazzling smile as I strode past her desk. Her lovely
jawline was spoiled by knots the size of gold balls. I kept smiling.

Two hours and three cups of coffee later I had it narrowed down to four
possibles. Four chemical recyclers who had offices within a ten-block radius of
Bobby Warren's collection of parking stubs and a recycling facility in Tacoma.
Baker Commodities, American Recycling, and Mobius Reclamation in Tacoma and
Northwest Handlers in Fife all fit the bill.

Four was better than a hundred, but it was still too many. From what I
remembered of the geography of that area, the possibles were widely scattered.
I needed to narrow it down. As much as the thought pained me, I needed to talk
to Caroline Nobel.

I left the gloom of the coffee shop and squinted my way over to a phone
booth. I called Kennedy. Her voice was husky.

"How's the girl?" I asked.

"She's sleeping. We talked most of the night."

"I need to have a few words with her."

"That wouldn't be a good idea."

"Why not? It's important."

"She has enough unresolved issues in her life right now without you
adding any more. I'll have to insist - "

"I think I can resolve at least anything for quite a while.

"The death of this young man has been quite a trauma for her."

"I figured he was just so much grist for the mill," I said.

"Perhaps you should just take my word for it," she said coldly.
"I've already shared more with you than I should have."

"So, how about it?"

"Do you really think you can bring this matter to a successful
resolution for her? Give her some sense of closure on the matter? She doesn't
need any more trauma."

"I do."

She reluctantly recited the address.

I would have bet it wasn't possible. I would have been wrong. Caroline Nobel
looked terrible. Beneath each blue eye hung an ash-colored bag. Several scrapes
ran down her right cheek, probably from when she'd jumped through the hedge.
Her other cheek was creased with blanket marks. In a voluminous flannel
nightgown, she looked young and vulnerable.

She was sitting in a white wingback chair, curled up on her own feet.
Kennedy sat protectively on the arm of the chair.

"You know who killed Bobby?" Caroline asked distractedly.

"I'm close. I need your help."

When I didn't get a response, I continued.

"I need to know exactly where you lost the truck you were
following."

"I told you. Right at the railroad tracks."

"What was the cross street?"

"I don't know. That was the first time I'd ever been down there."

Dead end. I was busy calculating the risks involved in carrying out a
B&E on four separate chemical companies when Caroline said the magic words.

"I could show you," she said in a small voice.

If Saasha Kennedy had shaken her head any more violently, she'd have ended
up in a neck brace. Caroline gazed beseechingly up at her.

"Please. I need to. If it wasn't for me Bobby would - "

They went at it, low-key tooth and nail, until Kennedy finally relented.
Caroline may have been beaten, but her spirit wasn't broken yet. It was a good
sign.

Kennedy found her some clothes and then returned to the living room while
the girl got dressed. She was angry.

"You better take care of her, Waterman."

"I will."

"She just shows you the street and then you bring her back here. I mean
it. Two hours from right now, I call the police."

"Scout's honor." I held up two fingers.

"Stuff ‘em," she replied.

Caroline appeared wearing an oversize pair of jeans and a green cowl-neck
sweater. "I'm ready," she said. Kennedy forced a smile. I hustled
Caroline out the door.

It was a quiet ride. She never said a word until we passed through Federal
Way. Then suddenly, as if we'd been conversing all along, she said. "Bobby
was very special to me." I stared straight ahead. Whatever the response
was supposed to be was lost on me.

"I know what you think of me. You're probably right, but that doesn't
mean I didn't love Bobby. He was special."

"I think you're a hell of a kid," I said.

"You think I'm a pain in the ass."

"That too."

"See."

"Hey, kid. Nobody except maybe Mother Teresa is all good or all bad,
and I've got my doubts about her. You're got your finer points. You just need
to get a little more mileage out of them."

"What points?"

I thought about it as we wheeled down the hill and into Fife.

"You know, one of the guys that works for me, his name is George Paris,
he thought that little trick we pulled on you last night would never work. You
know why?"

"Why?"

"Because he said that people didn't give enough of a shit about one
another anymore to come running to the rescue at a time like that. He said the
average person would just refuse to get involved, that they would just keep on
walking. And you know what?"

"What?"

"He was right. Most people don't give a shit," I said. "But
you did."

"Maybe I'm just stupid."

"No," I said. "You just care."

"You're telling me that caring is what got me into this mess I'm
in."

"No. Being disconnected got you into this mess. That's a word Ms.
Kennedy used the other night. It's a good word for you. I've been thinking
about it. You're not connected to anything."

"I don't understand."

"Let me put it this way. You've seen some of the people who work for
me, right? Who could be more disconnected than them? Society wants no part of
them. Half of them live outdoors. Their families, if they've got families, gave
up on them years ago. What have they got?"

No answer.

"They've got each other," I said. "It sounds corny, but it's
true. Even if it's only whiskey, at least they share with each other. They look
out for each other. They know who's in detox, who's in the hospital, who's in
jail. They keep track of each other. They're connected."

Mercifully, my lecture was interrupted.

"This is the exit," she said. Same exit I'd taken with Trask.

I moved over in the right-hand lane and eased the camper around the arc to
the traffic light. The usual collection of freeway exit gas stations,
minimarts, and truck stops lit the intersection as far as the eye could see to
the left and right.

"Which way?"

"Straight. What are you connected to?"

"Seattle, I guess. The place. The people. I've lived here all my life.
I walk down the street and see people I went to grammar school with. I can
drive up to Queen Anne and drive by my parents' house. I‘ve got uncles and
aunts and cousins scattered all over the place around here."

"There, up ahead. There's the tracks."

I pulled over onto the right shoulder, the truck's tires smashing the thin
layers of ice that had formed in the potholes. A double line of tracks humped
the road and bisected the street. No automatic guard barriers.

"So you followed the truck up until right here. Then what?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" She was tiring.

"Tell me again," I said as gently as I could.

She wiped the hair from her face. "All right. The truck stopped before
the tracks like they always do."

"Where were you?"

"Back there. That little turnout behind us."

I looked into the big mirror on her side of the truck. Fifty yards back a
similar turnout, its glazed potholes intact, held a newspaper collection gin.

"I was trying not to be, you know, too obvious."

"Then what?"

"I started to pull out to follow, the truck when this old bum in a
station wagon cut me off. I couldn't believe it. The guy could barely see over
the wheel. The thing was smoking so bad I couldn't even see the truck
anymore."