Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) (19 page)

“She’s going to call me and let me know,” I said. “I should add that, short of having Eddie on a slab, I doubt she’ll talk to you. She’s scared shitless.”

He nodded. “That’s good enough for now. Later, though, we may need her testimony.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” I said.

“Based on the testimony from Kara,” Dwayne said, “we’ll probably have sufficient probable cause for an arrest warrant and a search warrant if we need it. At the very least, we’ve got him on assault against Kara.”

“We have to be careful that we keep Kara on board,” I said. “If you asked her to testify against Eddie Salazar today on the assault beef, I’m pretty sure she’d tell you to take a hike. She’s too afraid of him coming after her when he gets free. And I can’t say I blame her.”

“We’re not there yet anyway, people,” Richard said. “Whatever we decide to do, we need to find Mr. Salazar. Then, unless he happens to be holding Gina Fiore at gunpoint in public, we’ll most likely want to watch him for a while and see what we’ve got. If he has her, we need to find out where. If he’s killed her, we need to study his habits. If he’s still looking for her, maybe he’ll lead us to her and we can rescue her if need be. Better to know where he is and keep him in our sites, rather than to go off half-cocked, blow our case, scare the hell out of him, and watch him disappear into the weeds. Trust me, I’ve made that mistake a few times.”

The room was quiet for a few seconds, then Dwayne said, “Once again, I agree with Richard. Tell you what, Danny, why don’t you write up your notes and send them to me. Also, give me possible locations for Eddie’s residence. If you locate him, call it in and we’ll figure out the best way for surveillance. Meanwhile, Gus will run the names through his contacts. We won’t be bothering Ms. Giordano at the present time. Does this make sense to everyone?”

Everyone agreed, and we ended the meeting.

“Good call,” I said to Richard. He smiled and nodded. He gestured with his head to where Toni had been sitting—she’d gotten up immediately after the meeting and left. “Better smooth that out,” he said.

I nodded.
Great.

~~~~

After the meeting cleared out, I tidied up the conference room and switched off the lights. I checked for messages on the phone system. Right before I started doing something really productive like running around and filling the paper clip dispensers, I finally admitted to myself that I was stalling. I needed to clear the air with Toni. So I walked down the hall to her office and poked my head in. She was typing something on the computer. “Got a minute?” I asked.

“I do,” she answered without looking up. “I’m typing up a report of our activities yesterday for Dwayne.”

“Good,” I said. “Thanks.” It was silent for a few seconds except for the clacking of her keyboard. Finally, I said, “Toni—are we okay?”

She stopped and turned to look at me, and then nodded. “We are,” she said. “I’m sorry for being an asshole in the conference room. I acted like a jerk.”

“I hope you’re not pissed at me,” I said.

“I’m not,” she looked away. “You know I have patience issues. Sometimes it’s a little hard for me to be methodical when the answers seem so clear in my mind. Especially when people I know are getting hurt because of someone else’s actions.”

I smiled. “People like me, you mean?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s a problem, I admit it, and I’ll work on it so it doesn’t pop up again.” She sounded resolute.

“I’m touched that you care that much.”

“I need the job,” she said, dismissively. “I can’t have you getting whacked.” Then she smiled.

I laughed. “Well, there’s that. Obviously, you still think Gina’s alive. Eddie Salazar doesn’t bother you?”

“Personally, no. As a threat to Gina, no. I believe she’s most likely way ahead of him. To us, he’s a suspect. To Kara, he’s a psycho-threat. To Gina, though, I think he’s a pawn. There’s no way a smart person like Gina hooks up with a thug like Eddie Salazar unless she’s using him for something. To her, he’s nothing more than a useful idiot.”

“She couldn’t be authentically attracted to him? You know—a good girl falls for the outlaw type?”

“Puh-leeze,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“And the odds of her miscalculating and pushing him too far?”

She shook her head. “For her? Slim,” she said. “Frankly, I’m interested to see how she wraps him up. She has to know the guy’s a friggin’ loose cannon.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“But Danny,” she added, “I really am sorry I got bitchy. I’ll try to be better. I don’t mean to undermine you in front of the others.”

I smiled. “No apology needed,” I said. “My ego can handle different opinions. I just want to make sure we’re okay. That’s important to me.”

She smiled.

I smiled back. “And I want you to know something,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“You think Gina’s smart, right?”

“Everyone says so.”

“Well, I know her, and you’re right. But when it comes to smarts, Gina Fiore has nothing on you.”

She smiled. “Flattery becomes you, Logan. I like it. Even if you do have a patch on your head.”

Chapter 11

JUST AFTER LUNCH,
Kenny and Doc completed their research into cemeteries in Kent. There were three. They used maps and Google Earth and found that two of the three were in commercial/industrial neighborhoods just off Highway 167—probably not the most desirable residential areas. Therefore, since Eddie Salazar supposedly lived in a residential area across from a cemetery, they decided that the most likely possibility was the third cemetery—the Hillcrest Burial Park, just east of the Green River. The maps showed a small residential neighborhood just north of the cemetery.

It wasn’t the strongest bit of detective work I’ve ever acted on, but I figured we didn’t have anything to lose by taking a cruise down to Kent that afternoon and driving through the neighborhood. Who knew? Maybe we’d get lucky and turn something up, maybe even spot the car. Eddie didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who always thought things through. If he didn’t suspect that we might be looking for him, maybe he’d have no reason to hide.

“Let’s go in my car,” Toni said. “Those guys might remember your stealth-Jeep.” She looked at the Jeepster with disdain. Then she looked at me and shook her head. She said, “You really need to get a more nondescript vehicle for this kind of work, boss.”

My Jeep is dark red—I think it’s called candy-apple red—and I’ve raised it six inches to accommodate my twenty-inch Rockstar wheels and thirty-five-inch tires. I installed a big winch on the front and another in the back. Either could probably pull me straight up one of those big cedar trees in the Hoh River valley. I enjoy driving around the back roads of the Olympic Peninsula, but I don’t enjoy getting stuck while I’m out there—help can be a long time coming. But I had to admit that in this context, Toni was right. The Jeepster does tend to stand out in a crowd. Of course, generally our suspects aren’t looking for us at the same time we’re looking for them, so it’s not a problem. Now, though?

“Yeah, you may have a point, but does that mean I have to descend all the way down to a recycled beer can like this?” I asked, gesturing at Toni’s silver Toyota Camry.

“Be nice,” she said. “Besides, I insist. Hold your nose and cover your eyes if you must, you crybaby. But you’ve got to admit, no one ever notices a silver Toyota.”

This was true. Probably because every other car on the road up here is either a green Subaru station wagon covered in “Save Tibet” stickers, or it’s a silver Toyota. Honestly, is silver the only color Toyota has?

“Let’s go,” I said, reaching for the door. At least we weren’t likely to get ID’d and shot at.

Toni drove. We went south on I-5 to where it met I-405. We took the Highway 167 exit south. We ended up in Kent about forty minutes after we left the office.

~~~~

Whenever I drive down to Kent, the law-enforcement guy in me can’t help thinking of the tragic events of the past that took place in that area. In July 1982, a city worker discovered the body of a young woman in the brush along the banks of the Green River, a picturesque river that meanders peacefully through Kent, maybe fifteen miles southeast of Seattle. Over the next two months, five more bodies turned up in or near the river. The press soon labeled the person responsible for these crimes the “Green River Killer”—an apt name for the homicidal maniac responsible for the eighteen-year reign of terror that was to follow. A steady stream of victims was discovered in the ensuing years. Some of the bodies were found in a posed position. In some cases, it was clear that the killer had returned to the scene and had sex with the dead body. When Gary Leon Ridgway was finally arrested in 2001, he admitted that he’d killed seventy-one young women over the years. Maybe more because, as he put it, he killed so many that he lost track. In a later statement, when asked, Ridgway said that murdering young women was his career. Today, there are at least eighty unsolved cold-case murders of young women between Portland and Vancouver. Ridgway remains a prime suspect in most of them.

In order to get information from this psycho that would lead to closure in dozens of missing person cold cases, prosecutors made a plea bargain deal with Ridgway. He pled guilty to murdering forty-eight women in exchange for forty-eight life sentences without the possibility of parole plus one more life sentence plus ten years for tampering with the evidence. I’m not sure exactly how many years this adds up to, but I know it’s a long damn time. For Ridgway, who now sits in Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, it’s forever. Personally, I hope the scumbag rots. After which I hope he gets to be the main course at the big wienie roast in hell. He deserves no better.

Needless to say, I always get an odd feeling driving into Kent near the Green River. The place has ghosts and they’re calling out. I hear them. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. As I contemplated the place’s past, Toni turned off the arterial into a housing subdivision situated just north of the Hillcrest Burial Park. The cemetery is located just 250 yards northeast of a bend in the Green River.
Weird.

~~~~

“What’s our plan?” Toni asked. “Just drive up and down the streets looking for a silver Mercedes parked in one of the driveways?”

I shrugged. “Bit of a long shot, I admit. But you never know.” I studied the map Kenny had printed for us. “It’s a small subdivision, only about fifteen streets or so. Shouldn’t take more than an hour tops to drive it. Also, Kenny knows how to get into the Department of Licensing database. He’s pulling a list of late-model silver Mercedes and cross-referencing plate numbers to this immediate area. He might turn up something that could be useful.”

We spent the next hour slowly cruising the neighborhood—up one street then down the next—looking for anything that might provide a clue. The houses looked to be around thirty years old and were situated on lots that ranged from one-quarter to one-half acre each. For the most part, they were well kept. It looked like a pretty decent area. But we didn’t see a silver Mercedes.

Toni pulled over next to a forested area at the north end of the subdivision. “How about plan B,” she said. “Instead of looking for a single silver Mercedes, maybe we shouldn’t assume that he lives alone. Maybe he has a group of guys with him? Do you remember seeing any groups of guys outside?”

“There were a few,” I agreed. “We could look for houses with a cluster of cars.”

“Or with a cluster of people,” she said.

“True. We just need to remember to be a little careful. Remember, Salazar said he wanted to get to know you, you being a hot babe and all.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Toni said, smiling at me.

“Drive.”

We started over. We looked for groups of men. We looked for cars that might belong to guys associated with a badassed Mexican gangster. Not that we knew what kind of cars guys associated with a Mexican gangster drove. We just looked for any clusters of cars or clusters of people.

Some of the houses were front-loaded, that is, the driveway is right off the street. Others were alley-loaded. In order to really determine how many cars were at each house, we had to drive up and down each street looking for cars parked in front, and then up and down the alleys in the back, looking for cars parked in back. We decided not to count cars that looked like junkers or restoration projects—it had to be a real automobile that looked capable of actually being driven. We also set a four-car minimum target, assuming that any self-respecting gangster-type safe house would have at least four automobiles. Weak reasoning, admittedly, but you have to start somewhere.

~~~~

After searching for an hour, we ended up with a list of eight houses that each had four or more working-condition cars parked there. Four of the eight had young Mexican men outside, mostly sitting around talking or, in one case, working on the cars. One of these homes was located directly across the street from the cemetery.

We drove back to a convenience store near the entrance to the subdivision and pulled off to consider our next move.

“What now?” Toni said. “Got a plan C? Just start walking up to the front doors and asking if Eddie can come out and play?”

I laughed. “That might not be the smartest thing we’ve ever done,” I answered.

“Or the healthiest,” Toni said.

“I could call Dwayne—” I started to say, but then I noticed a car at the gas island. Or rather, I noticed the guy putting gas in the car at the gas island.

“Son of a bitch!” I said urgently but quietly, instinctively slouching down in the seat. “Look!” I pointed to the gas island. One hundred feet away, Mr. Short and Round calmly filled up his dark blue Honda. He had a big bandage across his nose.

Toni looked and immediately lowered her visor. “Good thing I drove,” she said.

“True. Fancy meeting him here,” I said.

“We should tail him and see where he leads us.”

“Right. Maybe he and Eddie live at the same place. If so, he can lead us right there,” I said.