Read Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) Online
Authors: M. D. Grayson
The sedan continued to accelerate and close the gap between us. When it reached a point about one hundred yards behind me, I noticed a small, unpaved road ahead. For better or worse, that would have to do. I slammed on the brakes of the Jeep, and the tires locked up on me. No ABS on this baby. I started my turn and downshifted while the Jeep was still sliding. She leaned precariously before drifting to a stop, perfectly aligned with the side road. Every once in a while, I do get lucky. I immediately punched it. The Jeep jumped forward onto the dirt road, tires spinning wildly as it blew out a shower of rocks and dirt before we got any traction. Then, it catapulted itself up the small, rocky road. Now we were talking!
I wasn’t sure if the sedan followed or not, because I never saw them after I made the turn. The road I was on turned out not to be a driveway, thank God. On the other hand, it didn’t cross the ridgeline, either. Instead, after heading uphill for a mile, the road swung north and paralleled the highway for about five miles before turning west and eventually, dumping me right back onto Highway 19 again!
Fortunately, there was no sign of the silver Ford. I hoped that they were convinced I’d cross the ridgeline and were now speeding north to intercept me.
I SLOWED TO
twenty-five as I entered Port Townsend. There was no sign of the silver Ford, but it didn’t matter anyway now. I was looking for a parking place no matter what. If they were tailing me, they could just come on up and introduce themselves, for all I cared.
The town’s commercial district is located along the waterfront on Water Street. It was built at the beginning of the twentieth century. Today, many of the historic brick buildings have been restored to like-new condition. They house an eclectic mix of trendy shops, boutiques, and specialty restaurants that attract tourists by the horde, especially in the summer. The Washington State Ferry system has a port directly on Water Street. The ferry completes a round trip to Keystone on Whidbey Island every ninety minutes or so. Each time the ferry lands, dozens of cars are dumped onto Water Street, some belonging to locals, but most to tourists. They mill about and clog things up for fifteen minutes or so, and then they either park or move on their way. Traffic on Water Street surges like the tide with ferry traffic all day long.
The heart of Water Street is just under a mile long and extends from the southwest, where I approached, to its northeastern end, where you had to turn left or else drive off into the Puget Sound. The PT Croissant bakery was located about three-fourths of the way up Water Street near the corner of Water and Taylor. The bakery was on the landward side of the street. The speed limit on pedestrian-heavy Water Street is twenty-five miles per hour, so I hoped I might have been able to scope the place out as I drove past. Unfortunately, there were too many people on the sidewalk to see inside. So I kept driving, looking for a parking spot. I drove another three blocks northeast, made a quick illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, and pulled into a parking space in front of the Jefferson County Historical Museum. I was fifteen minutes early.
Before I got out, I looked around carefully, making sure there was no tail. I wanted to see if anyone was paying an unusual amount of attention to me. No one seemed to notice or care.
Good
.
I parked on the same side of the street as PT Croissant. I wanted to approach from across the street on the seaward side so I could have a better chance to scope out the bakery from across the street before someone inside noticed me. My strategy was to blend into the crowd, so I figured I needed to look the part. I put on a Mariners’ cap I keep in the glove box. I wanted to carry a backpack, but my light nylon day pack was completely empty. It would look pretty stupid carrying a completely empty backpack. Fortunately, I remembered that I always keep a RON (Remain Over Night) kit under the seat of the Jeep—a habit from my military days. The bag contains a clean set of underwear and socks, a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a polo shirt, a razor, and some basic toiletries. Rolled up tightly, it fits into a small bag not much bigger than a shaving kit. I grabbed the RON kit and tossed it into the pack, which filled up nicely. I slipped the pack on. Now I looked like any other tourist here. I waited for a break in the traffic, jaywalked across the street, and started walking back toward the bakery.
~~~~
I read somewhere that tens of thousands of people visit Port Townsend annually, either as a destination in and of itself or as a side trip on the way to the Olympic National Park. I believe this because most of them seemed to be on the sidewalks this fine Sunday afternoon. Young, old, English-speaking and foreign-language speaking, the place was full of people shoulder to shoulder.
I had four blocks to cover, preferably in about five minutes if I wanted another five minutes or so to surveil the bakery. I needed to hurry, but there was only so much hurrying I could do without running people over. That, of course, would not be a good way to stay incognito. So I did my best to walk fast, all the while trying to make it look like I was out for a casual stroll. Just another tourist window-shopping his way down the streets of Port Townsend on a nice summer day. Pay me no mind.
As it turned out, I soon realized that I would make it with a couple minutes to spare. I stopped into a souvenir store and quickly bought a Port Townsend T-shirt with a picture of a killer whale screened on it. The shirt didn’t do too much for me, but the shopping bag helped to round out my disguise. Returning to the sidewalk, I could see the PT Croissant across the street, thirty yards ahead.
Water Street and Taylor Street crossed in a perfect X with Water parallel to the water and Taylor perpendicular to it. I entered a place called the Fitzgerald Gallery kitty corner from PT Croissant, hoping that by ducking off the main street, I’d be able to watch the bakery and perhaps catch a glimpse of Gina in the few minutes I had before I had to cross over for my meeting.
When I entered, I was immediately greeted by a slender young man in his late twenties wearing slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. The collar was unbuttoned and he wore no T-shirt. He wore brown sandals with no socks. His dirty-blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Welcome to the Fitzgerald Gallery. I’m David.”
“Hi, David,” I answered. I looked around.
Great
. I’d managed to find the only business in Port Townsend with no people inside.
“Is there something in particular you wanted to see,” he asked, “or do you just want to spend some time browsing?”
“I’m just looking,” I said.
“Feel free,” he said. “Take all the time you want. I’ll be right over here if you have any questions.”
I pretended I was looking around as I made my way to the store’s front window. I glanced at my watch—it was 2:55. From my vantage point, I could see the PT Croissant on the opposite corner. There were four tables outside on Water Street. An elderly couple occupied the first. The second held a happy group of four, laughing, talking, and enjoying the afternoon. A single man sat at the third table, and a single woman at the fourth—the end table. The woman had her head down reading a book, looking away from me. Still, I could see that she had short blonde hair. None of these people looked like Gina.
Because of the traffic, the reflections, and the shadows, I was just barely able to see through the front window inside the bakery. There were a number of people inside, but I was unable to make out any faces from my vantage point.
“I see you’re interested in our Henry Felder lithographs,” David said.
I’d been focusing across the street and hadn’t heard him approach.
“They’re nice,” I lied. “But they’re a little out of my price range.”
“I understand,” David said. “I’d be happy to check for you—we may have the same image in a less-expensive print.”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I like the real thing or nothing at all. Looks like I’ll just have to save up.”
I decided to cross Taylor so that I’d be directly across the street from the outdoor tables. Maybe I’d have a better view inside the bakery.
~~~~
I waited for the light to change, then crossed the street with the crowd. I took up a position in front of a bicycle shop directly across from the bakery. Music, what sounded like Jack Johnson, drifted out from a tavern window above the bike shop. I pretended to be looking at the newspaper stands on the sidewalk. In reality, though, I was scoping out the inside of the bakery. The front door was located in an inset doorway directly on Water Street. There was a secondary entrance on Taylor. A long display counter full of baked goods took up half the space inside. Small tables—maybe fifteen or so—filled up the balance. Three-fourths of the tables were occupied.
I reached down and grabbed a free
Homes for Sale
magazine, opened it up, and pretended to read it. Instead, I peered over the top of the magazine and began to examine each table inside, looking for Gina. She’s short with long, dark hair and dark eyes. I thought she wouldn’t be hard to miss. That’s certainly the Gina I remembered. Looking across the street into the bakery, my eye was immediately drawn to a single woman sitting with her back to me who appeared to fit the description. Dark hair. Short. My hopes began to rise. Then she turned to get something from her purse, and I got a clear look at her face. It was clearly not Gina.
I looked down, turned a page in my magazine, and then resumed my scanning. Three or four tables with two elderly women each. Three or four tables with four people each. Three or four tables with couples. One single guy. Despite my hopes, nobody looked anything like Gina.
Then, I had a long-shot thought. If she owns the store—or her family does, anyway—maybe she’d be behind the counter. There were three people working behind the counter, all busy serving customers. The first was a man. The second was a middle-aged woman. The third was a young woman with dark hair. She was maybe eighteen years old. It wasn’t Gina. Damn. So much for that bright idea.
I set the magazine down on top of the stand and took another look. There’d been no change in the people seated outside. Elderly couple, group of four, single man, and the single blonde with the book. As I was intent on studying them without being too obvious, I gradually realized that the blonde girl was studying me. Suddenly, she smiled and waved.
No one was behind me, so I knew she was waving at me. I looked hard for a second and suddenly it hit me: I’d been fooled by the short blonde hair. Now that she had set her book down and was looking up, I could see her face, and it was one I could never forget. Hello, Gina. It’s been a long time.
I’D NO SOONER
recognized Gina than I felt the unmistakable sharp jab of a handgun in the small of my back. I didn’t lift my hands. I didn’t move. I froze.
A man behind me leaned forward and with a quiet but deep, husky voice said, “I’m thinking that the lady over there’d like to talk to you. What do you think?”
I didn’t move. “The one waving?” I asked, trying to buy time.
“Yeah, the blonde. That’d be the one.”
I said nothing for a moment as I ran through the possibilities. My Krav Maga instructors taught me four or five ways to disarm an assailant who approaches from behind, depending on whether he’s on one side or another, or straight behind. The trouble is that the probability of success with any of these techniques runs from 10 percent on the low end to as high as 70 percent on the high side, depending almost completely on the skill of the guy standing behind me. Looked at the other way, it means the odds of getting shot in the back during an attempt to disarm the bad guy run from 30 percent at best to 90 percent at worst. Which, I suppose, is another way of saying that if the bad guy with a gun gets the jump on you from behind, you’re already mostly screwed, especially if he knows what he’s doing. I needed more information.
“Would you be Uncle Frankie?” I asked, without turning around.
“In the flesh,” he said. Odd, but now, I felt a little comfort knowing that the guy with a gun to my back was a Chicago hit man. At least he was Gina’s relative, if that counted for anything.
“Is that a gun in my back?”
“No, it’s my finger, dickhead,” he answered. He chuckled at his own joke, and then said, “Actually, it’s a Ruger .44 Magnum. Big fucking hole. Old-school.”
“That’ll work,” I agreed, nodding my head slowly.
Great
. Caught flat-footed by a mob enforcer. I figured my odds of getting shot during an attempt to disarm him were pretty much redlined at the wrong end of the meter—the dead end. “You know, I was just about to go over there anyway on my own. Matter of fact, she asked me here. I really don’t think you need a gun.”
“Oh,” he said. “In that case, I’m thinking I’ll just toss it into this trash can here.” I felt him remove the gun, but I still didn’t turn around. He chuckled again—a real joker, this guy.
“That’s a nice gun,” I said. “No sense tossing it. You could just give it to me.”
He laughed again. “A fucking comedian,” he said. “I like that.” Takes one to know one.
“Well, that’s something. Should I walk now?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Wait for the green, so’s you don’t get splattered. I ain’t a hundred percent certain, but I’m guessing that would annoy her. I don’t want to piss her off.”
So we waited for the light to turn green. Then we walked.
~~~~
Before just now, the last time I’d seen Gina was at Sea-Tac in December 2006. At the conclusion of our three-week romance, she dropped me off at the airport on my way to Quantico. At the time, she was twenty-two, just six months out of college. She’d cried as we said our good-byes. As I’ve thought about it over the past years, I think it’s very possible that I was probably already out of her plans, and we were feeling bad for different reasons. She probably dismissed me not long after I told her I couldn’t alter my training schedule to go on holiday with her. I messed up her Hawaiian vacation plans and, in so doing, proved that she wasn’t in control. I think this was something Gina probably could not—or would not—tolerate. So, most likely, I’d already been written out of the play by the time she dropped me off. I was standing at the airport in the rain, looking at a beautiful young woman, saying good-bye and meaning “Good-bye. I’ll see you in ninety days.” She was saying good-bye and meaning, “Good-bye, it’s been swell.” But oh, she’d looked good. Damn good.