Blue Molly (Danny Logan Mystery #5) (4 page)

“You okay?” she whispered in my ear.

I nodded. “I’m good.” I lowered my voice and said, “I love you.”

She nodded and also whispered, “Me, too.”

“Thanks for springing us.”

I felt her shrug as I held her. “Thank David. I just made the call.”

A second later, I let her go and turned to David. “Thanks, David.”

Silver-haired, silver-tongued David O’Farrell, one of Seattle’s most well-known and well-respected defense attorneys, smiled. “My pleasure, young man. In truth, I was starting to worry about you. I wondered if you’d struck it rich and decided to retire.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s it.” Then, “Why would you think that?”

“Because you haven’t been in any trouble lately. I was even starting to feel guilty about keeping your monthly retainer.” I’m lucky in that I did David a favor once, and he reciprocated by allowing Logan PI to hire him on a retainer basis when he otherwise was not accepting new clients. David’s services are in extremely high demand in our area, and his willingness to drop everything and come running when we got in trouble was something we didn’t take lightly. And he was also right that we’d been clean for six months or so. But he’s still a lawyer, and I come from a long line of lawyers. I knew he was damn sure lying about feeling guilty about the retainer.

I laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to suffer feelings of guilt.”

He chuckled and shrugged. “Well, not all the time.”

“Good. How’d you get us out, anyway?”

“When your lovely partner called, I started doing some checking. I requested and was e-mailed a copy of the police report, which I immediately found to be a little suspicious—it didn’t describe the actions of the person I’ve come to know. So I spoke with the proprietor of the saloon, where I uncovered the fact that the only victims in this incident were, in fact, the Lyons and that you and Doc simply went to their aid when they were accosted by a group of men. Then, I had the saloon owner explain all of the above to the assistant DA, a talented young woman whom I know quite well. Based on that and also on your good record with the police department, she agreed that there was no case against you and, in fact, that there was no reason you should have been arrested in the first place. Rather than prolong the process unnecessarily, she felt that justice would be best served by your expedient release.” He shrugged. “Then she made it happen. Sorry it took so long.”

“Well, great work. And thank you again. We appreciate it.”

“As do we,” Mike Lyon added as he stepped over and introduced himself. He reached over and shook David’s hand. “My wife and I are very grateful. We’d be happy to pay for our portion of your services.”

David gave a little nod. “Thank you—I appreciate it. But I assure you that will be quite unnecessary.” He put his arm on my shoulder. “I have an arrangement with our young friend here. And, in this case, since there was no way to procure his release in this matter without first showing that you yourselves were nothing more than innocent victims and most certainly not the perpetrators, your release comes as something of a bonus—what you might call a ‘two-for-one’ special. I’m sure Mr. Logan will be more than happy to cover all the charges.”

I smiled and nodded, happy just to be out.

We walked together to the parking lot where David said his good-byes and left, I think in a Bentley, paid for in some small measure by Logan PI. I looked around the lot, but I didn’t see Toni’s car. She noticed me looking and just before I could ask, said, “I figured your Jeep was probably parked at the bar somewhere, so I had Pri pick me up. They’re going to drive us back to the Jeep.”

I nodded. “Good. Good thinking. Let’s get out of here.” I’d had about enough of this place for one day.

Sylvia Lyon stepped over to me. “Mr. Logan, before we leave, I want to thank you and your partner, Mr. Kiahtel, for helping me and my husband today. Not many people would have done what the two of you did.”

I smiled. “I’m glad it worked out the way it did.”

“We are, as well. And we very much look forward to speaking with you and Ms. Blair tomorrow morning about it.”

I looked over at Toni. Really? She gave me a sly little smile. You know, one of those that’s meant just for me. This one said, “Just smile, look pretty, and do what you’re told.” So that’s what I did. I smiled at Sylvia. “Uh . . . great! Looking forward to it.”

* * * *

“We sat in the waiting room and talked for like an hour and a half while David got you guys released.” Doc and Pri had dropped us off at the Jeep, and Toni and I were finally on our way home. She was explaining what had happened while I was locked up. “Mary told us Sylvia was waiting on the same case we were, so we walked over and I introduced us and we started talking.”

“Who’s Mary?”

“Mary Johnson. The desk sergeant.”

I pictured her in my mind, then glanced over at Toni. “Really? You’re on a first-name basis with her?”

She smiled. “Yeah. She’s a nice woman. She’s a single mom—has three kids. Two of them—”

I raised my hand. “Stop showing off. Tell me about Sylvia.”

“Okay. She’s an impressive lady. She filled us in on the whole story. What a bunch of dicks those guys are!”

I nodded. “True. Turns out Sylvia’s husband’s a bit of a talker, too. We probably got the same story you did. But oddly,
I
didn’t make any kind of commitment to him.
I
thought that before I did that, I should at least consult with you and the other members of our team. Besides, I don’t know if this is something we should get involved in.”

She smiled. “One: you always say that. And two: who said anything about commitment or getting involved? I just want to talk to them.”

I looked at her. “Ri-i-ight. Which has a way of leading to our involvement.”

She thought for a second, then said, “Well, if that happens, then it was just meant to be, wasn’t it? I think we can help these people. Besides, we can use the work. We have a hole in the schedule.”

“We do not,” I said. “We’ve got—”

“Yes, we do. Trust me.”

I stopped talking. Toni’s seldom wrong about these things. We drove for several minutes, radio turned low. When we got close to home, a thought struck me, and I chuckled. “I thought you’d be pissed.”

“I
was
pissed!”

I turned to her quickly. I’d misjudged her mood, and I needed to make amends, and quick. “I’m sorry you had to come out.”

She turned to me. “Relax—I wasn’t pissed at you, silly! Why would I be mad at you?”

I was confused. I shrugged. “For getting busted? For making it so you have to come and get me out?”

She smiled and, right before my eyes, suddenly switched modes from all-business PI Toni Blair to elegant, sexy Antoinette Blair. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Sir, I’ll have you know you are my
knight gallant
,” she said with a French accent and a good deal of dramatic flair. “You’ve been coming to people’s rescue for as long as I’ve known you. It’s who you are—you couldn’t change if you wanted to. And I would never want you to. So how could I ever be pissed at you for that?” She kissed me again. “
Au contraire
, it’s one of the reasons I love you.”

I smiled and started to say “Thank you,” but before I could, she switched back to her street-savvy self—the one with piercings and tattoos. “Hell no, I’m not mad at you. After I talked to Sylvia, I was just pissed because I wasn’t there at the bar having some fun, too. I wanted to kick someone’s ass!”

The next morning, we parked in a lot on the north side of Occidental Park and started walking across to the Sylvia Lyon Gallery on the south end. The park itself is small: a short city block wide and half a block deep. It runs from Washington south to Main between what used to be Occidental Avenue on the east and the Grand Central Building on the west. At Main, it skinnies down and continues south to Jackson, except this segment—basically a closed-off section of Occidental Avenue—is known as Occidental Mall.

There’s no grass on either side—it’s all concrete and bricks and planters with trees and benches to sit on scattered throughout. It was a cold morning, and that kept the usual crowd of office workers and homeless men down somewhat, but the truth is, most of the homeless sleep in the nearby missions and have nowhere else to go during the daytime. As long as it’s not raining, most prefer to be in the park. A small group gathered around and watched two men playing chess with two-foot-high pieces on a huge black-and-white checkerboard painted on a tarp. Others sat on the benches and talked. A younger man played guitar near the entry to the Grand Central Bakery, his case open in the optimistic hope that a businessperson or maybe a tourist would toss a quarter inside, or even a dollar if he got lucky.

As we approached the fireman’s memorial on the park’s south side, I noticed a hunched-over black man pushing a small cart ahead of him, a cart that looked like it may well have contained all the man’s earthly belongings, judging by the way it was stuffed. Somehow, the man looked vaguely familiar for some reason, even as he walked away from us. This was a little odd, because the man was clearly homeless, and I don’t know many homeless guys. Still, something about the way he walked, with a little hitch in his shuffle, reminded me of someone I knew years ago.

He wore old army boots and a stained army field jacket with rips in the elbows and a gray knit stocking cap pulled low over his forehead. He leaned on the cart as he made his way, turning it into a sort of walker. Then, almost as if he could feel me looking at him, he turned and stared at me. I was shocked! I
did
know him! His name was Abraham Lincoln Foster, or as I knew him back then, Specialist Abraham Lincoln Foster.

Specialist, that is, before he got busted down to PFC for being D&D in a civilian bar in Tacoma, which is when I met him. PFC before he got busted again and lost all the rest of his stripes for the same thing six months later. Abraham was a nice enough guy, but he had an unfortunate problem with the bottle, a problem that had ultimately been beyond my ability to help him solve. I tried. I liked him, and I got him set up in a twelve-step program run by a charitable organization near the fort. Sadly, Abraham didn’t finish, and his drinking ultimately got him kicked out of the army altogether after he got busted a third time.

In the instant our eyes met, I saw that he recognized me, too, even from forty feet away. I started to wave, but he quickly turned away and continued on, walking with that little shuffling gait of his. My hand froze as I watched him walk away. Hmm. That was strange. I made a note to look him up later. I wanted to talk to him, see how he was making out.

I jogged ahead and caught up with Toni just as four men came around the corner, thirty feet away. I recognized one of them from yesterday’s dustup: Mr. 49ers Cap. He seemed no worse the wear from the fight. Our eyes met, and he gave me a little smirk. I grabbed Toni’s arm. “Hold up,” I said quietly.

Mr. 49ers Cap grabbed the arm of the tall man walking beside him. The man stopped, and then the others followed suit. 49ers Cap leaned over and started talking to the tall guy. I couldn’t quite make out what he said, partly because he was still thirty feet away, and partly because it sounded like he might have been speaking Russian. Tall Guy whispered something back to 49ers Cap, who nodded vigorously. While the two whispered back and forth, I studied Tall Guy for a few seconds. Obviously, he was the leader of this little group. He certainly had the stature: not only was he tall but also big—like linebacker big. He wore a dark leather jacket that would have made a decent-sized tent. His hands were so large that if he made a fist, it probably would have been the size of a volleyball. I was glad he’d been absent from yesterday’s fight. As Tall Guy listened to 49ers Cap, his dark eyes were focused into a piercing glare that was shooting right through me. His hair was almost black and, even before noon, he had a fierce five o’clock shadow working. The overall impression: menacing.

After a second, he stood up straight and resumed walking toward us; the others hustled behind him. Not knowing what to expect, Toni and I both prepared for a confrontation, but he stopped when he was five feet away. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me, with a bemused look on his face. I stared right back. As we studied each other for a few seconds, his hands flexed into massive fists, then relaxed, flexed . . . relaxed. I don’t think this was a threat—I think this was more of a nervous automatic action—he didn’t look like a man about to attack. Then again, maybe he was just trying to make an impression on me. An uneasy silence ensued.

As I looked at him, my initial read was that this was a man used to imposing his will on others because of his size and strength, probably mixed with a healthy dose of attitude. He was most likely an intimidator, maybe even a bully. But, while he was clearly not someone to be taken lightly, if his intention had been to scare me by staring me down, it didn’t work. I don’t scare easily, and usually if I do get scared, it’s not for me, but for someone else: the guy on my left or my right or, in this case, Toni. I despise bullies, and I’m sure I’ve faced down tougher guys than this dude. That said, there’s a time and place for everything. And despite my macho girlfriend tensing up at my side, clearly preparing to “kick some ass,” I wasn’t about to start a street brawl with this giant over who got to stand on a particular piece of sidewalk. So the stare down continued.

Then, a few seconds later, he surprised me by smiling. “Mr. Danny Logan,” he said, his voice a heavily accented low rumble. He nodded politely. “I apologize to you for yesterday’s fight. It was mistake.”

Whoa! Was I wearing a name tag or something? “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do I know you?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No. I am Pavel Laskin. The man involved in the fight with you was one of my employees. He should not have done that.”

I looked at him for a second, still wondering how he knew who I was, but not wanting to ask. “Well, employees can do that, can’t they?”

He nodded and gave me a look that was part smile, part sneer. I glanced over at 49ers Cap and saw that he was sending me a serious dose of stinkeye. No subtlety there. I gave him a little wink, then turned back to Laskin. The uneasy silence continued, then I decided that there was nothing else to be gained. We’d each delivered the messages we’d hoped. He’d tried to intimidate me. I hadn’t flinched and basically told him “nice try.” Time to go now before something got out of hand. “Nice meeting you this morning, Pavel Laskin.”