First Avenue (11 page)

Read First Avenue Online

Authors: Lowen Clausen

Tags: #Suspense

“That badge you’re wearing says
Seattle
. You can stick your nose wherever you want. I’m happy for any help I can get.”

“Appreciate that.”

“How long have you been back downtown?”
Markowitz
asked.

“A couple years.”

“Better than the hill?”

Sam sat back in the chair and thought for a moment before answering.

“It’s all about the same, isn’t it?”

“Probably. We used to do quite a bit of business together when you were up there.”

“Quite a bit,”
Sam
said. “Too much, I guess. That’s why I finally transferred back downtown. Do you remember that guy who killed his mother-in-law with a sewing machine?”

“Sure,”
Markowitz
said, shaking his head and laughing softly through disbelief. “He was screwing both the daughter and the mother—he was married to the daughter, I think—and then the mother told the daughter, and all hell broke loose. I forgot you had that.”

“Radio told us it was a disturbance,”
Sam
said. “When we show up, this guy is just standing on the porch waiting. Calm as anything. He takes us into the dining room and points out his mother-in-law on the floor with her brains running out of her head. There’s this portable sewing machine beside her all smashed up. The daughter is screaming in the bedroom. He tells us he got mad and hit the mother with the sewing machine. That’s it. He just got mad. These things happen, right?

“On the way to the station,”
Sam
continued, “I was sitting in the backseat with him, and do you know what I was thinking about? Not about the dead woman. Not about this murderer next to me. I’m thinking that the shift is almost over, and I have two days off, and I’m going fishing. This guy is sitting beside me, big strong guy, and he had just killed his mother-in-law with a sewing machine, and I’m thinking about fishing. You investigate an accident on
Twenty-third Avenue
, and when you’re done you go down to Twenty-ninth and see about a family disturbance. Something about a sewing machine. Call number 12. Call number 13. They’ve all become the same.

“When I was taking him into the holding room, it hit me all of a sudden that the calls weren’t the same. I asked myself, ‘Am I leading this guy or is he leading me?’ Fishing. I was thinking about fishing. That’s when I decided I needed to do something different. So I switched to mornings for a change of scenery if nothing else and ended up back on
First Avenue
. My life’s story. How about you? You going to rust up here forever?”

“Probably.”

“No interest in getting back to the street?”

“None. You know what they say. Once you get on the gravy train, there’s no getting off.”

“Is that
Jim
what’s-his-name your partner on this?”
Sam
asked. “The guy who just transferred from Auto Theft?”

“No, it’s
Richards
, but he’s on vacation for two weeks. Fishing in Canada.”

They could have laughed then. In each man, there was a rumble in the gut; the mouth moved at the corners; their heads shifted backward. They might have laughed together if only one had begun, but they did not.

“Have they done the autopsy yet?”
Sam
asked.

“It’s set for today. Do you want to go with me?”
Markowitz
asked, testing just how far
Sam
wanted to stick his nose.

“I’ll pass. Thanks.”

“Maybe you can do something else, then. The girl’s parents are staying in a motel out on
Aurora
. They might appreciate it if you dropped by.”

“Me?”

“You knew her, didn’t you? And the baby? I doubt they can tell us much, but they might need some help getting the baby after the autopsy. Besides, you seem to have a good opinion of the girl. It might be nice if they heard that. They’re going to hear plenty of other stuff later.”

Markowitz shuffled through his papers again until he found the worksheet on the parents. He copied the motel address on a scrap of paper and gave it to
Sam
.
Sam
looked at it for a moment and then got up to leave.

“If anything turns up around here, I’ll let you know. Do the same for me, will you?” Markowitz asked.

“Sure,” Sam said, barely thinking about what Markowitz said. “Anything you want me to tell her parents?”

“We’re sorry.”
Markowitz
shrugged as though he tried but could think of nothing else. “You can tell them we’re sorry.”

Sam nodded and began to walk away. He stopped after a few feet and turned around.

“How many kids do you have now?” he asked
Markowitz
.

“Three boys.”

“Three boys. My God, that’s got to be a handful.”

He turned away before
Markowitz
could answer and walked out of the room. His eyes focused on the floor in front of his feet, and he thought about
Markowitz
’s three boys. He bet
Markowitz
was the kind of father who played catch at night with them and read them stories before bed and let them dream about growing up and becoming somebody.

The parents’ motel was north of downtown on Highway 99. Before the freeway was built, 99 was the main north and south highway. It was called several names as it passed through
Seattle
. North of Denny, it became
Aurora
. Motels lined both sides of the road, and their large flashing signs competed with each other and with the used car lots that separated them.

He saw an old Ford pickup parked in front of the room where he expected to find
Alberta
’s parents. Its license number identified it with
Yakima
County
. He pulled into the stall beside it and noticed a curtain moving inside the room. A man stood in the doorway waiting for him before he could even shut off the car. He didn’t tell Radio where he was. He had not cleared since going into the station.

“Are you
Mr.
Sanchez
?” Sam asked as he approached.

The man nodded but did not speak. His face was weathered, and his skin was deeply wrinkled around his eyes, as though it had been witness to years and years of sunshine. More than sunshine marked it now. Lines of sorrow were equally embedded.

“I have no news of your daughter, but I would like to speak with you and
Mrs.
Sanchez
.”

Sanchez stepped back from the door, still holding the far side of it as
Sam
stepped past him into the unlit room.
Mrs.
Sanchez
stood next to the bed with her hands clasped in front of her.


Mrs.
Sanchez
, my name is
Sam
Wright
. I wanted to talk to you and your husband about your daughter.”

“She speaks little English,”
Sanchez
said.

Sam turned around and looked at
Sanchez
, who had not moved from the door. He began to wonder if he should have come. There was no reason for them to trust him. As he looked at the silent woman, her fingers moved unconsciously and nervously against each other. His mind worked in the same manner.

“Would you translate for me? I would like
Mrs.
Sanchez
to understand what I say. I knew your daughter and granddaughter.”

Sanchez waited a moment, thinking, and then spoke in Spanish to his wife.
Sam
saw her breathe in sharply. She released her hands and motioned with one of them to a chair next to her.
Sam
walked over to it and sat down. She sat down on the bed, and
Sanchez
closed the door to their room and sat close to his wife.

“We have not found your daughter.”

Sam spoke to the woman who did not understand him, then glanced toward
Sanchez
to indicate that the translation was to begin. His wife looked for a moment at her husband, but returned her attention to
Sam
while
Sanchez
continued with his translation.

“We don’t know where
Alberta
is.”

When he spoke their daughter’s name,
Mrs.
Sanchez
’s eyes opened more widely. From then on she listened to her husband translate, but did not look away from
Sam
.

“I believe
Alberta
loved her baby, and she did the best job she could taking care of her.”

Then he told them about seeing
Alberta
and the baby at the Donut Shop, and how happy
Alberta
seemed when she had the baby with her. He told them she had been a good and conscientious worker in a place that did not deserve her work. He told them about the day he had held the child. The pain became even clearer in
Mrs.
Sanchez
’s face, and she looked down at her empty hands for help. Those hands had done much work. They were hands that had done much and could do much more, but they were of no help to
Mrs.
Sanchez
now.

“I’m afraid something has happened to Alberta,” he said. “She would have never left the baby. I thought you should know that.”

Tears ran from the corners of both her eyes and dropped heavily down her cheeks. She rubbed their tracks away with the back of her hand. “Gracias, señor,” she said.

He understood that without translation, and
Sanchez
did not offer one.
Sanchez
was having trouble with his own composure.

“If you would like, I’ll help you with the baby. There will be many papers to fill out.”

“If it is not too much trouble, we would be grateful,”
Sanchez
said.

“It’s no trouble. There will be an autopsy this afternoon to determine the cause of death. The law requires that. I’ll find out when we can come for the body. It may be a little while. Shall I call you here?

Sanchez nodded and Sam got up to go. He took out one of the generic police business cards they all used and wrote his name on it. He also broke one of his rules and wrote his home telephone number below his name.

“I work from four in the morning until noon. This number is where I live. You can call me if you have any questions.”

Sanchez extended his hand, and
Sam
took it gratefully. “I’m really sorry about all this. I wish there was something more I could do.”

He bowed his head to
Mrs.
Sanchez
.
Mrs.
Sanchez
rose from the bed and placed one of her remarkable hands on his arm. She asked a question in Spanish.
Sanchez
translated.

“My wife asks if by any chance you would know the child’s name?”

“She called her baby
Olivia
.”

Mrs.
Sanchez
instinctively covered her mouth, and the cry that escaped was one that could barely rise from her throat.
Sanchez
grasped for his wife, half to support her, half for himself.


Olivia
,” he explained. “That is my wife’s name. Why did she leave us? We were too old for children. She was the only one. We were too old to be good parents. We thought she was ashamed of us.”

Then the old man began to cry, and his wife,
Olivia
, held him and consoled him.
Sam
had no idea what to do and could only stand helplessly beside them.

 

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