I
opened my
mouth but he waved me off. "He never carried no money, Leo. The Boss .
. .
your dad, he didn't need money. This was his town. Wasn't hardly nobody
would
take his money from him in this town. Those nights, though ... he had a
pocketful of coin."
Amy
backed
through the swinging door carrying a metal folding tray which she set
over Bermuda's legs. She looked my way.
"Last
chance," she teased.
"I'm
watching my girlish figure," I said.
She
gave it
about twice as much laugh as it was worth and bustled back into the
kitchen.
I
pocketed my
notebook and got to my feet.
"Great
to
see you again, Bermuda. Thanks for the
help."
"Wish
there was somethin' more I coulda done for you, kid."
"You
already did more than your share for me, Bermuda."
Something
in me
wanted to make a speech. I didn't know what it was I wanted to say, but
I knew
it concerned the past, and I knew from experience that I was the only
one who'd
end up feeling better for its having been said, so I shut up.
A
fresh fusilade
of rain raked the window. He put the fingertips of his left hand on the
pane,
tracing the drops. I pulled a business card out and walked over and put
it on
the windowsill.
"In
case
you think of anything else."
He
nodded.
"See
ya,
huh?" I said.
He
nodded
again. I let myself out.
I
Confess I'm
the last human being in America
over the age of nine who doesn't own a cellular phone. Not only that
but—gird
your loins now—I don't have any intention of owning one, either. Not
only that,
but you know that bumper sticker? YOU'D PROBABLY DRIVE BETTER WITH THAT
CELL
PHONE UP YOUR ASS. Granted, it's a bit crude, but I've driven behind
those
people, and so have you. Need I say more? As far as I'm concerned,
cellular
phones and beepers are to human beings what leashes and choke chains
are to
dogs. In spite of this, however, there have been several occasions
when, to be
quite honest, I've cursed my own cussedness and longed for the
convenience of
such post industrial marvels. And this most definitely was one of those
times.
Twenty
minutes
after leaving Bermuda, I was standing in a
phone booth on Forty-fifth
Street.
The rain had calmed to a mere typhoon. The inside of the booth was
awash with a
swirling armada of cigarette butts and pop tops about three inches
deep. My
feet were soaked. Half a baloney sandwich on whole wheat bobbed
contentedly
about my ankles. On top of that, I was having one of those phone days.
The ones
where nobody you call is in, or, if they are in, they can't come to the
phone
at this time, and either way it doesn't matter because you're getting
nothing
but machines who regret that So-and-so isn't home or at his desk and
would you
please leave your message after the beep. Beep.
I
fed another
quarter into the box and dialed Rebecca at work. Even if Duvall was in
a
meeting, I knew the intern, Tyanne Cummings, would answer the phone.
I'd
already decided. If I got another machine, I was using my last quarter
to call
Dr. Laura for advice.
"King
County Medical Examiner."
"Hi,
Tyanne. Is Rebecca available?"
I
heard her
catch her breath.
"Oh
. . .
Leo . . . you still don't know, huh?"
I
hate it when
conversations begin like this. Already, I was beginning to pine for an
answering machine.
"Know
what?"
"The
police. She left. They served her with a warrant this morning about
eleven-thirty." "What kind of warrant?" "A search
warrant." "For what?"
"For
her .
. . your ... the house where you guys live."
I
don't
remember whether I thanked her or not. As a matter of fact, the whole
ride back
to the house was pretty much a blur. I don't recall anything until I
slid
around the corner on Crockett and bounced up into the driveway next to
the
blue-and-white SPD truck.
I
used the
booklet I'd gotten from Claire Wells as a hat, setting it directly on
my head
as I stepped out into the driveway. The slanting rain slapped down onto
the
clear plastic cover, adding its irregular tapping to the hissing sound
of water
moving everywhere around me.
I
peeked into
the truck on the way by. Inside, strapped two to a side, stood the four
file
cabinets from the attic. Strapped to the back wall was the two-drawer
oak model
from my office. On the right, in the cabinet closest to me, the middle
drawer
had been closed on Mikey the Monkey's brown tail. When I turned toward
the
house, a small river ran down my collar and I shuddered. A blue plastic
carpet
runner ran from the back of the truck straight into the garage. I
stepped onto
the plastic path and headed off in search of Rebecca.
She
was sitting
at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the lifestyles section
of the
paper. On the table, by her elbow, the headline screamed the question
BLOOD
FEUD? directly above side-by-side shots of Peerless Price and Wild Bill
Waterman. I could hear voices and footsteps up on the second floor.
Sitting
there, holding her head in one hand while she read, Rebecca looked as
tired as
I'd ever seen her.
"Hey,"
I said.
She
looked up
from the paper and smiled. "Hey yourself." "Tyanne said
..."
She
lifted the
front page from the table. I crossed the room, dropped the dripping
booklet
onto the table and picked up the warrant. Judge Ellen Gardner, in and
for the
county of King, in the state of Washington, had decreed that duly
appointed
members of the Seattle Police Department should be entitled to search
the
residence at two twenty-four Crockett Avenue for any and all documents
pertaining to the public career of William G. Waterman. Including, but
not
limited to . . . yadda yadda yadda. Two pages' worth.
I
flipped the
warrant back at the table where it landed face-down.
"These
assholes served you at the office?"
She
used her
foot to push the chair across from her out from the table. "Sit," she
said. "I can see you working yourself up here, Leo. They could have
jimmied the front door. Legally, they have the right. Coming to the
office
first was a courtesy."
I
began pulling
sections of the paper from the table.
"Did
they
..." I whispered.
"The
three
blue books you left here on the table?"
"Shhh."
She
waved a
hand at me. "They found those first thing. That's how come I had to
tell
them about the rest of the stuff upstairs."
"Shit."
I
could hear
the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Detective
Trujillo was natty in a
gold sport jacket and deep brown slacks. Matching tie and hanky again.
Custom-made shirt, too. Brown tasseled shoes this time. He pranced into
the
room and pushed a clipboard under my nose. A blue pen hung from a metal
chain
attached to the top of the board.
"Nice
you
could make it," he offered.
I
couldn't come
up with a sentence that didn't include the word "motherfucker," so I
kept my mouth shut He jiggled the board.
"Here's
the inventory of what we took. You want to come out and check this
against what
we got in the truck, feel free."
When
neither of
us moved, he went on. "Sign on the bottom two lines. Initials where
I've
got the X's."
I
took the
clipboard and followed directions, scribbling my way to the bottom of
the page.
"When
can
I expect my property back?" I asked.
"When
we're finished with it," he snapped. "We've got a six-man task force
set to go through the material. When they get through with it, you'll
get it
back."
I
held on to
the clipboard. "Why do I find that less than informative, Detective
Trujillo?"
He
reached over
and plucked the clipboard from my hand. He tore a perforated strip from
the
bottom of the page, wiggled out a yellow copy and handed it to me. "You
had your chance to cooperate, Waterman. You wanted to be the smart guy.
Now you
take what that gets you."
"Are
you
finished?" I asked.
Trujillo
smirked. "I'll let you
know when
we're finished, Waterman. In the meantime,-do us both a favor and try
to stay
out of the way."
"Don't
let
the door hit you in the ass, Trujillo."
He
turned on
his heel and followed the runner out into the garage.
Frank
Wessels
stood in the doorway grinning. "Gee, Leo," he said. "Way to
leave the little lady to handle it by herself there, Hercules. A real
stud
superhero you are, leaving your girlfriend here to clean up your
family's dirty
laundry."
I
was still
deciding which hand to hit him with and where, when Rebecca
materialized at my
elbow. "Detective Wessels," she said, stepping around me. "I am
neither a little lady nor a girl." He started to open his mouth, but
she
moved right up into his face. I could tell he wasn't used to women who
were as
tall as he was. She practically had her nose on his. "And if you ever
refer to me either publicly or privately as anything other than 'Dr.
Duvall'
again, I will bring departmental sexual harassment charges against you
so fast
it will make your head spin. And you know, I don't think you want to
find out
which of us is considered more indispensable by King County,
do you, Officer Wessels?"
He
shifted his
weight from foot to foot and checked his shoes for laces. "No," he
said finally. "My apologies for any misunderstanding."
"Apology
noted, Officer. Now why don't you follow my boyfriend's suggestion and
watch
out for that proverbial door."
He
didn't need
to be told twice. He threw me a quick sneer and headed out through the
garage.
Rebecca walked over to the doorway and watched him go. "I believe I
could
develop a real dislike for that man."
"You'll
have to get in line and take a number," I said.
Two
uniforms
came by, rolling the plastic runner before them. I heard them close the
door to
the garage behind themselves. I threw an arm around Rebecca and pulled
her
close. I could feel her anger. In the driveway, the police van started
and
backed out, the throbbing of its exhaust finally fading into silence.
"What
was
that guy's name who worked for the U? The guy who borrowed all my
father's
stuff so they could copy it for their archives?"
No
answer. She
looked blank.
"What?"
"Remember?
The Seattle
history guy. The one who came here to the house that time right after
we moved
in."
"Oh,"
she said. "The little man with the red beard and the elbow patches on
everything."
"And
the
loud bow ties," I offered.
She
knit her
brow. "Fitz something."
"Patrick."
"No."
"Henry."
"Not
Henry
either." "Roy,"
I said. "Fitzroy."
She
nodded.
"That's it. Dr. Milton Fitzroy. I remember we figured he was the type
to
wear tailored pajamas and that they probably had leather patches, too.
What do
you want with him?"
I
told her
about finding Bermuda and what he'd said about
my father taking the car. "I thought maybe Fitzroy would know what was
in
that neighborhood way back when."
"How
do
you know that whatever he was doing was in that neighborhood? He had
the car,
Leo. He could have gone anywhere."
"Because
of the mileage. When Bermuda got to the house
on the following Monday mornings, the mileage difference was always
five
miles."
"So?"
"So,
from
downtown to the house here is damn near five miles. Wherever he went,
it wasn't
very damn far from where he left Bermuda
off."
"Presuming
the mileage is correct."
"It's
like
Bermuda said. Only an idiot lies about
anything he doesn't have to."
She
didn't seem
convinced.
"At
least,
I'm working from that presumption," I added.
She
said,
"That guy Fitzroy left a business card. I think I stapled it into the
Rolodex in your office." She kissed me on the cheek. "I need to get
back to work." She retrieved her green rain jacket from the back of the
chair. "Don't wait up. Everybody else is working on Peerless Price. So,
I'm stuck with the rest of it. I'm up to my armpits in stiffs."
I
walked her
out to her car. She got in and started the engine. Her window slid
down.
"I don't suppose there's anything I could say that would induce you to
let
this thing go, is there?"