The Way Things Are (17 page)

He should have known the very last container would need a hazmat kit and actual work. He tried his best to avoid the puddle and scanned the barcode on the door. He stepped back again and let the scanner pull up the manifest on the iPad. The manifest said it was carrying consumer textiles from Bangladesh. No matter how much he tried to stretch his imagination, he couldn’t think of any way department store clothes could possibly leak. The container had also been sitting in the yard for nearly a week, but it hadn’t been inspected yet.

Carefully stepping around the puddle, Patrick turned the latch on the door. He expected to have to pull the door open. They were heavy, and the hinges never managed to operate smoothly. Sometimes cargo shifted against the doors, throwing the balance of the hinges off so the doors wouldn’t open without a pry bar. But this time the door swung open as soon as the latch was loosened. Something dark tumbled to the ground at his feet, splattering in the puddle.

“What the fuck?”

Patrick turned the iPad facedown, using its backlight to see. The bloated gray-and-purple hand might have been a novelty gag, something left over from the Halloween products imported from China last month, but the overwhelming smell of rot told Patrick it was not a latex decoration. He stumbled backward, falling on his ass on the pavement. The door slid open smoothly and a rigid shoulder and head with dark hair appeared, attached to the arm.

Patrick’s spine tingled and he scuttled back, as far away from the container as the narrow space between stacks allowed. In the dim neon glow from the iPad, Patrick could see the face clearly enough to make out his wide eyes and familiar features. The last time Patrick had seen the man, he had been dressed as a port officer, and he’d been holding a gun pointed at Patrick’s head.

Patrick sucked in one ragged breath after another, trying to focus through the panic rising in his throat. Not taking his eyes off the body, he fumbled for his cell phone. He swiped through his contacts, trying to find the number for Detective Atkins.

The phone rang once.

“Hello,” Ken answered. Loud music pulsed in the background.

Patrick cursed himself. He’d tapped on the contact information for the wrong Atkins. “No, damn it! I need your help!”

“Huh?”

“This is Patrick, Patrick Connelly. This is Ken, right?”

“Yeah. You sound upset. What’s wrong? Is Jay all right?”

“I need you to get ahold of your brother. The detective one. Right now.”

“I can give him a call. But why? What’s going on?”

“Remember that fight I was arrested for the night before we met?” Patrick asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “The one at the pier? Well, there was a third guy there—he pulled a gun on me at the end—but the police were practically on top of us and he took off. They arrested him the next day, and the district attorney told me I’d need to testify and all that shit, and…. Damn it, I heard his name on the news! I read it in the paper! Why the hell can’t I remember it?” Patrick tried to find the words, but he couldn’t even begin to describe the things he’d glimpsed in the darkness of that shipping container. “I need your brother here. I need him to bring the police.”

“You saw the same guy?”

“Yes!”

“The same guy?”

“Yes. God, I’m sorry, but your number was the one I could find! He’s dead.”

“Pat, listen to me, it’s okay,” Ken said, his tone serious. The loud music in the background died abruptly. “Did you kill him?”

“What? No! No, I was checking container seals! I just found him!”

He heard Ken sigh over the phone. “Okay. Did you touch anything?”

“No! Well, yes, the door and shit, but I didn’t touch him!”

“Okay. Stay right there. I’ll call my brother. I want you to call 911. Tell them you need the city police, okay? Tell them everything you can. They’ll help. First, though, tell me where you’re at.”

“The short-term storage yard.”

“I need more than that.”

“Terminal 18,” Patrick said.

“All right. Stay there, don’t touch anything, and call 911. We’ll figure it out,” Ken said, his tone soothing and confident. “I’m going to hang up to call Malcolm. Promise me you’re going to call 911?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Okay. If they don’t want you to stay on the phone, call me back. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

Chapter 7

K
EN
INITIALED
the intake form in all the appropriate spots, signed the bottom of the form, and handed it over to the juvenile detention officer behind the window.

“Just another release to parent or guardian?” The detention officer began picking at the keyboard in front of her but didn’t take her eyes off of Ken.

Ken tried to smile. He’d been killing time in the Youth Services Center since three o’clock in the morning, and knowing that Patrick was being interviewed next door meant Ken’s enthusiasm was dead. “Yeah, let her go. If I’ve deciphered her JPC’s handwriting, this kid keeps getting caught at parties, but she hasn’t missed a court date or community service hours yet. Besides, with her blood alcohol concentration, it’s just a matter of time before her evening turns uncomfortable and messy. I think her parents should have the pleasure of dealing with it, don’t you?”

The detention officer sighed, shook her head, and smiled. “Half the time I don’t think the parents care one way or the other.”

“You’re right. But if they don’t care enough to get angry, maybe waking up to the mess she’s bound to make will convince her to start caring about herself.”

“Or give her bragging rights with other kids,” the detention officer warned.

Ken knew that was a potential risk, but he had to hold out hope they would all eventually come around. “I guess we’ll see. If anyone else comes in, I’ll be hanging out across the street, so just call over there if you need me.”

“We’ve booked everybody who was brought in overnight. It was nice of you to let the on-call JPC sleep, but there’s nothing else to do.”

Ken kept the smile on his face so he wouldn’t snap. “I know. My brother’s next door taking a statement. One of the witnesses he’s questioning is the father of one of my kids, and I’m worried.” Ken tried to judge if that sounded strange or creepy, but he was too tired and too sore to care.

“Oh.” The detention officer’s face grew pale. “Is he handling that homicide down by the docks?”

“I’ve got no idea,” he lied.

The detention officer cocked her head toward the pneumatically controlled door. “Go on, then, I’ll buzz you out, and I’ll call over if anything serious comes in.” When Ken reached the door, the lock buzzed and opened with a rush of compressed air. He caught the handle before the lock engaged again and tugged on the door. He went through a series of white concrete corridors, and then through two more large metal doors before he finally reached the parking lot. At six thirty in the morning, the sun wasn’t quite coming up yet, but the parking lot wasn’t dark anymore.

He went to the secured entrance that led straight to booking, knowing that was where he’d find Malcolm. And Patrick.

After nearly twenty-four hours on his feet, including three hours on a bicycle trying to keep track of a dozen kids spread out over all of Jefferson Park, the throbbing ache in his knee had grown into a sharp, icepick pain that made every step a struggle not to limp. He found a shabby old office chair tucked under one of the booking platform counters, and claimed it with a sigh.

A patrol officer brought in a man who smelled like cheap beer and bodily fluids even from all the way across the room. He swayed and nearly fell over, but neither of the officers behind him made any move to keep him on his feet. He managed to make it to a holding cell on his own, and the detention officers closed the sliding cell door hard. He wasn’t any trouble, but the officers were still tense. At nearly seven in the morning, the men and women of the King County Sheriff’s Department and the Seattle Police should have been winding down, finishing reports, and griping about how the last few hours of graveyard shifts were always the longest. This morning Ken could feel the tension in the air around him.

Or maybe the tension was all his own. He was nervous. He’d waited a few minutes after asking Malcolm to call Patrick before trying to call the man back, and then his call had gone straight to voice mail. And had kept going to voice mail every time he’d tried to call for four hours.

It didn’t help that Ken had started off his evening gambling on the off chance he might run into Patrick at his friend’s bar. He hadn’t, and he’d actually been grateful for that. He couldn’t explain the moment of insanity that had inspired him to actually go to Corbin’s Attic, or the sheer stupidity that had given him the courage to ask Corbin if he’d seen Patrick. What he did know was the more time he spent trying not to stare at Patrick while they discussed Jay’s supervision, the harder it became to ignore him.

And it wasn’t just that Ken wanted to sleep with him again. Watching Patrick interact with his son was nothing short of fascinating. Patrick’s personality and his parenting style were so different from what Ken had come to expect from the fathers of his kids. Every time Patrick opened his mouth after Jay did something wrong, Ken braced himself for the shouting he unconsciously expected, and every time, Patrick was calm, rational, and even gentle. Ken had seen so many fucked-up parents, including his own biological father, that he was impressed every time he saw a parent trying to do things right.

Ken squirmed when he remembered the way Patrick had touched him, subtly flirting with him during their brief boxing match. Over the last few weeks, getting to know Patrick a little had left Ken thinking back to that night over and over, fantasizing about what those hesitant touches might have grown into if Ken had just agreed to go back to Corbin’s Attic again.

And now Ken was torn between feeling like a fool for hovering around booking waiting for Patrick, and being thrilled because Patrick had called him at all.

Brandon, in a rumpled uniform, strolled out of the sheriff’s department offices and headed straight toward him. “What’s up, Ken?” he asked, apparently not surprised to see him.

“Wish I knew,” Ken said, hoping his brother would let it go without demanding an explanation.

“They’re not going to arrest him, you know.”

Ken felt his shoulders stiffen. Pretending he didn’t know what Brandon was talking about wouldn’t do any good. Sharing a bedroom for most of their childhood had given Brandon the ability to read him like a book. “Yeah, Mal sent me a text message a few hours ago. Told me to stop calling his cell phone. But I figured he might need a ride.”

“Kenny,” Brandon said, slouching against the counter top in front of him and smirked. “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t spend the entire night hanging around here waiting for the parent of one of your kids. Not unless they’re in jail because they hurt one of your kids. What’s going on with you and the dock worker?”

“Nothing,” Ken said honestly.

“Nothing? The kid is your client, Kenny, not the guy.”

“I’m only the kid’s JPC until Thursday. He’s got one status hearing, then he’s done.” And Ken had never been so eager for one of his kids to be finished with the intensive supervision program before.

Brandon rolled his eyes and glanced at the window in front of the counter. On the other side, a public entrance allowed people to come in and post bond for friends and family who’d been arrested. Coming through the door was an exhausted blond man in tight leather pants and a rainbow T-shirt with ripped sleeves. Ken couldn’t stop himself from smiling and nodding at Corbin Hollis as their eyes met through the glass. He had talked to Corbin at the bar, trying to find Patrick. Even though he’d tried to be cool about the whole thing, he had a feeling Corbin had seen right through him.

“Little risqué for you, isn’t he?” Brandon whispered.

“Risqué?” Ken tried not to laugh when he remembered the way Corbin had practically undressed every man within range of him on the dance floor. Risqué didn’t even begin to describe Corbin Hollis when he was in his own element. But despite how over-the-top he was, his absolute confidence made the antics seem endearing. Corbin soaked up the attention like a true performer. “He’s a friend,” Ken explained quietly.

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend.”

Corbin watched them through the glass, grinning at Ken with the same knowing smile Ken had seen when he’d walked into the club earlier that night. Ken nodded to the tiny speaker and metal pass-through box built into the wall, then pressed the button. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Pat called and asked me to come give him a ride and bring him some clothes. But since you’re here, can I assume he doesn’t need either?”

Brandon gaped at Corbin, then at Ken. “Nothing, huh?”

Ken nudged his brother in the shoulder. “Brandon, I think rotating to night shifts is messing with your head.”

“He seems lucid to me,” Corbin announced, grinning. “But that was actually a genuine question. Should I hang out and take him home? And I brought him clothes.
His
clothes, even.”