Hard Rain
By Waverly Fitzgerald
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Author Notes
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Chapter 1
“What do you remember about the Sixties?” he asked.
It’s not the first question new clients usually ask. Usually they want to know how much I charge. Or how I got into the business.
“Not much,” I said. “I was only two when they ended.”
I took a good look at the man walking beside me. He had dark curly hair, but I noticed a few strands of silver at the sides. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him an intellectual air. His jeans were well-worn and hugged his trim form. He could have been any age from 32 to 52.
“You don’t look old enough to remember them either,” I said.
He shrugged. He obviously wasn’t going to satisfy my curiosity about his age.
I glanced at his hands. He had long, elegant fingers, the kind I like in a man. No wedding ring, but there was a pale circle around the base of his ring finger.
“Newly divorced?” I asked.
He seemed startled. “How did you know that?”
“It’s my job,” I said. I’m a private investigator. Normally I work for women, doing background checks on prospective romantic partners. But business had been slow, so when my father asked me to call on a friend of his, I agreed. Even though I had sworn I would never work for a lawyer (thanks to the example set by my father, a divorce attorney with a slippery attitude towards the truth).
The lawyer’s office was just a few blocks from my apartment in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. It was in an old house, divided up into offices. The sign on the porch advertised a chiropractor, a midwife and a psychic, along with the law offices of Joel Wiseman. I rang the buzzer and he appeared at the door within a few minutes.
“Hi, I’m Rachel Stern,” I said. “My dad, Marty Stern, told me to contact you.”
“Nice to meet you, Rachel,” he said, after introducing himself. “I need some coffee. Would you be willing to walk up to Vivace with me?
That sounded good. It was a hot August day in Seattle and it was more pleasant to be outside than in, especially if you could find a spot of shade. I was dressed for comfort in black cotton Capri pants, a loose black cotton shirt over a black lace camisole, and my favorite black Dansko sandals. I hoped it hit the right note between professional and casual. I still wasn’t sure if my dad was trying to set me up with this guy for a date or a job. I had pulled my thick, curly hair up into a ponytail, but it was already falling in tendrils down my neck, tangling with my long silver earrings.
Vivace is the name of a coffee stand on Broadway, the liveliest thoroughfare in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. They roast their own beans and are famous for the flowery designs created in the foam on the top of their lattes, a trend which was spreading through the city in 2000.
We waited in line behind two gay men, out walking their Jack Russell terrier. The tattooed riders of the Harleys parked at the curb sat at one of the wrought iron tables sipping their macchiatos.
I noticed that Joel kept looking around.
“Do you think we’re being followed?” I asked. I was half-joking, but he took me seriously.
“Anything is possible with the FBI,” he said. It was eerie how he echoed my dad’s exact words.
My father had called early in the morning, which was unusual. He never got up before noon. And I was usually the one who called him, on paternal days of obligation, like Father’s Day and his birthday. Plus he was calling from a blocked number.
“Rachel, honey, how are you doing?” he asked. And before I could answer, “Listen, I need a favor.”
“Sure, Dad,” I said. “And I’m great.” Although the truth was I was still sad about breaking up with Ben. But I wasn’t going to complain about my love life to my father, who was currently living with a woman ten years younger than me. My father had been young when I was born—so was my mother for that matter. But my dad kept his youth alive by dating a succession of ever younger women. While my mother seemed to get more and more conservative with each new marriage. She was currently on husband Number Three, a former county sheriff.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine. His name is Joel Wiseman.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you, but he’ll fill you in. Don’t make an appointment. Just go to his office. He’s at 324 Belmont on Capitol Hill. Can you do it this afternoon?”
“Sure but I can’t figure out why you’re being so mysterious.”
“If I could, I would fly up there myself.” My dad lives in Los Angeles, in an art-filled condo, on the beach in Venice. “But I’m tied up on a case.” I knew he was working for a prominent rock star who was divorcing her manager.
“So what’s this about?”
“I’m doing a favor for someone in my past. But it’s got to be very secret. We don’t want the FBI to get wind of this.”
“Why would the FBI get involved?”
“Just do me a favor. Don’t ask too many questions.”
We both laughed but the laughter was bittersweet. I was known in my family for my insatiable curiosity. It was how I found out my father was having an affair which caused my mother to divorce him.
“So you’re not calling on your home phone because you think it’s tapped?”
“Right! So don’t say anything about this if you call me at home. I purchased this cell phone just for this call and I’m throwing it away in a few minutes.”
And then he hung up. I was so stunned by his behavior that I stayed on the line for another minute, listening to the dial tone. That’s when I heard a faint clicking on the line. No way was I going to be infected by my father’s paranoia. I slammed the phone down.
So it was really disturbing to see Joel Wiseman displaying the same symptoms.
“This paranoia is creeping me out,” I said, as he handed me a double tall, non-fat latte.
“Trust me, Rachel,” he said. “This is not paranoia. I’m afraid we’re being followed.”
We were walking down the sidewalk when he stopped and pointed into the window of the nearby store. It was a shop that sold second hand clothing and all the mannequins—three female and one male—were wearing fluffy crinolines of red, orange, purple and green, paired with Hawaiian shirts of contrasting colors.
Joel diverted my attention from the window display. “See that guy across the street,” he said, pointing to a man in dark slacks, a bright yellow knit shirt and sunglasses who was looking our way. He looked out of place; Broadway pedestrians usually wore variations on Goth, urban chic or Seattle shabby. Then a huge Metro bus went by—one of the articulated buses—and when it was gone, the man had vanished. I figured he had probably gone into one of the stores or restaurants across the str
eet.
“He was in a car outside my office when we left,” Joel said. He steered me into the clothing store. We walked past a counter awash in rhinestone jewelry. I was tempted to stop and explore—I love vintage jewelry. But Joel headed for the stairs that led down to a lower level.
“There’s an exit down here somewhere,” he said, charging through a thicket of revolving carousels. One contained glittery disco clothes, another Western shirts, a third Chinese brocade tops, all arranged by color. Back behind the dressing rooms, Joel plunged through a door that said “Employees only.” It led to a lounge, furnished with a 1950s aquamarine plastic sofa and a coffee table, adorned with an asteroid-shaped ashtray containing a smoldering cigarette. The room was full of smoke. Otherwise it was empty.
There was an exit sign over a door which opened into an alley. Joel turned right and scurried past the big green dumpsters. I followed, still sipping my latte. At the end of the alley, Joel peered out, looking both ways.
At first, I wanted to protest that he was being ridiculous. Then I remembered summer nights when I was a kid, playing commandoes with the other kids on the block. We would form teams and run around and hide behind trees and try to shoot each other. It was a great excuse for kissing cute boys. And while we were playing war for fun, the older boys were in Vietnam playing it for real.
“Let’s go this way,” Joel said, taking me by the hand. He led me up the block and ducked into a small garden. It was one of Seattle’s many community gardens, a mosaic of little plots, available to neighborhood folk for a nominal annual fee, and lush at this time of the year. Sunflowers towered above tomato bushes sagging under the weight of plump red fruit. A wide slate path curved through the garden. Towards the back, a blue metal bench sat under a clematis vine that snaked through a chain-link fence. The bench provided a good view of the entire garden.
“Who do you think is following you?” I asked as we settled onto the bench.
I had worked with paranoid clients during my years as a counselor. It was best if you humored them. Then they would reveal their fantasies and you would get a glimpse of the world in which they lived—a nightmare realm of conspiracies and dangers. But if you tried to reason with them, you suddenly became one of their enemies.
“Probably the FBI. Maybe the police,” Joel said.
I took a sip of my latte. “So what’s up?”
“What did your father tell you?” he asked.
“He said it was top secret, hush-hush, on the QT.” I liked using the old detective phrases. It made me sound like a hard-boiled private eye, like my mentor, Matt Rossiter.
“Have you ever heard of Weevil?”
I nodded. “One of those revolutionary groups from the Sixties.”
“They were actually post-Sixties when the radical left developed a harder edge.”
“Didn’t they kidnap an heiress and hold up a bank?”
“Yes in 1979. Several people were killed, including the heiress, some of the customers, the bank manager and three policemen. Only one of the Weevil members escaped. Her name was Ellie Foley. The FBI have been looking for her ever since.”
I remembered it vaguely. It had been a big news story when I was in junior high. “You’re working for her?”
“Yes. She wants to come up from underground.”
“Why?”
It seemed like a simple question but Joel looked surprised. “What do you mean why?”
“Why does she want to come up from underground?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably she’s tired of having to look over her shoulder all the time, changing her identity every month, lying to everyone she meets.”
“You didn’t ask her?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to her yet.”
“Why not?”
“It all has to be done indirectly. We can’t afford to tip off the FBI too early in the process. If we do, we lose any leverage we have in the bargaining process.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re trying to negotiate a deal. She believes she was set up by the police department. If we can prove that, she might get off without jail time. But, of course, it’s extremely dangerous for her to surface. She’s a target.” A butterfly fluttered by and tried to land on Joel’s shoulder. He held out a finger and moved it gently to the arm of the bench.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Start with the newspaper stories and the police reports. Collect names. Look for discrepancies. It would be great if you could interview witnesses, bystanders, neighbors, old friends. You should be able to find some of the activists she hung out with. There are plenty of old Lefties in Seattle. Just don’t tell them why you need the information.”
“Then I need a cover story.”
“Right. Good point. How about you say you’re writing an article about Ellie Foley? In fact, I’ll line that up with Gus Holliday. He runs a website about Seattle history. I’ll get him to commission you to write the piece.”
“I wonder if my parents knew her,” I said. “They hung out with a lot of political radicals.”
Joel looked at me with amazement. “Of course they knew her. Your dad was her defense attorney during her first trial. She went to prison for bombing an ROTC building in 1968.”
“Wait a minute! My dad was never a defense attorney. He’s a divorce lawyer.”
Joel looked at me with surprise. “No way!” he said. “Your dad was a hero for the movement.”
And then he kissed me.
Chapter 2
He was good at it. He put his hand up, as if to brush away something that had gotten tangled in my hair, then drew the back of his hand gently along my cheek, turning my face towards his. His lips were tentative yet full of promise, brushing against mine as lightly as a hummingbird. I would have drawn back, startled, but he had his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair.
He nibbled his way along my cheek to my ear and then whispered, “There’s a guy in the garden watching us. Pretend you’re kissing me.”
No problem. His breath was warm, his skin smelled like honey, and his lips were sweet and urgent. I could pretend as well as anyone—probably better, since I was a drama major in college—so I threw myself into this role.
At first, it was nothing remarkable, the kiss of two strangers. Then something shifted. I surrendered to the promise of romance, to the warmth spreading through my body. And I felt him respond as well.
He was the one to break it off. “Good work,” he said, nodding his head toward the front of the garden. A man in a yellow shirt was walking down the path and out through the gates. “Nothing like a couple kissing to scare people away.”
“Interesting strategy,” I said. I was trembling and hoping he didn’t notice. Clearly the kiss hadn’t affected him the same way it did me. I noticed with surprise that I was still clutching my latte cup and took another sip.
“I think it’s better if we pretend to be dating,” he said. “That will give us a logical reason for meeting on a regular basis.”
“Do you think we really need to be that cautious?”
“Yes,” he said. He sounded serious.
I stood up. “O.K., so when’s our next date?”
He frowned. “What would be normal on a second date?”
“You’re asking me about dating conventions?”
“I thought you were the dating expert,” he said, standing up as well.
I tried to suppress my snort of amazement. Snorting is just so unladylike. “What makes you think that?” I asked as we headed down a flight of shallow stone steps and approached a little shed covered with flyers.
“Your dad told me that’s your specialty,” he said.
I sighed. I wondered what else my dad had told him. The flyers on the shed contained pictures of noxious weeds and different birds that had been spotted in the garden.
“Let’s see…” I pretended to consider the question as I looked at a photo of a killdeer. “If this is our f
irst date, then you would call me or send me an email tomorrow—no, make that the day after—you have to play it cool. You propose dinner this weekend. We go someplace fancy and you pay.”
“Great,” he said. “And after dinner?”
“You wish,” I said. I thought about telling him about the three-date rule, but guys have a funny attitude towards rules. As soon as you set up a structure, they feel honor-bound to challenge it. “You drive me home and kiss me good-night.”
“Okay, I can do that,” he said. He pulled me around the corner of the shed, back by the compost bins, where we were out of sight, then wiggled a wallet out of his back pocket and began counting out bills. “I’m going to give you an advance. Let me know how much more you need the next time we meet. Will $500 do?”
“You do realize what this would look like to anyone watching?” I asked. The shed was posted with warnings saying the police and neighbors were watching the garden for any signs of criminal activity.
“All the better for our cover story,” he replied with a grin.
I took the bills and stuffed them into my purse.
Then he held out his hand and I put mine into it. Together we strolled down the garden path. It was a sleepy, dreamy place, in the heat of the summer afternoon.
At the entrance to the garden, he paused underneath the stone archway. I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me again, but he just reached up and brushed a leaf from my hair.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. He turned and walked away, in the direction of his office. I looked around but I didn’t see the man in the yellow shirt anywhere.
When I got home, I called my mother. Despite the fact that she lives nearby, I only see her once or twice a month, usually for brunch. We say it’s because we’re both so busy—Silvia has her cruises and charity events, her docent tours and political fundraisers—but these excuses really cover up the fact that we have little to say to each other.
Silvia had once been a passionate, sexy woman. I remembered her running around the house barefoot chasing my father, dancing with him in the living room, throwing a plate of spaghetti at his head. But that woman had vanished long ago after her first hospitalization. She comes out sometimes when Silvia drinks enough but for the most part, my mother exhibits an unearthly calm. I blame it on the drugs she was taking.
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