by Cathryn Cade
Maybe it was the case studies she read that afternoon, some of them brutal in their graphic retelling of what the children had endured. Perhaps the burrito and hot salsa she ate for supper was partly to blame. And most probable of all, it was her subconscious speaking up... for that night, Shelle dreamed.
She stood on a platform of one of the local Link light rail stations. It was dark, and she shivered in the damp chill of a SeaTac night. She wore her sleep shorts and tank, because she'd forgotten to get dressed before coming out. But she had to hurry, she had to be somewhere, there hadn't been time to change her clothing.
A woman walked by, wearing a beautiful pashmina shawl draped over her back in rich, warm-looking folds.
'I could grab that,' dream-Shelle thought. 'She wouldn't even notice. Then I'd be warm.'
But the woman hurried away, out of her reach, and Shelle could not, must not move. She had to stand right here.
Finally, here it came. A light rail train, brightly lit, was rushing into the station.
Shelle stood, riveted. This was why she was here—to witness.
Instead of slowing for this stop, the train rushed by. The cars were empty, except for one man on the last car. He sat on the near side. Slim and clean-cut, he looked out the train window. Weirdly, instead of a suit, he wore a white garment that wrapped his arms to his body, like a shroud.
Their eyes met, his dark with hopelessness and grief.
Then the train rushed on, and the wind of its passing buffeted her so hard she stumbled and began to fall.
She woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in her bed. She was trembling, her heart pounding, her skin damp with perspiration.
"Oh, my God," she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep. "What was that about?"
She slipped out of bed and made her way the short distance into her tiny kitchenette, where she snapped on a light.
A cup of instant cocoa, that would be good. But as she reached up to the cupboard that held the box of packets, her gaze fell on the folded newspaper lying on the narrow counter.
Craig McFarland, deputy prosecutor, gazed up at her from the page.
Shelle grabbed the newspaper and held it closer. "Oh, crap," she breathed. "It was you in that pickup truck."
And the other man...she traced her finger down the page... 'McFarland has been involved in building a case against local businessman Darius Albany, accused of being heavily involved in criminal dealings.'
She heard again, the thug at the gate, 'Mr. Albany says you don't come in, you don't come in."
Holy fah-reaking baby Jesus. Had she witnessed a kidnapping? Because, why else would McFarland be out there, headed into the gated compound of a crime kingpin? Especially in a crappy old pickup truck with a biker escort?
Oh, this was bad. This was really, really bad.
What should she do? She dropped the newspaper on the counter and shoved both hands into her hair. Holding her head, she turned, staring around her tiny apartment as if the answers lay somewhere at hand.
Then she stopped in her tracks.
"Okay, you know what to do, Shelle," she said aloud. "Call the cops! If that was McFarland, he's in trouble." And if it wasn't...well, she might be in trouble with the cops for wasting their time. But she was certain she was not wrong.
She picked up her phone from the charger, pulled the newspaper closer, and punched in the number for the tip hotline.
"You've reached the Seattle law enforcement special tip line," droned a male voice. "How can I help you?"
Shelle blew out a quick breath. "I...I think I saw that deputy prosecutor, Craig McFarland being, uh...being kidnapped."
There was a short, electric silence.
"Yes, ma'am," the man said, more urgency in his voice. "Go on."
"I have to, um, start at the beginning. See, it all started with this wallet." She told the story of her journey to return the wallet, and what she'd witnessed there. "So, I think that's everything."
"Ma'am, would you mind giving me your name?" the man asked. "Or do you prefer to remain anonymous?"
"Huh?" Shelle said, puzzled. "Why would I care about that—this is important! I'm not some—I'm not out for a reward here. I want to help you find this poor guy. Anyway, uh, my name is Shelle Mason."
"Thank you, Ms Mason. And I want to tell you that this call has been recorded. Do we have your permission to use that as evidence?"
"Okay, sure."
After that things happened quickly. Shelle had just time to wash her face, get dressed and bundle her hair up in a messy bun before a knock came at her door. A stocky, balding man and a tall, African-American woman stood there, both in street clothes. They were both in their forties, with the cool demeanor of seasoned cops.
"Ms Mason?" the woman showed her a badge. "I'm Detective Washington, this is Detective Blossar. We're here to escort you in for further interview about your call to the tip hotline."
"Sure, just let me get my purse." Shelle grabbed her purse, locked her apartment, and followed them down the stairs to an unmarked sedan.
They headed north on I-5 into downtown Seattle. The ride there was quiet. Too quiet for Shelle, who would have appreciated a little friendly chatter, but whatever. She just wanted to do this thing, and hopefully help save Craig McFarland.
The building she was taken to was large and nondescript. She rode up in an elevator with the two quiet detectives, trying to ignore the fact that they were both giving her cop stares. On a quiet carpeted hallway, she was escorted to a conference room where a stylish, middle-aged blonde woman waited, standing by a table that held a laptop. She smiled at Shelle, a maternal smile that sent a chill down Shelle's spine.
"Hi, Shelle," the woman said. "I'm Dr. Harton. How are you tonight?"
"I'm fine," Shelle said with an inward sigh. "You're here to figure out if I'm a nutcase, right?"
The doctor's brows went up, but she kept her expression carefully blank. "If you like to put it that way. I prefer to think of it as assessing your emotional stability as a witness."
Shelle nodded. "I know. I've had counseling. I'm a foster kid," she explained, as the air in the room went electric. "Currently, I'm stable, employed, and enrolled in college classes. I'm not here to get attention, or tell you about a psychic vision I had, or anything like that."
The doctor smiled, this time more naturally, and held out a hand to the chairs at the table. "Wonderful. Then let's sit, shall we?" She motioned Shelle to a seat facing the far wall, which was composed of windows, all dark now.
The two detectives seated themselves at the table as well, Washington at the laptop. "All right, Ms Mason. We'd like to start by showing you some pictures, all right? You tell us if you recognize them."
The detective used the laptop to project onto the wall.
Shelle looked at the first photos, of three different men, all youngish and blond. "The guy on the right is that lawyer, Craig McFarland," she said. "But to be fair, I saw him in the newspaper, too."
Washington and Blossar exchanged a look. "And how about these men?"
The next pictures were of three African-American men, all sharply dressed. Shelle shook her head. "I've never seen any of them before. I'm guessing maybe one of them is Darius Albany. My friend Tawny described him as a, uh, brother. She's African-American too."
Det. Blossar heaved a frustrated sigh.
"The men you saw at the gate at 1600 Slamamish River Road," Washington went on calmly. "Do you see any of them in this next slide?"
Shelle stared at the six photos of younger men. They were mug shots, which meant the guys all looked hostile. "The one on the upper right. That's the one I spoke with at the gate. I gave him the wallet. The others...I think the one on the lower left was there, but...sorry, I'm not sure."
"That's fine. And these women."
Three stylish brunettes. Shelle wrinkled her nose. "The middle one—that's Delicia Garza."
"And she told you to come to 1600 Slamamish River Road, to return her wallet?" Blossar
asked.
"Yes."
"And she referred to that address as her boyfriend's place?"
"Yes."
"And have you ever seen these men?"
No, she'd never seen any of them, nor the other photos they showed her. Shelle covered another yawn and rubbed her eyes. The dull throb of a headache was forming.
"Sorry. I only saw her, and the two guys at the gate, and the bikers."
"Yes, the bikers," Washington said. The two detectives shifted in their seats, like predators longing to be after their quarry. "All right, now Ms Mason, I'm going to ask you to tell me again, what you told Det. Blossar on the phone."
Shelle yawned again.
"Would you like some coffee?" the doctor asked.
"D'you have any cocoa?" Shelle asked hopefully. Coffee in the middle of the night, no. But cocoa sounded awesome, and it had a little caffeine.
Her mouth quirked. "We don't have Starbucks in the building, but I think I can find you some instant. Be back soon."
Shelle told her story again, this time to Washington. "I noticed the suit—Mr. McFarland I mean—because he looked so out of place in that ratty old pickup truck. And he looked sick, like he could barely hold himself up. I saw him, but...I don't think he saw me. He just kind of looked through me, you know?"
"Drugged, probably," Det Blossar said, then shut up when Washington gave him a look.
"Oh-h," Shelle breathed. "Right. They would do that, wouldn't they?" She shivered. Poor guy. No wonder he'd stared blankly.
The doctor came back with a steaming paper cup. "Thanks." Shelle wrapped her hands around the cup, soaking up the warmth. "Do you think you'll, you know, be able to find him?" she asked.
"I'm sorry to say we can't answer that," Washington said. Then she turned as a door opened in the window wall.
Two men entered the room. The one in the lead was short and thin, with gray hair and tired eyes. He was followed by a slim Asian woman.
The man smiled and nodded to Shelle. "Ms. Mason, I'm Lt. Schmidt. This is Agent Harris."
Shelle's eyes widened. The Asian woman favored her with a cool smile and answered her unspoken question. "FBI."
Shelle looked from her to the detectives. "That's awesome," she said. "You're all working together to rescue Craig McFarland? You'll find him for sure, right?"
There was a short silence. Shelle looked at all of them, and saw an array of blank faces.
"Thanks to you, Ms. Mason," Lt. Schmidt said, "We have a much better chance. Now, how about we let you get home and get some rest."
He turned and walked away, heading for a door in the corner of the window wall.
"Come on," Washington said. "We'll get a uniform to drive you home."
Shelle yawned again, this time so hard her eyes watered. She blinked at the detective. "Okay. So, you'll tell me what happens?"
"You'll probably find out when everyone else does."
"Really? Even after I helped you?"
The woman shrugged. "The way it is, sorry."
That sucked. But, maybe the good news of McFarland's recovery would be in the morning papers. Which Shelle would have a chance to see at the TC Cafe in...she pulled her phone out and looked at the time...only three hours.
Well, crap. She was going to be a zombie at work.
CHAPTER FIVE
Shelle's apartment complex had very few amenities, but it did have covered parking.
As she climbed out of the police cruiser, she could see the rear bumper of her little car in its normal spot, on the far end of the row on her side of the complex.
One of the cops stayed in the cruiser. Shelle followed the other, a cute Hispanic guy, up the stairs to her unit. Her lack of sleep was catching up with her now—she was almost too tired to appreciate the way his uniform hugged his tight ass. She yawned again as she unlocked her door and turned to thank her escort. He grinned at her and gave her the chin lift guys used to convey so many things. "No problem, miss. You sleep well now. We'll be around."
Sleep well? Shyeah, for the hour she was going to get. Then his last words penetrated. "You're going to be around?"
He nodded, one hand on the stair rail. "Sure, to keep an eye on you. You're a witness to a possible crime." What he didn't add, but what finally penetrated her brain fog was that if there had been a crime, it had been committed, or at least engineered, by a wealthy and thus powerful man. One who did not hesitate to make people disappear.
"Okay," she whispered. "Um...thank you."
She locked herself into her apartment and went through the motions of getting ready to go back to bed. But she also peeked through the front window three times to make sure the police cruiser still sat at the street entrance to her apartments.
And she huddled in her bed knowing that there would be no more sleep for her tonight. Just in case she did manage to fall asleep, she set her phone alarm on extra-loud.
She dreamed again.
This time, she stood in an outdoor arena, watching a police cruiser-clown car race by. The siren blared, but the two cops were clown cops, chasing thug clowns, dressed in black-and-white stripes like old-time convicts, also driving a clown car.
Shelle waved at the cops to stop, but they ignored her, racing around in another circle after their prey, who laughed maniacally.
When the siren in her dream finally woke her, she realized it was her phone alarm screeching with increasing volume. "Sheesh," she mumbled, staggering into the shower. "What next?"
"Well," Tawny said dryly, when Shelle walked into the cafe five minutes late, her wet hair bundled up in a bun. "Looks like you took my advice, hmmm?"
Shelle poured herself a cup of coffee. "What advice?" She added a slug of creamer, and took a drink, wincing as the hot liquid burned her tongue.
Tawny wiped another menu and set it aside. "To go out and have a little fun. So, what'd you do, hit a dance club?"
"Uh, no." Shelle poured some cool water from the tap into her cup and took another drink. Ah, better. If only she could just set up an IV of the stuff. "I spent half the night at the police station."
"What?" her friend shrieked, her eyes wide, mouth open in a comical o. "Did you get yourself caught up in some bar brawl? Or did the cops raid the place? Darren said there's some new designer drug being sold around the clubs—and girl, stay away from that shit, it's dangerous."
Shelle gave her a look. "As if. You know I don't touch drugs." Not after both her parents had died young of substance abuse. She looked around, and then shook her head as Ronelle sauntered up, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Tell you later. Hi, Ronelle."
The redhead, who as usual was made-up as if to go clubbing, looked her over and gave a smirk of faux sympathy. "Well, don't you look like something my cat dragged in. Need to borrow some makeup?"
Shelle returned the smile in kind. "Thanks, hon. Always so thoughtful. But I'll pass." Because I don't want to catch anything, she added silently.
The cafe's front doors opened, and customers walked in, turning left to Shelle's section. She drained her coffee cup and grabbed a set of menus and a full carafe of coffee. Time to get to work.
They were slammed that morning, and it wasn't until Tawny sat at the end of the counter for her break that Shelle was able to relate the events of the night before. She busied herself re-filling syrup pitchers as she spoke, and kept her voice low, because Ronelle and Tre were coming and going.
Tawny ate her cereal and listened without a word as Shelle told about being summoned to drive up Slamamish River Road to a gated residence to deliver the wallet. But when Shelle reached the part about 'Mr. Albany says nobody comes in', Tawny's eyes widened. A bite of cereal fell off her spoon and back into the bowl with a plunk.
"That bitch is Darius Albany's girlfriend?" she hissed.
Shelle nodded. "But that's not the worst part."
She leaned forward, then stopped abruptly as Tre, the busboy moved in to grab the tray of dirty dishes under the counter.
He gave Shelle a melting
smile and batted his long lashes. "Hi, gorgeous. I'm free tonight, in case you wondered."
"No, actually I wasn't, and I won't be anytime soon—wondering if you're free, that is."
He pouted and tossed his shiny black hair. "But I was gonna take you dancing—teach you some salsa."
"Nobody wants to sample your salsa," Tawny told him. "Now get back to work, and let the grownups talk."
"Also, I returned that wallet," Shelle added. "So, I'm still broke, and can't be your sugar mama."
"Just my luck." Tre sighed, grabbed the bus tray and carried it away.
Tawny leaned forward, her cereal forgotten. "So, then what happened? Did Albany's low-lifes harass you?"
Shelle shook her head. "No, although they were creepy." She lowered her voice to a level just loud enough for Tawny to hear over the clatter of dishes and babble of voices in the cafe, and told about seeing the suit being driven into the compound by bikers, and how she'd later realized that he was the missing attorney from the King County Prosecutor's office.
Tawny gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, sweet baby Jesus," she mumbled. "Then what happened?"
"Then I went home and studied, and went to bed," Shelle said wryly. "I feel like an idiot now, but I didn't remember who the suit was until...well, I had a dream. A nightmare, actually. Woke me up, and then I remembered."
"So, you called the cops," Tawny nodded. "And they came and interviewed you?"
"Uh, no. They drove me into Seattle. Showed me a bunch of pictures, and asked me to ID McFarland, and the guys I saw."
She shook her head, her sleepless night and her discouragement catching up with her. "I was really hoping to read in the paper this morning that they found him...that he's home and safe now."
"But he's not," Tawny said. "Or if he is, they're not saying. And damn, there was nothing about them arresting Albany either. That bites the big one." She shook her head and reached over to take Shelle's hand in her warm one. "Oh, honey. I can't believe that happened to you...that you saw that."
"I know," Shelle answered. "I feel like I've been punked, you know? Like someone will pop out with cameras, and laugh and say, 'Ok, Shelle, you've been a great sport, now it's time for the big reveal.'"