Indigo Slam

by Robert Crais

  'Hi, is Clark there?' Bright, and kind of cheery.

  The voice said, 'Who is this?' Suspicious.

  Tre Michaels. Clark said he was coming up and gave me your number.'

  'I think you got the wrong number.' Clark Haines had spoken to someone at this number for over an hour on two separate occasions.

  'I'm sure I copied the number right. We're talking Clark Haines, okay? Clark said he'd be at this number or that you'd know how to reach him.'

  'I don't know anyone by that name.' He hung up, and he didn't sound anywhere close to credible.

  I called my friend at the phone company, gave her the area code and number, and asked for an ID. Forty seconds later she said, 'That service is billed to a Mr. Wilson Brownell. You want his address?'

  'Sure.'

  I copied the address, then hung up and thought about the two hundred dollars I had taken from Teresa Haines. Wilson Brownell clearly knew Clark and, under normal circumstances, would be the next step in the investigation. A ticket to Seattle and a hotel would normally be a billable expense, but having a fifteen-year-old kid for a client wasn't normal. Teresa and Charles and Winona were minor children living alone because their father, unemployed and now established as a drug user with a spotty employment record, had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned them. There was every real possibility that Clark Haines might never return, or even be found alive, and the smart thing to do would be to call the police and let them handle it. If I went to Seattle, I couldn't reasonably expect to recover the cost.

  Only I had promised Teresa Haines that I would try to find her father, and it bothered me to leave the lead to Wilson Brownell untested and unresolved. I thought about the two hundred dollars again, and then I picked up the phone and dialed another number.

  First ring, and a man's voice said, 'Pike.' Joe Pike owns the agency with me.

  'I'm looking for a guy named Clark Haines, and I believe he's gone to Seattle. He has three kids and I need you to keep an eye on them while I'm up there.'

  Pike didn't respond.

  'Joe?'

  We might as well have been disconnected.

  'They're doing okay, but I don't like the idea of them not having an adult around if they need help.'

  Pike said, 'Three children.'

  'I just want to make sure they don't burn down the house.'

  More silence.

  I was still waiting for him to say something when the cat came in through his cat door and growled so loud that Joe Pike said, 'Is that your cat?'

  The cat trotted into the living room and growled again. Angry. He went from the living room into the kitchen and then back out to the front entry. He would trot hard, then stop and sniff, then growl some more. I said, 'I'll call you back in a few minutes.'

  I hung up and watched the cat. 'You okay, buddy?'

  His eyes narrowed but he didn't come near.

  I sat on the kitchen floor, held out my hand, and after a while he finally came over. His fur was warm and coarse, and he needed a bath. I stroked his back, then felt his ribs and hips and legs. I was thinking that someone had shot him again or that a coyote had gotten him, but nothing seemed broken or tender or cut. I said, 'What's wrong?'

  He jumped away from me and disappeared through his door and that's when I saw the blood.

  Three drops of red were on the kitchen floor by the door jamb, two overlapping small drops, with a third larger drop nearby. I had stepped over them when I had let myself in. I said, 'Sonofagun.'

  I touched the large drop and it was tacky.

  I thought that maybe he'd brought in a ground squirrel or a field mouse, but there was no dirt or debris or fur. Sometimes he'll bring a kill up to my loft, so I went upstairs to check. Nothing. I went back down and looked through the living room and the dining room and the pantry, but there were no remains there either, and my scalp began tingling. I checked the doors and the windows, then went upstairs again and once more worked my way through the house. The handguns I keep locked in my nightstand were still there, as was the ammunition. The shotgun and rifle were still secure in the closet. My watches, jewelry, cash, and credit cards were all in their places, and their places looked unchanged, yet maybe not. I was pretty sure that the clothes hanging in my closet had been pushed to the right, but now they were spread evenly across the bar, and someone or something had smudged the dust on the two top shelves of my bookcase. Yet maybe not. Nothing was missing, but I felt an acute sense of difference in the shape and way of things, and a growing suspicion that someone had been in my house, and that they hadn't been here to steal. I went down the slope to check the alarm box on the side of my house. Fresh scratches gleamed in the metal around the screw heads. It looked like someone had beat the alarm, then let himself in through the kitchen. The cat had probably nailed him or her going out because he'd already completed his search. I said, 'Man, this really sucks.'

  The cat was stalking around at the top of the slope, still growling, still pissed. He is an obsessive animal and does not let go of anger easily.

  I said, 'Come here, you.'

  He stalked over, surly and growling and making little noises.

  I picked him up and held him close. 'I'm glad you weren't hurt.'

  He squirmed until I put him down. Pity any dog that tried to grab him now.

  I went back inside, washed my hands twice, then called Joe. 'Someone went through my house.'

  'Have anything to do with the father?'

  I thought about it. 'I don't know why it would, but I'm not sure.'

  'Maybe I should watch you instead of these kids.'

  'Maybe.' I told him their address. 'Meet me there and I'll introduce you. I'll take a flight out early in the morning.'

  'Whatever.'

  Pike hung up, and I stood in the center of the kitchen and listened to the silence. Someone had been in my home, and it made me feel creepy and violated and angry. I pulled out the Dan Wesson, sat it on the kitchen counter, and crossed my arms. 'Let's see'm come back now.'

  Acting tough will sometimes help, but not always, and the gun did not lessen the feeling that I was vulnerable and at risk. They seldom do.

  I shut off the lights, locked the house, and reset the alarm. It hadn't helped, but you do what you can.

  I drove down to see Teri Haines.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  It was just after six that evening when I rang their bell and Charles threw open the door. He threw it wide, just as he had before, without regard to who might be on the other side. I said, 'Always ask who it is.'

  Charles showed me a twelve-inch serrated carving knife. 'You don't have to ask when you're ready.'

  Sometimes you just have to shake your head.

  Today Charles was wearing the oversized shoes, the monstrously baggy shorts, and a black Wolverine T-shirt that hung almost to his knees. Teresa appeared over his shoulder, and said, 'Did you find him?' Hopeful.

  'Nope. But I've got a couple of ideas. How about I come in and we talk about them?'

  Winona was sitting at the dining table, and plates were there for Charles and Teresa. I'd interrupted dinner. Spaghetti, again. Maybe it was all they knew how to make. 'Smells great.' Mr. Cheery.

  Teresa said, 'We were just finished, but there's more if you'd like some.'

  'That's okay, but thanks.'

  'Just let us clear the table.'

  'Sure.' I wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. I had to move a library book to sit. Brennert's Her Pilgrim Soul.

  Winona slid from her seat, placed her silverware onto her plate, then carried the plate and her glass into the kitchen. Teresa gathered her things, too, and so did Charles. No one had to badger him. Everyone knew what to do and everyone did their job as if it were part of a larger accepted pattern. They gathered their things and brought them into the kitchen, and then Teresa and Charles returned, Teresa picking up the place mats and Charles wiping off the table with a damp cloth. Like they had done it a thousand times and w
ould do it a thousand more, and had accepted it as a natural part of their lives. A ritual. I watched them and wondered at the secrets families keep. Teresa wanted me to find her father, but the man I was finding didn't appear to be the man she knew. And the man that I would eventually find would be different still. It is often that way in my line of work.

  When the table was clean, Teresa came over, sat in the big chair, and gave me a smile. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

  'No, thanks.'

  'Well, if you change your mind.' Prim and proper. In absolute control of her environment, and of this meeting with the employee. 'Now, what have you found?'

  Water was running in the kitchen. Winona's night to do the dishes. 'Has your father mentioned a man named Tre Michaels to you?'

  She shook her head. 'No. No, I don't think so.'

  'How about Wilson Brownell?'

  She stared thoughtfully as if maybe this rang a bell, but then she shook her head. 'Uh-uh.' Charles skulked in from the dining room and leaned against the wall.

  'Tre Michaels worked with your father. He saw your dad a couple of weeks ago, and your father said that he was thinking of taking a trip, but he didn't say where. At about that same time, your dad made five long-distance calls to Seattle and spoke with Wilson Brownell, twice at considerable length.' When I mentioned Seattle Teri and Charles glanced at each other, and Charles crossed his arms. 'I phoned Mr. Brownell, but Brownell denied knowing your father. I think he's lying, and I think maybe your dad went to Seattle to see him. I'm going to fly up tomorrow to ask Mr. Brownell in person.' I didn't mention the drugs, or why Clark had been fired from Enright.

  Teresa looked nervous. 'Why do you have to go to Seattle?'

  'I told you why.'

  She frowned harder. I thought she wanted to object some more, but you could tell that whatever her objections might be, her desire to find her father was stronger. 'Okay. I guess I should pay you some more money.'

  I raised a palm. 'Forget the money. I'll take that part of it up with your father when I find him.'

  Charles was frowning, too. He seemed less happy about my going to Seattle than Teresa. She said, 'How long will you be gone?'

  'Two days, maybe three. Less if I get what I'm after right away.'

  They were watching me now, all big eyes.

  'I've asked my partner to come over. His name is Joe Pike, and he'll be around if you need anything.'

  Charles looked sulky. 'What are we gonna need? You think we're babies?'

  'No, but I'll sleep better if I know there's someone to help you if you need it.'

  The doorbell rang. Charles grabbed his knife and raced for the door. I said, 'Ask who it is.'

  Charles threw open the door and there was Joe Pike, filling the frame, motionless. Pike is six-one, with long ropy muscles, short dark hair, and a face that gives you nothing unless you know him well. His arms are laced with veins, and bright red arrows had been tattooed onto the outside of his deltoids a long time ago. They point forward. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and blue Levis and bottomless black pilot's glasses. The glasses tilted toward Charles.

  Charles dropped the knife and screamed, 'Run!' He tried to slam the door, but Pike caught the door without effort, and gently pushed it open.

  I said, 'Lighten up, Charles. This is Joe Pike. Joe works with me.'

  Charles was leaning into the door with everything he had, making little sounds like 'Grr, grr, grr.'

  Teresa snapped, 'Charles!'

  Charles jumped away from the door and ran past Winona into the kitchen, breathing hard. Winona was standing in the kitchen door, hands soapy and dripping, sniffling like she was about to cry.

  Teresa said, 'It's okay, honey. He's one of the good guys.' She looked back at me and shook her head. 'We can take care of ourselves. We don't need a baby-sitter.' Charles peeked out from behind the door.

  Joe Pike looked at the knife on the floor, then at the children, and then at me. 'Baby-sitter?'

  I spread my hands. 'He won't live with you. He'll just be around, and you'll have his phone number. If there's anything you need, you can call him.' I looked at Joe. 'Right?'

  Joe's head swiveled so that the flat black lenses angled my way. I thought he might be amused, but you never know.

  Teresa's mouth set in a stubborn line. 'It's all right. We're fine.'

  I said, 'Look, I'm not leaving you guys here alone. Joe will be outside, and he might drop in a time or two, and that's the way it has to be.'

  Teresa wasn't liking it, but I wasn't giving her a lot of choice. 'Well, I guess there isn't much I can do about it, is there?' Stiff.

  I shook my head. 'No.'

  Charles finished eyeing Joe and skulked out from behind Winona. 'Lemme see your gun.'

  Pike picked up the serrated knife, flipped it into the air, then caught it by the blade. He looked at Charles, and Charles ducked behind Winona. Pike walked over and held out the knife. Handle first. 'Put this away before someone gets hurt.'

  Charles took the knife and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Pike turned to Teresa. 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Haines. My name is Joe.' He held out his hand and she took it. I think she blushed.

  Winona smiled. 'My name's Winona.'

  Pike glanced over at me and said, 'Go ahead and leave. We'll be fine.'

  That Joe. To know him is to love him.

  I left them like that in the deepening purple of twilight, and went home.

  I approached my house with a suspicion I do not often feel and let myself in. The three drops of blood were still by the cat's door, and the quiet house still held an air of alienness that I resented. The cat slipped in through his cat door, sniffed the three drops, then snicked across the floor and sat by his bowl. Guess he had moved past it.

  I gave him a can of Star Kist tuna, then opened the sliding glass doors that lead to my deck. The twilight air was cool and scented with wild sage. I put Jimmy Buffett on the CD player, then poured a glass of Cuervo Gold, had some, then went out to the side of my house and selected a fat green lime from the tree I planted two years ago. It went well with the Cuervo. My home had been invaded, and I could either let my feelings for the place be changed by that event or not, but either way would be my choice. The event is what you make of it.

  I spent the next two hours cleaning both bathrooms and the kitchen and the floors. I threw out my toothbrush and opened a new one, and I washed the sheets and pillowcases and towels. I pulled the plates and the silver from the cupboards and drawers and loaded them into the dishwasher, and vacuumed the couch and the chairs and the carpets. I scrubbed the floors hard, and spent the remains of the day cleaning and drinking until, very early the next morning, I had once more made peace with my home.

  I packed, then fell into a fitful sleep as Jimmy Buffett sang about Caribbean sunsets, over-the-hill pirates, and a world where fifteen-year-old girls didn't have to carry the emotional weight of their families.

  Later that morning I went to Seattle.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Seattle is one of my favorite cities, and I often think that if I did not live in LA, I might live there. Where the sky over Los Angeles is more often dimensionless and ill-defined, Seattle is capped by a continually redefined skyscape of clouds that makes the sky there a visibly living thing, breathing as it moves, cooling the city and its people with a protective cloak, and washing the air and the land with frequent rains that come and go in a way that freshens the place and its people. You can get the best coffee in America in Seattle, and browse in some of the best bookstores, and fish for silver and blackmouth salmon, and, until recently, the real estate prices were so low compared to those in Southern California that herds of Californians moved there. A friend of mine from Orange County sold her house and used the equity to buy a beautiful home on the water at Bainbridge Island. Cash. She used the balance of her equity to invest in mutual funds, and now she spends the bulk of each day painting in watercolors
and digging for butter clams. So many Californians did this that property values in the Seattle area went through the roof and many native Seattleites could no longer afford to live in their own town. Whenever I visit I say I'm from Oregon.

  I picked up a Ford Mustang and a street map from the Sea-Tac rental people, then followed Highway 509 north toward Elliot Bay and a seafood house I know that lies in the shadow of the Space Needle. I had a crab cake sandwich and fried new potatoes and mango iced tea for lunch, then asked a parking meter cop for directions to Wilson Brownell's address. With any luck, Brownell and Clark might be sitting around Brownell's place right now. With any luck, I might be on the next flight back to LA and not even have to spend the night. It happens.

  Brownell lived across the Duwamish Waterway in an older, working-class part of West Seattle called White Center. It is a community of narrow streets and old apartments and wood-framed homes surrounding a steel mill. Young guys with lean, angry faces hung around near the mill, looking like they wished they could get work there. The ground floor of Brownell's building fronted the street with a secondhand clothing store, a place that refinished maritime metalwork, and a video rental place called Extreme Video. The video place was papered with posters of Jackie Chan and young Asian women tied to chairs with thousands of ropes. Extreme.