He didn’t or couldn’t offer any details on the investigation. But he did have a personal question for Martha. “Do you think Beatrice might be pregnant?”
“If she is, I’ve got a vet who owes me my money back,” Martha said. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, Beatrice seems fine. She and Rebecca have really hit it off. I now have to take a book to read because Rebecca will spend an hour brushing her after doing the chores. I hope that’s okay?”
“Detective, what’s the matter with Beatrice?”
“Nothing that we can tell. It’s just that she’s going through twice the amount of food as you told us. And she doesn’t feel like she’s getting fat or anything. She’s just eating a lot. Rebecca weighed her last night: thirteen pounds, maybe thirteen and a half. Does that sound about right?”
“Yeah, she was just shy of fourteen at her last checkup.” Martha paused. “But I don’t own a scale.”
“Rebecca brought one from home.”
The next day, Metcalf arrived with take-out Thai for lunch. Between bites of curry scallops, he informed them he had managed to track down several people lined up in the birthday photo. Gary Bell. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, Karen and Hector Brown. Hector? No wonder everyone, including his wife, called him Brownie. None of them had any idea why Hewitt selected that photo. Except for the Browns, none of them had seen or heard from Hewitt in ages. Brownie had related the details of assisting Hewitt with the package and guarding the envelope with the photo until Martha arrived.
“Do you think he might be holding something back?” Metcalf asked.
Martha didn’t have a clue. Brownie and his wife had been friends with Hewitt for a long time, obviously, but Martha hadn’t remembered meeting either of them until the week before.
When asked, Bonnie Berkowski and Annabel Lewis were as baffled as Brownie. Annabel, from her position as the department’s admin assistant, had been a great help in tracking down most of the students. Handsome George Garvey, Hewitt’s ex-lover, apparently had transitioned from wet Seattle to sunny Palm Springs. The police there were looking for him.
“Maybe the photo was a feint,” Trammell said. “A misdirection to keep people from looking someplace else?”
“Then why all the secrecy around it?” Corvari offered from the kitchen.
Metcalf ran his hand quickly through his hair. “And why would Hector Brown expect Whitaker to be the one to claim it? He said Wilcox had expected her to come in with the second half of the postcard. I think we just don’t know what the message is yet.”
Metcalf had expanded his search, talking to everyone on the dock, Hewitt’s former colleagues at the university, the business owners near University Rare Books and Manuscripts. He checked all of Hewitt’s phone calls. Nothing.
Whatever Hewitt had been up to, he hadn’t shared it with anyone.
“What about the safe?” Martha asked.
“If he bought it in Washington within the past ten years, we’ve narrowed it down to a possible eight to nine thousand units. We can’t realistically expect that to lead anywhere.”
“Surely, you’ve gotten some evidence from the crime scenes,” Trammell said.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you can tell me what,” Metcalf snapped in reply. “Each break-in was the same—quick and dirty, nothing stolen, nothing fenced. The only eyewitness is Martha, who got a glimpse of a man dressed in black with a flip in his hair. We didn’t get much in the way of fingerprints. Forensics has a partial from the back office at the bookstore, but it doesn’t match anything we have on file. I’m wondering if that might be another case altogether—a frustrated lover, an abused boy, something that would explain the castration. The timing just happened to be coincidental.”
That theory was greeted with utter silence.
“The Volvo had to be registered to someone,” Trammell offered. Martha could see the journalistic wheels start to turn.
Metcalf nodded. “We tracked it to a couple from Vancouver, BC. They reported it stolen to the RCMP from their condo in Whistler. The Washington plates belonged to a car in Lynden, so we figured that’s where he crossed the border. But none of the agents remembered talking to anyone who fits the description of the Hammer of God. And what was he doing in Canada? It’s not like he couldn’t have stolen a car here.”
“The man had no ID, but he must have had fingerprints. What about DNA? I mean, there must be something. I can’t live the rest of my life in this goddamn hotel.” Trammel stood up and started pacing.
“Have you sent divers down at Hewitt’s houseboat?” Martha asked. “If he was waterproofing a packet, that would be a logical place for it to be.”
“Harbor Patrol checked it out. Nothing.” Metcalf stood up to leave, his lunch mostly untouched. “Oh, and ballistics reported the bullets from the gun at the Harbor Patrol site didn’t match the bullets we found at your office.”
“And the Hammer of God didn’t have enough hair to have a curl under a face mask,” Martha said. “Neither did Danny Kimble for that matter. At least two people are still out there.”
“Bingo,” Metcalf said. “Which is why you have to stay here a while longer.”
“You make it sound like we have an option,” Martha said.
Corvari offered a smile and a nod. The smile would remain sweet as long as they didn’t try to leave. It also wouldn’t hurt to have her around in case the unfriendlies, as Metcalf had started calling them, made an unexpected visit.
“Oh, a couple of personal messages. I almost forgot,” Metcalf said. “Lance, your partner said to tell you that the paper got out this week without a hitch. Maybe the finest edition yet.” There was a pause followed by a long “Um.” Then, “I was wondering, are the questions to the Sex Doctor real?”
“All of the questions come from our readers,” Trammell said with the assurance of someone who had answered the question a million times before. “Finest edition yet. Mac’s jerking my chain.”
“You said you had a ‘couple’ of personal messages,” Martha said, when it looked like Metcalf was headed to the door.
“Oh, yeah. Your boss called Lieutenant Lane who called me. Seems he doesn’t want to talk to a mere detective.”
Martha ignored this. “And the message is?”
“He met with someone named Gorky or something like that. And, you’re not to worry. He’s taken over the case himself.” As if to himself, he added, “Maybe he’d like to take over my case, too. That would be nice.”
“Thanks.” Martha understood the words, but not the message. Ben Matthews had met with Mr. Göksu? She could only guess that getting Ben involved with her pro bono work for Göksu had been the subtle work of Crystal. ‘Mr. Göksu is here to meet Martha, what should I do?’ Never mentioning that she had called him to come in, in the first place.
The door had barely closed behind Metcalf when Corvari approached them from the kitchenette. An open UDub hoodie revealed a gun in a shoulder holster. Thick, solid forearms and biceps suggested hours in the weight room. Her short blond hair was matted from a motorcycle helmet. If Corvari considered it a bad hair day, she didn’t comment on it.
“Metcalf’s such a prick,” she snorted. “The Sex Doctor? He believes those questions are real? You must be feeling really confident right now.”
Trammell pushed back his chair and disappeared into his bedroom. The door slammed shut.
“What’s got his knickers in a twist?” Corvari asked.
“A week shut up in a hotel room would be my first guess. Or you offended him. I think he may be the Sex Doctor.”
“Really?” Corvari mouthed the word more than said it. “He seems so normal. I never would’ve guessed.” She turned back to Martha. “You know, word around the office is you cleaned Metcalf’s clock pretty good last week.”
Martha measured her words carefully. “I wouldn’t say that. I demonstrated how a girl could disarm a person with a gun.” She knew only one other person had seen the demonstration. Was Callison purposely underminin
g Metcalf’s authority, or was it just gossip around the water cooler?
“Maybe you could give me a few tips,” Corvari said. “You know, disarm someone with a gun without having to shoot them. The paperwork is horrible if you have to shoot someone.”
“Sure,” Martha said. “Heaven forbid we should have any more paperwork in our lives.”
Corvari stood up and started pushing furniture out of the way. “You don’t know what paperwork is until you’ve been a cop."
"Or a lawyer."
"Yeah, there's that." She looked around. "Well, let’s do it. Unless you want to read more War and Peace. But I can tell you how it ends. I saw the movie. I swear, was there ever a Russian who wasn’t tortured and depressed?”
“You got that right.” Martha stood up, shaking out muscles and ligaments and tendons. “Besides, in an hour you’ll be too sore to move, and I can go back to reading my book. Unless Trammell and I decide to just walk out the door.”
“Oh, I understand that you could do that now if you wanted. It’s just that you’d have to do it over my dead body.”
“And god forbid the paperwork.” Martha smiled for the first time in a week.
SEVENTEEN
On the ninth day, Trammell and Martha rendezvoused over dinner. They seldom ate together during the day, but they had gotten into the habit of sitting down together late in the day to share a meal. He had decided again on fish and chips, cole slaw, and a beer. Martha ordered the special—macadamia-crusted halibut, garlic mashed potatoes, and tiny asparagus spears. Trammell declared asparagus in January to be an abomination before man and God.
“Just think of the carbon footprint it took to ship asparagus from Chile,” he argued. “Maybe we shouldn’t have asparagus and tomatoes and strawberries all year round.”
The inclusion of strawberries was directed at Corvari, who had declined to join them because she had a late dinner date. But she didn’t think it would spoil the rest of her evening if she had a piece of strawberry torte.
“Oh, get off your soap box,” Martha laughed. “Where do you think your fish came from? My money’s on farm-raised Atlantic cod out of Canada. And what exactly are we supposed to eat in the winter? Turnips and rutabagas from the root cellar? If we only ate locally, we wouldn’t eat a fresh green from November to April. There’s not a commercial fish caught within a hundred miles of Seattle anymore. At least I can go out and catch my own fish. When we’re out of here, I’ll take you salmon fishing and prepare you a sunset dinner of grilled salmon so fresh and moist and tender that the gods and Corvari will fight to join us.”
“You’re on,” Trammell said.
An exaggerated handshake led to a pushing and pulling contest. Martha could have taken him any time, but she liked the sense of play after so many days of seclusion.
“Lookit, Bess,” Trammell yelled. “I’m lasting longer than you did.”
“It’s not a bronco riding contest, you nitwit,” Corvari said, shaking her head. “Even I could've kicked you in the balls by now.”
A knock at the door, and Corvari was instantly on guard. She held a finger to her lips, and moved to the peephole. “Yes?”
“Room service for two,” came the response.
Corvari recognized the voice. If the answer had been anything else, she would have had her gun out and Martha and Trammell would be diving for their respective bedrooms. As it was, they stepped aside to remain out of sight. Moments later Corvari reappeared pushing a cart stacked with silver domes. She announced, “Dinner is served.”
Tired of eating at the coffee table, Martha had set the small table. Place mats, cloth napkins, forks, knives, and spoons all properly arranged. It wasn’t much larger than a bar table, but if they packed tight and kept their feet tucked in, it accommodated the three of them.
“Chardonnay, Bess?” Martha asked, pouring herself a glass.
“If only.” The officer looked at the table. “If we had a candle, this would be a regular romantic dinner for three.”
In a moment, Martha returned from her bedroom. She lit a tea light. “I had hoped there might be a bathtub for real people. Foolish me.”
“Thank you,” Trammell said, a couple of bites into dinner. “This is nice. ‘Small cheer and merry welcome makes a merry feast.’”
“Shakespeare?” Martha asked.
Trammell nodded with a smile. “You’re getting better.”
“No, you’re just predictable.” She sampled her halibut. The cooks were getting better. The fillet was still moist. Martha asked, “What did Metcalf mean today when he said ‘your business partner’? I thought you owned the Ballard Gazette.”
“I’m the publisher and editor,” Trammell said. “Mac’s a partner in the business. But his idea of being flush is having enough money to pay his moorage and buy an extra latte. He wants to write, I want to make money and do good journalism. He’s the romantic idealist; I’m the pragmatist. We make a good team. God knows, he doesn’t need me to put out the paper. He needs me if he doesn’t want to go bankrupt in three months. If this Hewitt story ever develops, he’ll be the one to write it.”
“Okay, I’ve got a question,” Corvari said. “Who’s the Sex Doctor?”
“When you start telling me what Metcalf tells you in private, then I’ll start sharing some of my secrets,” Trammell answered.
“Well, some of us find it disgusting. I know what you told Metcalf, but you’ve got to be making those questions up.”
“Every one of them comes from readers.” Trammell’s voice took on an edge. “There’s nothing illegal. What two consenting adults do in the bedroom is none of my business or yours. A number of folks seem to have forgotten that simple courtesy.”
“Would you be so high and mighty,” Corvari countered, “if it didn’t sell papers?”
“Absolutely. And since when did profit become a dirty word? The Sex Doctor helps keep us afloat, no question. If I kill the Sex Doctor because you’re offended, I’d probably kill the Gazette and all the good stories we print. Freedom of the press, remember? It’s our only check on the power brokers in government or business or the guy leading a religious sect. Lose it and we lose our freedom as a people. And because of that freedom, you,” he glanced at Corvari, “have the freedom not to read it.”
Whoa. MacAuliffe wasn’t the only romantic idealist at the Ballard Gazette. Martha said, “That doesn’t sound like the first time you’ve given that speech, Trammell.”
“Sorry. I get a little worked up on the issue.”
“No apology necessary, dude. I’m a big girl,” Corvari said, taking another bite of strawberry torte.
Trammell turned to Martha. “You sounded pleased when Metcalf said your boss was helping out on one of your cases.”
“Did I?” Martha asked. “Yes, I suppose I was. Surprised and pleased, I guess. It’s a pro bono case I’m working on. He didn’t have to step in. The firm has no responsibility for it. The client’s a poor immigrant who could never afford Carey, Harwell and Niehaus, or any attorney for that matter. I heard about his situation from a friend. And doing pro bono work doesn’t hurt, come promotion time.”
She realized how that sounded, and while true, it wasn’t the reason she had taken on the Göksu case. How did people like Trammell wear their hearts on their sleeves? It was such an invitation for disappointment, even betrayal. Still, she wondered why Ben Matthews had agreed to meet with the grieving father. He was a senior partner. There were no more promotions coming for him. Martha glanced around the table. “How’s that strawberry torte, Corvari?”
“You ain’t getting off that easy, honey. I understand about attorney-client privilege and all, but you can tell us something.”
“He’s from Turkey,” Martha explained. “Makes almost nothing. He has an only son, the pride of a very proud man. A group of punks beat the kid up one night, thinking he was the next Islamic suicide bomber. He’s not Arab, not even a Muslim. He’s a Persian Christian. But, to a bunch of thugs, it didn’t matter. No
w the kid’s in a coma and going to spend the rest of his life on a ventilator with a feeding tube, and he has enough lines hooked up to him to bankrupt the family. I’m trying to get them help to cover medical expenses for who knows how long—weeks, months, even years.”
“God, that’s horrible,” Corvari said.
“Yeah,” Martha agreed.
Trammell stared at her, as if looking directly into her soul. She was afraid he would find it lacking. She said, “It’s not all altruism.” She paused a moment, and thinking she might choke on the words, she added, “My sister lived for three years in a coma. It nearly killed my father, and it cost him everything he had to keep her alive. I didn’t want to see that happen to another family.”
She didn’t move.
Trammell reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Can’t even fathom how it must be every time you see that poor boy,” Corvari said, pushing back her chair. She patted Martha on the shoulder. “And it’s a hell of a lot better than being the Sex Doctor and telling us how fucking patriotic you are because of it.”
Martha gave a weak laugh. She slid her hand out from under Trammell’s.
“Hey, come on,” Trammell said to Corvari, with faked chagrin. “That’s not fair.”
“Get used to it,” Corvari said. “Life’s not fair, in case you hadn’t heard. Just ask Martha’s client.”
Martha curled up on the sofa, War and Peace open on her lap. Corvari was right—the Russians were a tortured, depressed lot. Mass butchery and endless war offset by moments of individual heroism. Did one really make up for the other? She glanced at the back of the book: only seven hundred pages to go.
Corvari washed up the few dishes not returned on the dining cart, humming quietly. Martha recalled how her grandmother had always hummed when working. A series of soft sounds and flowing melodies. As a little girl, Martha decided Gran had too much joy trapped in her body, and she released the excess by humming. Martha had tried to hum like Gran, but it felt unnatural, like when the sun and moon were in the sky together. She always thought it was because she didn’t have enough joy.
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