Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  Martha checked the surrounding water for any moving lights, found none. They were a black boat on a black sea, invisible to the world, outside of time, the universe theirs and theirs alone; here fear didn’t scare her, but her passions did.

  Trammell came to her, lifting her face with his hands, pulling her toward him. There was a moment of shock at the chill of his hands. They warmed as they caressed her body. He kissed her, long and languorously. His arms wrapped her, knotting behind her back. She pushed him away and began to remove his clothes there in the cockpit. Was this the well from which her fears sprang? She was on the verge of something magical, and someone was trying to take it away from her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The role of power attorney came as naturally to Martha as slipping into a business suit. Every junior lawyer at CH&N attended mandatory in-house seminars with euphemistic titles, such as “Cross-Examination Techniques” and “Maximizing Witness Discovery Information.” Among themselves, they called it “attorney charm school.” The seminars focused on what they didn’t teach a person in law school: how to use direct eye contact and modulate the timbre of the voice—a whisper can be more threatening than a shout; how even slightly aggressive body posture immediately puts people on the defensive; how interruption is your friend—do it often; how short, demanding sentences force attention and demand a response. And, most of all, how silence is golden. Use it like a sledgehammer to emphasize your point. People hate confrontation, but they loathe silence.

  Few people were skilled at deflecting a head-on assault from someone trained at attorney charm school. Mr. Andrew Togaard, branch manager at the credit union, was not one of them.

  In her charcoal-gray wool suit, hair pulled back tight against her head, a crisp white blouse buttoned all the way to the throat, Martha leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I’m sorry . . .” She made a point of looking at his business card, though she already knew the name on it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Togaard. I understand the bank’s policy. But you must have misunderstood me. I’m signatory on three joint accounts with Hewitt Wilcox. I have every right to access that information. But I need information that predates the most recent six months.”

  Martha let silence fill the space between them. Although well cut, his suit jacket was tight across his chest. Togaard was about her age, which made him ancient compared to his employees. Finally, he repeated, “I’m not denying your right to the information, ma’am. I’m saying that to get back records, your request needs to be submitted in writing and—”

  “And the response time is two to four weeks,” Martha interrupted. “I don’t have that much time. Either you can help me or I can come back with a subpoena delivered by the Seattle Police Department.”

  “There’s no call for threats. I don’t make the—”

  “It’s not a threat, Mr. Togaard. I am merely outlining my next course of action. In fact, it may be better for Detective Callison and me to attend to these matters at the offices downtown. You should inform your boss that Harry Callison, a detective with the SPD, and I will be at his office within the hour with a subpoena for the information.”

  She pushed Callison’s card across the desk. “If you have any doubts, you may call this number for confirmation. Time is of the essence, Mr. Togaard. We both know you can access those records with a couple of clicks of the mouse. This is more important than I am at liberty to tell you. I ask that you make up your mind.”

  She stood up, buttoned her jacket, and picked up her briefcase. She saw him sizing it all up, figuring what the consequences might be if she and an SPD homicide detective arrived at his boss’s office with a subpoena. Was it a bluff? He would know only if he picked up the phone and called Callison.

  Waiting, Martha caught a faint whiff of diesel. She breathed deeply—definitely diesel with a little bit of the musty odor that pervaded everything on the boat. She smiled at the memory of sleeping spooned with Trammell in the tiny bunk. Rather than return to the dock, they had spent the night at anchor off Richmond Beach, motoring in with the dawn.

  The branch manager pushed the card back at her. His voice was cold. “What do you need, Ms. Whitaker?”

  Martha removed a set of folders from her briefcase and began laying out paperwork. “I’m a signatory on these three joint accounts with Hewitt Wilcox. This document indicates I have legal power of attorney for Mr. Wilcox. And this is why I’m here.”

  She laid a newspaper clipping on top of it all. It was just a few paragraphs from the Seattle Times, under the headline “Retired Professor Missing, Feared Drowned.”

  “Please feel free to make copies of these documents for your records. Mr. Wilcox is missing. Information has come to light that his disappearance may be related to his business activities. To assist in this matter, I have been asked by the police to review his bank accounts to see if anything in his financial records might help direct their investigation.”

  “To start, I need the past two years of records on these accounts. I also need to know if he had any other accounts with you—for example, a safety deposit box or another bank account. I know he didn’t use electronic banking or an ATM card. He wrote checks and made deposits and withdrawals in person. I need copies of those checks. I may need to see the originals, but for now, the copies will do.”

  “If at any time you have questions about my veracity or need information that goes beyond bank policies, you may call Detective Callison.”

  Martha sat down in the chair opposite Togaard and crossed her legs. He leaned forward, examining the documents one by one, ending with the three joint accounts. He typed something into his computer, studied it for a moment, and said, “It will take me a couple of hours to process all of this. Would you like to wait, or come back?”

  “I’ll come back.” She rose and looked at her watch. “Say, eleven thirty. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Togaard.” She handed him a card. “Here’s my number if you need to contact me.”

  On the dock outside Hewitt’s houseboat, Martha hesitated. The police tape prohibiting entry had been removed. The helm’s-wheel gate hadn’t properly latched, and it banged with the wake of a landing floatplane. The engine roar was audible in the distance. There was no hint of morning sun, only a steady drizzle. Martha looked down the empty dock and back again. She took a deep breath, stepped through the gate and onto the deck. She unlocked the door.

  Little had changed since she had last been here—nearly two weeks ago now, she realized. The houseboat still resembled the aftermath of a drunken brawl, except now there was a faint white powder on most things. Residue from the search for fingerprints.

  Where to start? Defeat swept over her. Take it one step at a time, she chided herself, item by item. Still, it took a moment before she pulled a hanger from the heap on the floor, removed her suit jacket, and hung it in the empty closet. One of Hewitt’s old shirts, its sleeves tied in a knot around her waist, served as an apron over her wool skirt. The houseboat had been without heat since the break-in and the damp winter air sent a chill through her bones. She found a wool sweater and put it on. Lingering scents of marijuana and old person emanated from it. She wondered if there was some afterlife where they might meet again, where Hewitt would assure her that he had lived a long and happy life, that he was okay with the way things had turned out. Martha didn’t believe it for a minute.

  She unearthed a portable heater from a midden of books and clothes and cushions, righted it, and turned it on. The coils began to glow. The blue tarp still covered the broken sliding glass door where Trammell, lying half in and half out of the houseboat and had provided an introduction they wouldn’t forget. At the desk, she leaned down and began sorting the papers strewn about her feet, unsure of what she was looking for, trusting that she’d know it if she found it.

  A thought came to her, and she used her phone to Google the phone number she needed. A voice like tires on a gravel road answered, “Gustafson’s Lock and Key Shop, Sven Gustafson speaking.”

  “Mr. Gust
afson, it’s Martha Whitaker.” She paused, and added, “The woman with the heterochromia iridium eyes.”

  “Ah, yes, how pleasant to hear from you again, Miss Whitaker. Did you find your safe?”

  “No, but that’s why I’m calling. You said the Brinkman L70 and L80 models were opened with a key and a combination number. What is the combination number?”

  “That varies with every safe, of course.” Before Martha could explain herself, she heard the rasping that might be interpreted as a laugh. “It’s a simple five-digit number, my dear. You turn the key, punch in the right sequence of five numbers, and “open sesame”! Good enough to keep the casual thief out.”

  “And are the safes small enough to be portable? I mean, could you move one, yourself?”

  “With a long enough lever, I could move the world.” The locksmith cackled. “But I’d probably call my grandson to move it for me. I would suggest he bring a hand dolly. He would ignore me, of course, and just pick it up. Kids.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a big help. Again. Be well.”

  “‘Well’ is a relative term when you’re eighty-two, Miss Whitaker. But I can still dream of being twenty-seven and having you accompany me to the Sons of Norway Ball.”

  “I may just take you up on that, Mr. Gustafson,” Martha said. A faint smile crossed her face. Dancing with Gustafson at the Sons of Norway Ball would cause a few heart palpitations among the white-hairs. Maybe it was time to honor her Norwegian roots a little more.

  She resumed sorting papers, adding one more thing to search for—a five-digit number.

  Warranties for everything from the television to a ten-dollar bedroom clock were dumped in a pile, together with an empty folder that said “Warranties.” Martha shuffled quickly through them for information on a Brinkman safe. Nothing. She shoved them back in the folder and hung it in the bottom desk drawer. Telephone bills, utility bills, and moorage bills were separated and filed. She organized the phone bills in reverse chronological order. On a note, she wrote, “Review phone bills.”

  Copies of the bookstore ledgers showed that Hewitt had trusted Ralph Hargrove to handle the store accounts, making deposits and payments, buying books and pricing them. Ralph wrote and signed his own paychecks. Every month he mailed copies of the checkbook ledger to Hewitt. When they arrived, Hewitt had told her to file them without so much as a glance. “Ralph’ll call if there’s a problem,” he had said. “Man’s a miser when it comes to my money. I’d sell that damn store if I thought Ralph could get a job anywhere else.” When she saw what Ralph was paying himself every two weeks, she understood why he had been living in the store’s back office, socks and underwear hung up to dry on an improvised clothesline. Had that been Ralph’s or Hewitt’s miserliness? The bookstore had a steady revenue stream throughout the year, spiking with the holidays and tapering off in summer months when most of the university students were gone. Hewitt certainly could have afforded to pay Ralph more than what was in the ledger. Had he known Ralph had taken up residence in the back of the store? She doubted it.

  She set the ledgers aside. She would compare them with the bank statements when she picked them up from the bank. A glance at her watch showed she had an hour yet.

  The monthly bank statements were at the bottom of the pile. She organized them, noting they went back only to the previous year, with June and July missing. Was that significant? The last statement was for December, which made sense. Where were previous years? Filed away? Thrown away? Stolen? Skimming the statement, she saw Hewitt wasn’t broke, but he also didn’t have a pile of cash. She set them aside to compare with the bank records. A search through the dwindling heap of papers didn’t produce a checkbook.

  To her note she added, “Look for investment accounts—IRAs, CDs, etc.” And “Stop checks.”

  Next came a year’s worth of credit card statements, again with June and July missing. What had Hewitt been up to in the early summer? She knew he often traveled in the summer. Had someone else been picking up the mail? Had he never received the statements? She made a note, “Check accounts for Ju/Jy activities.”

  She dialed Togaard’s number. When he answered, she said, “Mr. Togaard, Martha Whitaker. I forgot that Hewitt Wilcox also had a credit card with the bank. Could you access those statements for me, as well?”

  “I already have.”

  “Thank you. Did you find any investment accounts? CDs or IRAs? Anything like that?”

  “No, but I’m still searching. The copies you requested are printing now. They should be ready in a half an hour or so.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help on this. Oh, and—”

  But he had already hung up. One of the consequences of playing power bitch was people tended not to be chatty.

  When you own your home, don’t drive, rely on rabbit ears for your television reception, and eschew any technology developed post-1975, you don’t need a large filing system. Martha thought she had come to the end of Hewitt’s business records when she uncovered a stack of information on the Seattle Gay & Lesbian Association, including a photo from the Gay Pride News of Hewitt dressed as the “Fairy Santa” for the annual holiday party.

  With the memory of his lover George Garvey’s infidelity still working like a canker in his mind, Hewitt had asked Martha to be his date that year. The post-party party took place in a dark pub on Capitol Hill. Hewitt remained in his role as the Fairy Santa, dispensing naughty gifts to all the good little gays and lesbians. One of his helpers was a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound dyke with hardware poked into many different body parts. Dressed in an elf’s costume that ended in a garter belt and high heels, Santa’s helper took an immediate interest in the tall, dark-haired stranger on Santa’s arm. Out on the dance floor the Elf circled Martha like a pike preying on a minnow. Martha found herself responding, cheeks flushed, heat gathering in her belly. As the song ended, the Elf had pressed hard against her and kissed her with an animal hunger. The click click click of the Elf’s tongue stud against her teeth hit Martha like a bucket of ice water. The Elf took the news that she had tried to hit on the one straight woman at the party with grace and good cheer.

  “If you change your mind,” the Elf said, “just ask around for Julie B. Folks will know how to find me.”

  Julie B. Martha still found herself flattered and embarrassed by her attention. She located the folder labeled “G&L Assoc” and placed all the papers back in the desk drawer.

  A well-worn manila folder with no label was next in the pile. Inside was just a single photo, a blown-up copy of an old black-and-white picture. Nothing was written on either side. It must have been a small picture to start. It had been blown up until it was grainy, the image fuzzy. Two young men stood in front of a barn. An open barn door created a black background to frame them. Part of what looked like a full hay wagon was visible on one side. With straw hats pushed back on their heads, they were laughing, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. One had long hair that touched his shoulders. His shirt was open halfway down his chest, the sleeves rolled up. A bandana was knotted around his neck. The other man, boy really, pencil thin and handsome, was half-turned toward the man with the long hair.

  Martha looked again. “Oh, my god,” she whispered. It had to be Hewitt sixty, no, maybe seventy years ago—a teenager, but she was certain it was him. She peered at the grainy photo. She recognized the face, the thin, hawkish nose, the curve of his mouth when he laughed. He wasn’t just turned toward the man, he was gazing at him adoringly. She remembered the conversation out on the boat. Someday he had promised to tell her the sordid tale of youthful infatuation, how Romeo lost his Romeo. Now “someday” had come. Hewitt wasn’t here to tell the tale, but this longhaired man must have been his Romeo. Why else would he save this blown up photo?

  She carefully returned it to the file and placed it in the desk drawer. It took her a minute to recover from this most intimate intrusion into a life, a time she didn’t know—a life and a time lost forever.

&nbs
p; Sheaves of magazine pages slipped to the floor as she picked up the next folder. Recipes, predominately for salmon and crab. And there on the top, Hewitt’s “private recipe for crab-stuffed salmon.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She could hear him in the Carriage House kitchen, preparing the dish, instructing her like a spy whispering in the dark. Queen Victoria had asked for the recipe and been denied. The secret had almost gone down with the Titanic, but among the seven hundred souls who survived was the galley mate who had prepared the dish for the Astors’ private dinner party that fateful December night. Decades before, Hewitt had learned the recipe directly from the Titanic survivor, and he now shared it with her. In a voice as solemn as a high priest, he made her take a binding oath that she would reveal it only once—to a worthy successor, maybe her heir, a child he yet hoped to spoil like the grandchild he would never have.

  The real tradition, of course, was that of the sailor weaving a tall tale.

  How could he have vanished? A tear slid down her cheek.

  She slowly folded the crab-stuffed salmon recipe and slipped it in her briefcase.

  In the last folder, she discovered the missing June and July statements. Phone bills, moorage bills, credit card and bank statements were all there, as well. Invoices were all marked “Paid,” but not in Hewitt’s tight, backward scrawl. The handwriting was straight up, more cursive without being ornate. There was a slash through the stem of the 7.

  Someone else had paid his bills in June and July. Who? She backtracked through time. She didn’t remember Hewitt being gone, but she had been working on the Palmeiro case, with barely enough time to go to the bathroom between research, team meetings, interrogatories, and discovery. Days and weeks blended together.

  If Hewitt had been gone then, what about his cat? She remembered watching Dante in September, but she was positive the cat hadn’t stayed with her during June and July. Hewitt hadn’t mentioned anyone new in his life, and Hewitt was never shy about being in love. All too often he had sworn off men only to fall in love again, infatuation and lust assuring him he had found his soul mate at last. Still, he was in his eighties, in failing health, with enough scars around his heart from broken relationships and dead friends and lovers that Martha believed him when he said this last time that he was done with love.