No, I didn’t believe in luck. But the safest bet in here was that I was the luckiest girl.
In the bar, she was placing dollar bills in a thin black pouch and her head was down. She looked up, ready with the automatic smile. But then she blanched and glanced over one shoulder. Down the shellacked wooden bar four men and a stick-thin woman stared at a flat-screen TV. The woman clutched her drink with hands like claws.
“What . . . why . . . ” she was whispering, “what are you doing here?”
“I just dropped by to say hello.”
She stared at me. “You can’t call? I’ve got a phone.”
“I do too. And anytime you want to tell the truth, call me.”
“What?” Her voice was obviously louder than intended. She glanced down the bar again. The barflies didn’t hear. Or care.
“Why didn’t you tell me you worked here?” I asked.
“I told you I’m a waitress,” she hissed. “What’s it matter where?”
“It mattered enough for you not to tell me.”
She set the tray on the bar between two vertical brass rails. She nodded at the bartender. He walked over, taking her orders, glancing at me. I smiled.
He walked back down the bar. Stacee turned around.
“I’m working. I can’t talk to you. You’re going to have to leave.”
“Does Courtney gamble here?”
“Listen,” she hissed, “it’s totally uncool for you to just show up like this.”
The bartender glanced over. He was upending a bottle of gin, squirting soda in the other glasses. He carried over the drinks, setting them on her tray, stabbing through the ice with little plastic stirrers. Stacee picked up the tray, pivoting, and carried the drinks to the poker floor, her smile locked in place.
“Can I get you something?” the bartender asked.
“Coke, no crushed ice.”
The television played a horse race with closed-captioning across the top of the screen, only the hooves were visible, tearing up the track’s brown dirt. I waited for Stacee and eavesdropped on the sporadic non sequiturs erupting from the barflies. Five minutes later, the bartender asked if I wanted a refill.
“Where’s the waitress?” I asked.
“She’s on break.”
“How long?”
He slid a damp rag across the bar. “You an old friend?”
“Something like that.”
He glanced over my shoulder. “Maybe Mr. Suggs here can help you.”
The man standing behind me had an elongated torso and a compact head, sort of like a meerkat. His silver bolo necktie was imprinted with the image of an Indian chief.
“You need something?” he said.
“I’m just waiting for Stacee.”
“You already saw her.” His voice sounded pinched, as though the bolo was strangling him. “Now you can leave.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I said it’s time to go.” He tossed his chin toward the bartender who picked up my drink and dumped the ice cubes under the bar. “I’ll see you out.”
He walked me to the exit and held open the door. He pulled the door shut behind me.
The wind lifted a stale scent of hamburger grease from my clothing. The parking lot was full. And in the distance, gray evening clouds hung over a brilliant sunset, like ashes clinging to dying embers.
chapter eleven
Early the next morning, resisting every protestation from an aching body, I pulled on sweats and a T-shirt and jogged down Broadway with Madame at my side.
Last night’s wind had delivered new clouds, and their bright cumulus shapes tumbled across the sky like fresh laundry on an invisible line. We passed a homeless man sleeping in the doorway of a Chinese restaurant that was closed until lunch. Madame lifted her nose, catching his scent without changing pace. I began counting the fire hydrants. After twelve, I stopped. A raven swooped down in front of us, its oily black wings whipping the air with a sound like a furling flag, but Madame refused the chase. The bird clutched the metal rim of a municipal trash bin, caw-caw-cawing its conquest of dented soda cans and candy bar wrappers, and when I glanced down, Madame’s dark gaze stayed on the black bird, though she never left my side.
At the urban campus of Seattle University, I circled back, jogging the narrow east-of-Broadway streets before slowing to a walk as we approached Aunt Charlotte’s. Madame suddenly shot ahead, leaping the brick steps to the postage stamp lawn, relieving herself on the drought-dead grass.
Inside the house, I filled her bowls with food and water, replacing them under the window, and drank my coffee, leaning against the window sill, staring at the cats across the room. Beryl, Opal, and Sapphire were curled on the ceramic tile beside the refrigerator, blinking bejeweled eyes layered with unreadable intentions.
When Aunt Charlotte flumed into the room, her reddish brown hair looked tornado-spun. Pillow folds creased her face. Beryl let out a yowl, sounding like a warped harmonica, while the other two cats arched their backs, languorous, pawing toward the fridge. Madame stopped eating her food.
“Are we hung-gwee?” Aunt Charlotte baby talked, opening the refrigerator door. The cats rubbed against the appliance, their long fur floating off their bodies before getting sucked into the cold draft of the fridge.
She shut the door.
“You are da most bee-yoo-tee-full cats in da whole world!” she continued. “Oh, yes you are! Oh yes you are!”
I glanced down. Madame was gazing up at me. I didn’t care what skeptical intellectuals said about anthropomorphism: love an animal, you see it. I lifted my foot, gently rubbing it along her back.
“Oh, dis looks gooood!” She dumped three small tins of what appeared to be foie gras into the cat bowls, except foie gras was a high ethical crime around here. At least for humans.
“I’m so late,” she said, turning to me. “Your mother and I stayed up talking.”
When I came in last night, it was past 8:00 p.m., and my mother and aunt were sitting in the front parlor drinking herbal tea. I went straight into the shower, then bed.
“How late did you stay up?” I asked.
“Three in the morning. I haven’t done that in years. Not sober. I’ll pay for it today. Better break out the onyx.”
“Onyx because . . . ?”
“Onyx stays in harmony with the first, third, and sixth chakras. It gets your energy balanced.”
I had to ask. “What did you talk about?”
“Your father.” She poured a mug of coffee. “I’ve spent the last four years missing him all by myself and now I don’t have to. I am so glad you got in trouble and had to move out here.”
I smiled. She meant well.
Beryl yowled; her bowl was empty. Aunt Charlotte scooped up the cat, setting her on the table, dropping herself into one of the kitchen chairs. She blew on her coffee.
“Nadine told me Helen is becoming famous,” she said.
Helen was my sister, a professor of art at a university in Richmond. She was an expert on Vincent van Gogh. “Helen’s fine,” I said. “Helen’s always fine.”
“Still don’t get along, huh? That’s okay. Once upon a time I thought I hated David.” She stared into her mug. “Now I’d give anything to have him back.”
I carried my mug to the sink, squeezing her shoulder as I passed.
“Here’s what I want to know,” she said. “Where’s this God of yours when you need him?”
I rinsed my mug in the sink. My hands were shaking. I needed food.
“You think God’s listening to your prayers,” she continued. “But it’s more like calling a big corporation about a problem and getting put on hold. You hang on the line, listening to some harp music, but nobody ever picks up. Me? I finally came to my senses and hung up.”
I set my mug inside the dishwasher, using both hands to close the door. Clasping both hands together, I reminded myself that she loved us. She intended well; she was an injured soul navigating the world with self-propulsi
on and an insufficient compass.
“Aunt Charlotte, it’s not a good idea to stroll down memory lane with Mom. She can get lost back there.”
“Don’t be silly, Raleigh. It’s cathartic. I should know. I’ve lived through pain.”
“Yes, you have. But Mom’s built differently.”
“Bottling up emotion is not healthy. My friend Iona? Her husband left her for another man and she got so bitter. She wouldn’t even talk about it. I told her, ‘Iona, my husband had a torrid ten-year love affair with a man named Jack Daniels but I got over it.’ Not two years later she came down with breast cancer. That’s what bitterness does to women.”
I took a deep breath. “If Mom got mad it would be an improvement. She gets depressed. And her depressions last for weeks.”
She waved me off, a fly at her picnic. “That was before she had me. Mark my words, Raleigh. After living with me, your mother will be a brand-new person.”
Traffic was heavy on my way to work, and the only distraction came from Trooper Ron Lowell, calling my cell phone to ask if he could help on the VanAlstyne case.
“Sounds like you guys need it,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“The story in the paper.”
“What story?”
“You didn’t see it? Front page of the Seattle Times. All about how Issaquah PD called in the FBI to find the missing girl. It says you guys have nothing.”
I flipped on my blinker, swinging toward the James Street exit under the Convention Center. The concrete overpass threw the road into sudden darkness.
“Thanks for calling, Officer Lowell. I’ll let you know if we need your help.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
He was a foot soldier in the war on crime; another person who meant well, like my aunt. And I was being rude. “We appreciate your offer to help,” I said. “Thanks for staying in touch.”
I started to hang up but he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“If it’s quick.”
“I’m thinking of applying to Quantico. You know, become an FBI agent.”
I might have guessed. “Good for you.”
“I was wondering if I could take you to dinner. Talk to you about the Bureau, find out what I should do.”
In front of me, a Toyota Prius hit the brakes. I missed the sloping back bumper by inches.
“I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Call the main number. We have recruitment guys. They can tell you everything.”
“I’d rather get the inside scoop from you,” he said. “Or maybe we could do both.”
“Both what?”
“I can help you with this case; you can tell me about the Bureau. Fair trade and all that.”
“Like I said, we’ll be in touch. Good-bye.” I tossed the phone on the passenger seat, feeling annoyed, and pulled into my parking spot near the waterfront. When I got out of the car, the air smelled of kelp and driftwood, and Puget Sound was painted with mutable blues and grays. I started my hike.
At my desk, I dropped my gear and walked the maze of cubicles to Jack’s desk. He wasn’t there and I decided to accept Miracle Number One for the day. I walked to the conference room, dreading the thought that he was holding court in there. But he wasn’t. Miracle Two. I bought a Coke and bag of chips from the vending machine and returned to his desk. The blue Hawaiian shirt with the rioting white hibiscus flowers was missing from its hanger, meaning he was on surveillance. He’d already explained the reverse psychology to me: “Harmon, if I’m wearing a loud shirt that draws attention, the perps know I’m not under-cover.” Hey, his life on the line; let him believe it.
I took a yellow Post-It note from the pad beside his phone and jotted down what I’d found out about Felicia, then stuck the note on his computer monitor. As I turned to leave, I noticed some framed photographs, each showing snow-capped peaks with a horizon so far back it was nothing but blue. In each picture, Jack had thrown a muscular arm around some attractive woman. Long-haired girls with nice smiles, pretty even with smears of zinc oxide on their noses.
“Like what you see?” he asked.
“I was leaving you a note. About Felicia.” I pointed to the Post-It.
Under the short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, he wore a white thermal undershirt that fit his arms like second skin. Reaching past me, brushing against my shoulder, he lifted the Post-It from the computer monitor.
“Is she okay?” he said.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Bookman hired hit men, the Indian casino out on I-90 is giving her free drinks, since all her money goes back to the house, and she looks worse than before, if that’s possible.”
He lifted the Post-It off his finger, then touched the adhesive again. Then pulled it off again.
“And you’re the last person she wants to see,” I said. “Her words, not mine.”
There was no challenge in his eyes. No spark, no rebuttal.
I walked away, my face burning, and checked e-mail at my desk with a numb distraction. Manners were such simple things, provided your heart was swept clean. When it wasn’t, even the simplest conversations became convoluted.
I read my e-mail—more incentives for Iraq, still not enough—and returned four calls, including one to a dean at the University of Washington, a woman named Nita Wells who spoke without the cumbersome restraints of punctuation.
“Miss VanAlstyne was taking twenty-two credits all in math but she hasn’t registered for the spring semester we feel just terrible about her disappearance that they talked about in the paper this morning as you can imagine.”
“Aside from her advisor,” I said slowly, “are there any professors whose classes she signs up for on a regular basis?”
“What are you asking for us to tell you something confidential?”
“No, ma’am. We’re simply trying to find out more about Miss VanAlstyne, in order to locate her.”
“You want me to ask around do you think she’s dead?”
“Ma’am, that question will alarm people. Please do not ask that.”
“What are you saying how dare you I simply asked if you thought she was dead and I’m shocked you would even think I could go around asking such a thing I’m a dean you know what that means it means I know about confidentiality it’s part of my job.”
I paused, allowing my mind to retrofit the commas and periods. “Yes, thank you for clarifying, Dean Wells. I’m not at liberty to discuss details. But the FBI greatly appreciates the university’s assistance.”
With a fluttering good-bye, she hung up. I typed a memo updating McLeod on the trip to Spokane, the soil samples submitted, and in particular the arsenopyrite from the torn fabric tied to a tree on Cougar Mountain. It was more information than McLeod needed at this point, but I wanted to load him with ammo for when the ASAC called again, at the behest of the senator or the director or the VanAlstynes. I wrote a search war-rant request for the casino, asking permission to send it to the U.S. Attorney’s office, then deposited everything in the bin out-side McLeod’s office, which was empty, and drove back to the university district, all four windows down in the Barney Mobile. As I crossed over Lake Union, the water looked like a sheet of hammered steel.
Kermit Simms, the former boyfriend of Courtney VanAlstyne, was unlocking the filthy door at Mama Mia’s pizza. I pulled into the loading zone, hopping out.
“Hey, you can’t come in here,” he said.
“Wanna bet?”
He shifted his body behind the door, using it as a shield. “Get lost.”
“How much poker did you and Courtney play at that casino on I-90?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m guessing you spent some quality time out there because last night I ran into Stacee Warner and she just about jumped out of her stilettos. Any idea why?”
He yanked on the key, still in the lock. He wiggled it back and forth, tugging. He gripped the door between his
skinny legs and pulled with both hands. His fingernails were ragged, the cuticles ripped.
I took one step forward and wrapped my hands around his fingers, squeezing them against the metal key. His knees went soft. I squeezed harder.
“That hurts!”
“That’s why I’m doing it. It’s going to hurt even more if you don’t start telling me the truth about Courtney.”
“Okay, okay! Let go!”
I gave another squeeze, reinforcing my promise, then released his hands.
He shook out his fingers. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because the first time I asked, you didn’t seem to understand. The second time, you mouthed off. You’re a slow learner, Kermit. But now we have an understanding. You tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and I will leave you alone.”
Down the avenue, some midmorning pedestrians passed in loose clutches, bedraggled students and dusty bohemians. Kermit glanced at them as they passed, feigning a casual expression, before leaping behind the door, pulling it closed. I threw my right foot against the jamb, grabbed the door, yanking it open and shoving Kermit inside.
“Hey, listen,” he said, backing up, “I need this job. Maybe you don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t understand, Kermit. Your girlfriend’s missing. Quit playing games with me.”
“I’m not playing games, man. It’s the code violations in this place. These guys think you’re some health inspector, trying to get me to narc.”
“Tell them I’m a friend.”
“Right. They’ve seen Terminator. You look like Linda Hamilton hunting down the cyborg. For all I know you’ve got some sawed-off pump action in the car waiting to take somebody’s head off.”
“You’re right,” I said. Why ruin a good thing? “Now tell me why Stacee freaked out or you’ll see my bad side.”
The light inside the restaurant was dim, a combination of gray clouds outside and the anemic glow from the exit sign above the door. Kermit’s eyes looked like caverns.
“Look, I don’t talk to Stacee, not since Courtney broke it off with me. But I can guess why she got upset. Management isn’t gonna let her explain who you are. They’ll just can her, same as me. If her dad wasn’t an Indian, she wouldn’t be pulling down bucks shuttling drinks to losers.”
The Rivers Run Dry Page 10