“He made it out, too,” I said. “He’s back with his family in Texas.” In his last e-mail, he’d said he was on his third generation of artificial shoulder joint.
“They shipped us out to a hospital in Baghdad, and then I went to Walter Reed to see doctors for this.” I pointed at my face. “They did good. Part of my jaw and brow ridge are made of bioglass. The bone re-forms around it, mostly. A couple of my teeth on that side are better than new.” They would be just as white and pretty a century from now, I’d been told.
There was a pause. “And you went back?” said Juliet. “They made you go back after that?”
I made me. I had to get back on the horse. Therapy hadn’t been cutting it.
“I was ready.” They sent me back to Iraq for a last rotation. Then Afghanistan, when that heated up.
Evelyn reached over and touched my hand. “Thank you.”
Juliet pointed to my wrist, where the fresh surgical scars edged out of my sleeve. “But you’ve been hurt again.”
“Not really,” I said. “Less surgery than people get for carpal tunnel.”
“Tell me they at least gave you cash or a medal or something,” Davey said.
I had to grin. Davey was still predictable. Looking for the reward. Mine had been a shiny little Bronze Star, with combat “V.”
“It’s in a box somewhere in a storage facility in Georgia,” I said. “Along with my tiara and evening gown.”
Mike picked up the wine bottle and poured a slug into my empty glass.
“Hangover or not, Van,” he said, “you deserve a drink.”
My phone buzzed loudly, making us all jump. I fished it out of my pocket.
A text from Corcoran. I got up. “Sorry. I need to check this.”
“Is it Dono?” said Evelyn. I shook my head and walked out, through the front door onto the tiny porch.
The first line of Corcoran’s message was just the word FOUR. Then a string of GPS coordinates, along with an address outside of Covington, a suburb about midway between Seattle and Tacoma. The last line of the text said, STILL LOOKING FOR THE LAST ONE.
The address was Corcoran’s best fix on the location of where the other four bugs were planted. Maybe it was the home of one of Dono’s partners. Maybe even somebody who knew who’d shot Dono, and why.
Jimmy C. was an asshole, but he was also as good as he claimed to be.
There wasn’t much I could do until morning. But suddenly I wasn’t in the mood for family chitchat.
I opened the door and stepped back into the living room. Davey was there, waiting. “You taking off?” he said, seeing my face.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You need help?’ Cause whatever it is, man, I’m there.” He sounded more hopeful than determined.
“No. Thanks, Davey. It’s nothing. You’d be bored.”
He looked at me, unconvinced. “Huh. Okay.”
I walked into the dining room. Frances was gone, probably tucked away by her mother. Evelyn was putting a pie onto the table. Blackberry, and homemade from the looks of it.
“Dinner was terrific,” I said. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Juliet made a protesting sound, but Evelyn just nodded. “I’ll wrap some of this for you,” she said, and took the pie into the kitchen.
Mike stepped up. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer.”
I leaned over to kiss Juliet on the cheek. She tapped the side of my face shyly and gave me a little smile. “I know everyone probably says this, but you look just fine. Like a pirate.”
Evelyn came back in and handed me a Tupperware box with about half the pie in it. “Now you’ll have to come back, to return this,” she said. “Don’t forget.”
Davey followed me out onto the porch steps. “You sure you don’t want company?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
As I popped the clutch and pulled away from the curb, he was still standing there, watching me go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I STOOD ON A CORNER by a Chevron gas station. The street address in Covington that Corcoran had texted me turned out to be an intersection off of Covington Sawyer Road, a two-lane blacktop that wound past grassy fields and industrial parks. The sun wasn’t up far enough to push through the clouds yet. Commuters ignored the speed limit as they hustled to work.
Four bugs. That was how many the white-haired burglar had planted, and I knew they were somewhere within a stone’s throw of this spot.
A long throw anyway. A hundred-yard radius covered a lot of ground. Over thirty-one thousand square yards. If the address had been downtown, with a ten-story building on every side, I would have been screwed. In this suburban wilderness, I had a fighting chance to figure out where the little white-haired bastard had hidden his toys.
An empty field and the Chevron took up my side of the intersection, with a block of condominiums and a construction site on the other two corners. On the fence around the construction site, a large sign announced a coming apartment block, aimed at modern living for young professionals.
Maybe this place was somewhere Dono came frequently. Or maybe it was where a partner of the old man’s had lived or worked. If I could find that guy, he might be able to tell me everything I wanted to know about Dono’s shooting.
I ruled out the gas station and the construction site. And while it was amusing to think of somebody bugging an empty field and listening to the crickets, I was pretty sure I could rule that out, too. The condominiums. Dono’s large house had held eight bugs. Four seemed about the right number for a one-or two-bedroom space. I waited for a break in the traffic and jogged across the street to the small complex.
A sign made of brushed aluminum read HIGHLAND TERRACE HOMES, with arrows directing visitors to the office and the pool. It was a small place, only eighteen or twenty units. The dew-soaked grass was trimmed and the walks swept. The carports held a lot of newer models, some of them two-seaters. Mainly single residents or couples.
It was early. Most of the carports were full. The spaces were assigned, with white tacked-on letters above each space identifying the matching town house. I didn’t know which unit I was looking for or even what the residents looked like.
But if the burglar had bugged their house, he might have done more.
I took the physical-therapy ball out of my pocket. I hadn’t used it at all since I’d come to town. Twice in the last day, I’d noticed my left fingers going slightly numb, like they wanted to remind me that I was slacking. I walked farther into the complex, idly bouncing the ball. When I reached the line of parked cars, I kicked it with my foot, and it skittered away.
I leaned down between the first and second cars, a Mercedes and an older Toyota and looked underneath. Nothing. Nothing at the third or fourth cars either.
The ball had settled behind the wheel of a GMC truck. I fished it out and stood up just as a resident came out of his apartment, briefcase and travel coffee mug in hand. He looked at me.
I held up the ball and grinned stupidly. “Bad hop,” I said, and walked away, bouncing it again. He got into his Infiniti and drove off. The Infiniti wasn’t one of the cars I’d checked. I had to pick up the pace, before the morning rush emptied the complex. I kicked the ball and kept looking.
The ninth space held a red Nissan Altima. It was clean and freshly waxed. And taped inside the rear fender was a black plastic rectangle, just like the one I’d found on Dono’s pickup.
The burglar had held to his MO. Bugs in the house. And a GPS tracker on the vehicle. I grinned. Gotcha.
I looked inside the car. It was as clean as the outside. There was a pink metal water bottle in the center cup holder and two modern-lit paperbacks by female authors on the passenger seat. A lavender gym bag was in the rear seat.
The pristine Altima sure as hell wasn’t the car of an old crook like Hollis or Jimmy Corcoran. I couldn’t remember Dono ever working with a woman on one of his jobs. But the car was here, which meant she was probably home.
The
white letters above the carport read H14. Building G was to my left and H to my right. I put the rubber ball in my pocket and ambled toward it.
H14 was at the far corner, on the top floor. A premium spot. It looked like it would command an unobstructed view of the small forest behind the complex. I raised my hand to knock and drew it back.
The door was open. Not much, just off the lock about half an inch, as if the door had been slammed hard and had bounced back before the latch could fully engage.
I listened. Nothing but the chatter of the early-morning birds in the forest behind the building. I reached out a knuckle and pushed, lightly. The latch gave up the fight, and the door opened a finger’s breadth.
Something was not right. Not at all. Every part of me was howling that truth, from the hairs on my scalp to my clenching toes. My hand was already on the .32 in my coat pocket.
I stepped aside and pushed the door all the way open.
The large living room inside was as arranged and tidy as a magazine shoot. A chocolate-colored leather couch and a matching chair. Elegant, sleek bronze lamps and tables. Everything looking spick-and-span.
With the door open, I caught the smell. A combination of hot copper pennies and human shit.
Death.
I followed the odor to the master bedroom, at the back of the apartment.
It was a woman. She was seated in a chair. She was fully clothed and tilted slightly forward as if she had just started to look for something lost in the lavender carpet in front of her. The room was very dim. Tall trees behind the building shaded the windows from the morning light. Her long, dark hair obscured most of her face.
I flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. There was a lamp by the door, and I reached for it before seeing that the lamp’s cord was cut at the base. Two feet away a clock radio lay upside down on the floor. No electric cord on it either. And I knew what was keeping the woman from falling all the way forward.
She had been wired to the chair. Arms and ankles and one long piece for her torso, under her breasts. The chair had been tied with something like scarves or stockings to one of the oaken bedposts, to keep it from tipping over.
As my eyes adjusted, I could see stripes of blood on her bare forearms where the skin had rubbed completely away. She had strained, over and over, against the wires. Another scarf was around her throat, pulled so tight that the silk was torn. Her face was purple and swollen. Swollen so much that I could barely make out a dozen or more small cuts around her eyes. The cuts had bled enough that I guessed they were made before she died.
She’d been tortured. And strangled.
The blood was dry, but the scent of bodily waste was still strong enough that I’d caught it two rooms away. I bent down to see the underside of her forearms. In the half-light, the lividity looked gray. Same for her ankles and feet. The fact that she was barefoot was somehow as bad as anything else.
She’d died last night, or very early this morning. Who knew how long she was alive in the chair before that?
I walked out of the bedroom and back to the open front door. The air outside was fresh and cold. I took a few deep breaths of it before stepping back inside and shutting the door.
Who had she been? Dono’s partner on a job? Her apartment didn’t look like the home of a professional thief. Had she been a girlfriend?
I felt lousy for the woman, but my overriding thought was, Van boy, you are fucked. The first person at two murder scenes in almost as many days. My immediate future would be heavy on steel bars and cinder-block walls unless I could come up with a good reason for being here.
I found her purse on the counter of the small kitchen. The purse was in the same dark brown leather as her couch. I grabbed a paper towel to avoid leaving prints.
Her driver’s license identified the dead woman as Cristiana Liotti, forty-three years old, living at this address. Business cards said she was an executive assistant at a firm called Talos Industrial Equipment, with offices in Ravensdale.
I turned on her cell phone and scanned her contacts. A hundred numbers or more, but no names that I recognized.
Dono’s burner phone was still in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at its number. It started with 206-851.
I checked the call log on Cristiana Liotti’s phone. It held a few months’ worth of calls, almost every one to somebody already in her contact list. But way back in early January, Cristiana had been called by a 206-851 number. Not the same phone I was holding. But close. She had been called twice. And they had talked for an hour or more each time.
It wasn’t hard to reassemble the facts. Dono bought a couple of burner phones. He used one of them to call Cristiana, months ago. They had long conversations. And then he did what a crook does with a burner phone—he trashed it. Because it wasn’t clean anymore.
Whatever else Cristiana Liotti might have done during her life, at least some of it had been mixed up with my grandfather’s work.
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Cristiana?” A woman’s voice.
Even though I wasn’t moving, I still froze on the spot.
“I saw your car. Can I get a lift?” A pause, and then a louder knock. “Are you here?”
Another few seconds passed, and then I heard footsteps moving away.
I couldn’t spend much more time in the dead woman’s apartment. I couldn’t just leave either. Security cameras at the entrance would have captured me walking onto the grounds.
I started to call 911 and then changed my mind and hit the button next to a recent number in my own call log.
Three rings before the detective answered. “John Guerin.”
“It’s Shaw. I’m at an apartment in Covington. There’s a dead woman here. Murdered. Sometime last night, from the looks of things.”
“Don’t touch anything,” he said reflexively. “Was she shot like your grandfather?”
“No. Worse.” I gave him the address. “I’ll call 911 after we hang up. Unless you want more lead time.”
Guerin grunted. He could get here and see the crime scene for himself before anybody with weight groused about jurisdiction. “I’m already driving. I’ll call them for you. Stay on the line.”
“My battery’s almost dead.”
“Shaw—”
I hung up.
Somebody was going to a shitload of trouble. Bugs. Trackers. Now torture. I could imagine the killer holding a knife, touching the tip of it to Cristiana’s face and eyelids, making little cuts and letting them bleed until the terror became too much. Until she’d talked. And when he had learned what he wanted, when he was sure of it, he had killed her.
What was it that her killer had wanted her to tell him? Where something was hidden? After Dono had been shot, his shooter had stayed in the house. Guerin and I both guessed that the shooter had been hunting through the place before I’d surprised him.
I had five or six minutes, maybe, before the first car showed. Nowhere near enough time for a real search of the apartment, but I didn’t want to risk contaminating the scene anyway.
In a kitchen drawer, I found a slim brown flashlight. Jesus, everything in the woman’s place was coordinated. I picked up the flashlight with the same paper towel and went back into the bedroom.
I started where most people hide things, in the closets. There were enough clothes to make the thick wooden railing sag with the weight. Shoes, neatly arranged in their original boxes. A couple of woven bamboo storage bins. Nothing looked disturbed or missing.
As I came back out of the closet, I noticed a vent cover near the ceiling of the bedroom wall. I shone the flashlight on it. The screwheads had fresh scratches.
I guessed that after the killer had tied up Cristiana, he’d gone through her apartment and removed all four of the listening devices. And then replaced the vent covers, so that the removal wouldn’t attract attention. One less link between Dono and Cristiana.
Were Cristiana’s killer and the burglar the same man? She’d died last night. Ma
ybe he’d been here before driving up to Seattle and knocking me on the head at one in the morning.
I was four minutes into the search and had one ear listening for the police knock when I found it. In the bathroom, under the sink, all the bottles and lotions and little plastic bins had been shoved aside. One of the sections of the fiberboard at the back was torn loose. Behind it there was a gap between the cabinet and the wall. Big enough to have held something the size of a large photo album.
The rough stucco of the wall had tiny bits of bluish clear plastic stuck to it, abraded off something like a trash bag. Or the kind of shrink-wrapping that banks used to keep stacks of currency bundled together. A space that size could hold a serious amount of cash, if the bills were high denominations.
It wasn’t a great hiding place. The killer could probably have found it in less time than it took him to tie Cristiana up and make her tell him where it was.
But maybe that had been fun for the motherfucker.
Before leaving I took one of Cristiana’s business cards from her purse and scribbled “Highland Terrace H14” on it. I needed some reason for being here that didn’t burn Jimmy Corcoran. And a weak reason was better than none at all.
I was closing the front door behind me and dialing Ephraim Ganz on my phone when the first sheriff’s cruiser roared into the parking lot, sirens wailing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPHRAIM GANZ AND I sat on one side of a long conference table in the King County Sheriff’s Office in Covington. The other side of the table was full. Detectives Guerin and Kanellis occupied the seats nearest the door. In the middle chairs were the detectives from the sheriff’s department. A wiry woman with black hair and hard features, named Marques, and her partner, an equally thin man with a sandy brown comb-over, named Thomasen.
In the last seat was an older guy with a bald head and chalk-stripe suit who had introduced himself to Ephraim as Lieutenant Burrowes of MCU. The county’s major-crimes unit.
He was the wildcard in the room. Cristiana Liotti’s murder had been brutal, but not something that I thought would rate direct involvement from MCU, much less its brass.
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