by Karen Dionne
* * *
The next two interviews were clones of the first. The receptionist—even with her finger on the pulse of office gossip—wasn’t able to shed additional light on who might have killed Lance Marsee, or why. Everyone knew that he had been fired, no one had kept in touch with him after he left the company, no one knew he had a girlfriend, though his gambling seemed to be common knowledge. No one but Hatchett seemed to know about Lance’s enormous severance package, but Sarah wouldn’t have expected otherwise. Any good human resources manager would have kept the knowledge of the payoff to himself. At any rate, she didn’t need confirmation from Lance’s coworkers; the details regarding the trust’s existence and the payout schedule could be verified easily enough by talking to Marsee’s lawyer.
She checked her watch. Half past ten. Plenty of time to drive up to the casino before lunch. She headed for the parking lot.
The moment she was outside, she reached inside her jacket pocket and tapped out a cigarette. Her hands trembled as she lit up. The way a few key pieces of information gave direction to an investigation never failed to get her adrenaline pumping. She shuffled these mentally into order. First fact: Lance had been a gambler who’d burned through $400,000 in cash. Second, his brother Guy was the beneficiary of $400,000 more if anything happened to Lance. Third, only a handful of people—Hatchett, the lawyer, and possibly Tiffany—knew.
She slid into the driver’s seat, took out her phone, and called Goddard. The call went to voicemail. She waited for the beeps. “It’s Sarah. I’m finished at Stratoco so I’m heading to the Black Bear. Meet me at the station when you’re done. I’ve got something on both our vics you need to know.”
She took another drag on her cigarette and put the car into gear. So many possibilities, so much to explore. She had the next hour to mull everything over and select the most likely. For now, one thing seemed certain.
Someone thought $400,000 was worth killing for.
14
Goddard locked his fingers behind his neck, leaned back in his chair, rolled his shoulders, and stretched. He checked his watch. A few minutes after ten. It felt more like noon. He and Louis had been stuck in a cramped, windowless room at GenMod Labs for close to two hours. Whoever decided to set up their interview room with nothing but two molded plastic chairs and a Formica-topped table clearly watched too much television. Louis had been forced to perch on the edge of the table all morning just so the interviewees could take a seat.
Goddard would have preferred talking to Guy Marsee’s coworkers in their offices. People opened up a lot more freely when they were on their own turf. But without a search warrant or a court order, he supposed he should be glad that GenMod had agreed to arrange for the interviews at all. Even if his aching back and shoulders disagreed.
“How many more?”
Louis consulted their list. “Six.”
“Good lord. Let’s do one more, and then I need a break.”
The worst part about the morning was that for all their efforts, they’d learned next to nothing about their victim. Guy Marsee had been a misfit and a loner. On those two points, everyone agreed. They all knew who he was, which was the reason for the overlong interview list. But nobody knew him well enough to offer insights into his personal life. All they could offer was that he sometimes shared a table at the Starbucks across the street with an employee named Rutz.
As to why Marsee had been shot dead in a shipyard, they hadn’t a clue. And he had died in the shipyard; as Goddard suspected, the man had been killed where he was found. The SPD techs had just confirmed the fact, having located a fresh bullet hole in one of the containers.
“How you holding up?” Goddard asked.
“Fine, sir.” Louis shifted on the table, scratched his nose, touched the back of his ear. Three distinct physical tells that he was lying. At least Goddard wasn’t the only one who was suffering.
He thought about his conversation last night with Kath. He was sorry now that he hadn’t been more enthusiastic about her new art commission. She probably thought his lukewarm reaction was because he was envious, but why should he be? He was doing what he wanted to do, too. No one had put a gun to his head after he finished art school and told him he had to become a cop. But he was worried. It was hard to put a finger on what was wrong with their relationship other than the fact that instead of growing closer over the passing years as everyone said they would, their lives seemed to be drawing farther apart. Other than the children, they had fewer and fewer things in common. As Kath became more and more wrapped up in her painting and the children with each passing day, it was getting harder to think of himself as part of a couple.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and a tall, extremely fat man in his late fifties with a shock of white Einstein hair limped in. He was wearing what Goddard had come to think of as the GenMod uniform, despite his age: black Converse high tops, blue jeans, and a white lab coat with a row of writing instruments corraled in a pocket protector.
He consulted his list. “Dr. Nelson Rutz?” The man nodded. Goddard stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective John Goddard. This is my associate, Officer Louis. Please, take a seat.”
‘Is this going to take long?” The plastic chair creaked ominously as Rutz sat down. Goddard held his breath. The man had to weigh at least 350 pounds. And he smelled of cigarettes.
“Only a few minutes.” Unless by some miracle Rutz actually had something useful to say, that is. Goddard nodded to Louis. He and Louis had been trading off the lead role all morning in order to relieve the boredom, and so Louis could sharpen his interview skills. This time it was Louis’s turn.
“What you do at GenMod?” Louis asked with his pen poised over his notepad.
“I’m a data analyst. Same as Marsee.”
“And what exactly does a data analyst do?”
Rutz looked at Louis as if he thought the officer sitting on the table in front of him was the village idiot. Goddard could imagine what he was thinking: analyze data, of course.
“Simply put,” Rutz said pointedly, “a data analyst takes the raw data generated by an experiment or a study and analyzes it, or transforms it into a useable form. Sometimes we suggest conclusions or recommend a course of action, other times we merely present the data in ways that it can be easily understood. Data analysis requires both an eye for detail and the ability to see the big picture. As you might imagine, it’s not a skill set that everyone has. It also helps to have a photographic memory, which both Marsee and I possess.”
“How long did you work with Marsee?”
“Since I started at GenMod. Seven years.”
“So you and he were friends?”
“I suppose he would have said so.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
Rutz frowned, then dragged both of his hands through his hair and massaged his scalp. If the gesture was habitual, it certainly explained the Einstein doppelgänger look. Especially after Rutz made no attempt to smooth his hair back down.
“Listen, I know Guy is dead,” he said. “I’d prefer not to say anything bad about him. But you have to understand. Nobody was friends with Guy. You couldn’t be. Guy had the social skills of an amoeba. The sum total of our ‘friendship’ consisted of sharing a cup of coffee when we happened to run into each other at the Starbucks across the street.”
“So you never got together outside of work? Maybe went out for drinks? Hung out at his apartment?”
“Of course not. I told you we weren’t friends. I don’t even know where he lives.” Rutz shot Louis a disgusted look and pushed back from the table. “Are we finished here? I really need to get back to my work.” Directing the question not to Louis, but to Goddard.
Louis glanced at the detective. Goddard nodded. Louis stood up and held out his card. “Thanks for coming in, Dr. Rutz. If you think of anything else—”
He broke off. Rutz was gone.
* * *
The Starbucks in the strip mall across the street
was probably the last place in the city that Goddard would have chosen to get a cup of coffee. Unlike ninety-nine percent of the nation’s population under the age of sixty, Goddard didn’t like Starbucks. He didn’t care that the chain that had essentially created the specialty coffee shop movement had gotten its start right here in Seattle. Or that the Starbucks brand had become so entrenched in people’s minds and habits that millions wouldn’t think of going anywhere else whenever they hankered for a cup. He just didn’t understand the allure. Sure, the coffee was drinkable, but you could get a decent cup of coffee at a lot of other places. The prices were ridiculous, and the drink names irritated him. Caffè Marocchino. Caffè Americano. Frappuccino. If he wanted to learn a foreign language, he’d pick something easier, like Latin or Urdu or ancient Greek. He could never remember if a large was a “grande,” a “venti,” or a “trenta.” More to the point, why should he have to? But if this was where Marsee had gone for coffee, Goddard could put up with the hassle long enough to check it out.
The waitress behind the counter—correction: the “barista” behind the counter—looked about as old as Goddard’s teenage daughter. Arianna would probably enjoy working in a place like this, though God forbid she should ever turn up for work in a short skirt and pink tights, with tattoos up and down her arms, and Pippi Longstocking hair. Louis seemed to like the barista, though. Goddard could tell from the way he flashed his badge (as if the uniform wasn’t clue enough) and leaned in closer than he needed to as he handed the picture they’d copied off Marsee’s GenMod photo I.D. across the counter. He wondered if Louis was married. Probably not. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but a lot of cops didn’t. He thought about advising him not to. But he didn’t want to be That Guy; the one who, simply because he had a few more years on the planet, went around telling everyone else what to do. Anyway, some things, you had to find out for yourself.
“Yeah, he comes in here all the time,” the barista said in answer to Louis’s question. “He always sits over there.” Leaning farther over the counter than necessary as she pointed out Marsee’s favorite table so Louis could see straight down her shirt.
Louis had the grace to blush. He averted his eyes. “Do you ever talk to him?” he asked. “I mean, other than taking his order?”
“Sometimes. We get a lot of regulars. I try to talk to all of them a little. Chat them up. It’s good for tips, you know? Guy is different, though. He’s like those Aspies. He won’t look at me when he orders, and he always wants the same thing. The only reason I know his name is because we need it for the order. Otherwise I don’t think he’d have ever told me.”
Asperger’s syndrome. Brilliant intellect, socially inept. If the barista was right in her armchair diagnosis, it would certainly explain what Goddard had observed in Marsee’s apartment: every object precisely what was needed for the purpose for which it was intended, everything in its place, no messy, human detritus in evidence. Funny that no one he’d talked to at GenMod had thought to mention a similar suspicion. He supposed they were so afraid of crossing the boundary of political correctness and ending up in lawsuit territory, they figured it was best just to keep their mouths shut.
“Does anyone ever join him?” he asked. “Does he have any friends?”
“Sometimes this big guy with crazy white hair sits down with him. But I don’t think they’re friends. They both wear those GenMod coats. I figure they just work together.”
“Can you tell us anything else?” Louis asked.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know… Does Guy seem different lately? Happy? Depressed?” Not the line of inquiry Goddard would have pursued, but at least Louis remembered to keep his questions in the present tense.
“You know, now that you mention it, there was something odd. Last week, Guy was sitting at his table looking out the window like he always does, only this time, he was smiling. I thought maybe he saw somebody he knew outside, but no one was there. I watched him for a while, and he just kept smiling, but he wasn’t smiling at anything, you know? Like he had a secret. Like when you’ve bought a present for somebody, and you know they’re going to totally freak when they open it because it’s the absolute perfect present for them? Like that. I remember thinking I was glad he had something that made him happy.” She shrugged. “I know that doesn’t seem like much, but Guy hardly ever smiled. For him, that was a big deal.”
The shop door jangled. A blast of cold air swept the room as a group of GenMod employees piled in and queued up behind them, laughing and chattering.
“Listen, are you gonna order something?” The barista pointed to the lineup. “I don’t want to get in trouble with my manager.”
“Just coffee.” Goddard left Louis to work out the details of his order and made a beeline for Marsee’s favorite table before the lunch crowd took over. He sat down in the chair facing the window and tried to imagine himself as Guy Marsee: I have Asperger’s and I’m thinking about something that makes me happy. It wasn’t much, all right, but it was more than they’d gotten all morning at GenMod. Which said more about the waste of time the morning had been than that they’d finally gotten a lead. What was the saying? Cop work was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration? Or was that what Thomas Edison said about genius? No matter, if the saying fit.
He knew only too well that the one percent counted. No amount of perspiration seemed to shift his less-than-stellar solve rate. It was hard not to feel as though the Universe were conspiring against him. Not every murder could be solved in the public’s understanding of the word. From a departmental standpoint, a case was considered cleared as long as someone at some point got locked up, whether for a week or a lifetime. It didn’t matter if the charges were dropped at arraignment, or if the grand jury didn’t indict, or if the prosecutor dismissed the case; as long as someone was charged, the murder was listed on the detective’s record as solved. But Goddard’s three most recent cases didn’t even have that. He hoped the techs were getting somewhere with Guy Marsee’s computer. He needed a break.
Louis joined him at last carrying two steaming cups. “You didn’t say what you wanted, so I got you a Cinnamon Dolce Latte with extra cream and sugar. Hope that’s okay. You look like a guy who has a sweet tooth.”
Ouch. Goddard winced inwardly and sucked in his gut. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone, ostensibly to check his messages, but in reality to avoid the sugar bomb Louis had chosen for him. He listened to Sarah’s voicemail and grinned. Maybe this was the break he needed.
“Linden’s got something on our vic,” he said, and stood up. “She wants us to meet her at the station. Grab your cup, and let’s go.”
Goddard left his on the table.
15
The moment she drove off the ferry and followed the sign to the Black Bear Casino, Sarah was acutely aware that she was now on Indian land. The Kulamish tribe operated several casinos on the islands in Puget Sound, although Sarah had never visited one. She’d heard other officers talk about boys’ nights out at the Lucky Feather, the Wapi Eagle, the Silver Hawk, but gambling had never appealed to her.
The tribe welcomed outsiders—as long as they came to spend money. The rise of Indian gaming casinos had turned the tables on the status quo. The minuscule pockets of land the Indians had been shunted onto—“Native Americans,” if you wanted to be politically correct, which not even the native peoples Sarah knew worried about overmuch in their everyday conversation—had become goldmines after the 1988 Indian Gaming Regulatory Act granted them the right to operate casinos on reservation lands. White men may have commandeered the country’s natural resources, but now, in ever-increasing numbers, they were happily giving it back in the form of hard cash.
Mist from the Sound rolled through the trees as she drove down a graveled road to the casino, amplifying the crunch of her car tires and permeating the air with a chill that went straight to her bones. Even with the heat on high, Sarah shivered.
The mist gradually li
fted and the casino building came into view—a massive modern structure in faux-log cabin style, surrounded by an expansive parking lot. This early in the morning, the lot was half empty. Sarah parked the car, flipped her jacket hood over her head against the rain, and crossed the lot to enter the casino through the large double glass doors. She took the stairs instead of the escalator to the upper level and paused to get her bearings.
It was almost noon, and the casino action was light. A few dozen diehards sat mesmerized in front of slot machines, but most of the chairs were empty. The machines’ flashing lights, electronic music, and recorded voices enticing gamblers to play a show without an audience. No doubt the majority of the clientele from the night before were sleeping it off in their hotel rooms. A blackjack table in the middle of the room—the same table where Lance had been a regular if Roger Fairmont’s information was correct—was also empty.
“Can I help you?” A Native American man in a charcoal suit, barrel-chested, with meaty hands and close-cropped hair, stepped into Sarah’s path—subtly and effectively stopping her from moving further into the casino. She didn’t need to read his job title on his nametag to know he was a security guard. Given the quality of his suit, probably high up in the ranks. Sarah supposed that to her Kulamish counterpart, the fact that she was law enforcement was just as obvious.
She smiled warmly and extended her hand. “I’m Detective Sarah Linden. Seattle Police Department. I’m investigating a homicide. I’d like to speak with one of your employees.” She had decided on the drive over not to let the casino know that she was aware of Tiffany’s ex-employee status. It would be enlightening to see how they spun it. She pulled her badge, knowing it had no power on this side of the water, but hoping that a mutual respect for the law by those who were charged with upholding it would yield results.