“No worries. I’ll check him out and let you know.”
“That’d be awesome, man.”
He reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “That’s no problem, Danny. And because it involves you guys, Toni in particular, this favor’s on the house—won’t even show up on the favor ledger. No charge.”
“Thanks, Dwayne. I appreciate it.”
“Just don’t tell Gus. He’ll hunt the poor bastard down and string him up old-style.”
* * * *
We had gathered in the restaurant lobby to leave when we noticed an unmarked car sweep into the driveway with its lights flashing.
“Wonder what this is all about?” Dwayne said.
“Your credit card clear?” Gus joked.
I shrugged. “Most of the time.”
The car stopped, a dark-skinned lady stepped out of the driver’s seat, and a young man got out of the passenger side.
“Holy hell,” Gus muttered.
“Well, would you look at that,” Dwayne said. “That’s Gus’s other girlfriend. That’s old Inez Johnson.” He looked around, cautious-like, not knowing whether something was going down that he should be aware of.
“The hell’s she doing here?” Gus muttered.
I had absolutely no reason to start going queasy at the sight of a Seattle Police Department homicide detective, but suddenly there it was—a dread that hit me in the pit of my stomach, warning that something bad was about to happen.
“Let’s step outside and see what’s happening,” Dwayne said. We followed him through the restaurant’s double doors and met Inez and her group just as they approached.
“Inez Johnson,” Dwayne called out to the woman. “It’s been a long time.”
“Lieutenant Brown,” Inez said curtly. Her voice carried a strong Caribbean accent, noticeable even in her first two words.
“It’s so good to see you again, Inez,” Gus added, all smiles.
She looked at Gus and gave him a nasty look, then she turned to me.
“Mr. Logan, we meet again.” We had worked with Inez two years ago on a case—a Seattle mathematician the police thought committed suicide until we proved that it wasn’t a suicide after all, but a murder. She’d been okay to work with, but she stuck very much “by the book.”
“Hello, Inez,” I said. “You here for a quick bite?”
She smiled. “No, not really. We’re here on business. Actually, it concerns you. I have a few questions for you.”
“For me? Really?”
She nodded. “Yes, for you.” She turned to her partner. “You got that picture?”
He reached back on the dashboard of the car and pulled out a photograph, which he handed to her. “Do you recognize dis man?” She held up a black-and-white of a man I recognized immediately. It was Short and Bald from Merchants Café.
I smiled. “Yes, I do,” I said. “He tried to take my head off with a pool cue two days ago.”
“So I hear.” She put the photo away. “His name was Eduard Markovic.”
“Was?”
She nodded. “Was. It seems Mr. Markovic met with an unfortunate accident last night.”
I looked at her but didn’t say anything.
“He got himself killed,” she said. “Apparently, he ran into a large-caliber bullet just as it was fired from a handgun. Made a big, nasty hole in his chest. Then he went and got himself tossed into a Dumpster. As a matter of fact, the very Dumpster that’s located in the parking lot at your apartment.”
I said nothing, just looked at her.
“My records say you carry a 1911, right?”
I nodded. “I do. Was this unfortunate guy shot with a .45?”
“We’re not certain. We’re still confirmin’. So we were just a-wonderin’ if, given the little altercation between the two of you on Wednesday, you might know something about this?”
“Why would I know something, unless—Inez, do you think I killed this man? Are you arresting me?”
She stared at me for a moment, then said, “Nope. Not arresting you. We’d just like it if you voluntarily accompanied us downtown to answer a few questions. Who knows? Maybe you might know something that could be helpful.”
“These are questions that he can’t answer right here?” Toni said, coming to my defense.
I held up a hand. “Nope—actually, downtown’s fine.” If Inez had questions for me, particularly regarding a homicide, the sooner I addressed them, the better. But I wasn’t going to do it here, and I wasn’t going to do it on my own. “Inez, I’m happy to answer your questions, but I won’t be doing it here anyway. And I won’t be answering any questions from anybody unless my lawyer’s present.” I smiled. “No offense.”
She smiled back. “None taken. And when you say ‘your lawyer,’ that would still be Mr. David O’Farrell, right?”
I was slightly surprised. “That’s right.”
“I figured as much. So that we’d have no delays, I took the liberty of calling him for you. He’s on his way downtown as we speak.”
I was impressed. I nodded. “Good work, Inez. No sense wasting time. Can I drive myself?”
“I’d prefer it if you’d just ride along with these guys here.”
I stared at her for a second. By the book. “Very well, Inez.” I turned to her partner. “Before Inez has to ask, why don’t you come over here and relieve me of my sidearm.” I turned to Inez. “And keep it handy, because I’ll want it back when I leave.”
PART TWO
Chapter 6
There’s a small conference room on the sixth floor of the Seattle Police Department headquarters on Fifth and Cherry. David O’Farrell sat next to me, and Inez’s partner, whom she’d introduced as John Vanderberg, sat beside her. I was not handcuffed, and Inez was treating me nicely—not the way I’d expect her to treat a murder suspect if she really thought I might be guilty. Maybe she was just being nice because of David. Whatever—I wasn’t complaining.
John started his tape recorder while Inez made a few notes before she looked up at me. “You ready?” Inez asked David. He nodded that he was, so Inez got started. “We’re here in the headquarters building, sixth floor, conference room A on Friday, February 7, at two thirty in the afternoon. We’re here to interview Mr. Daniel Charles Logan in connection with the homicide of Eduard Markovic. Mr. Logan is represented this afternoon by his attorney, Mr. David O’Farrell. Okay, so let’s get started. Mr. Logan, the first question for you is where were you last night between the hours of eight p.m. and oh, let’s say, eleven p.m.?”
“Last night? I was sitting in …”—I thought for a second—“Benaroya Hall, Founders’ Tier, Box T, watching a surprisingly good performance by a fellow named Bryan Stokes something … Mitchell! Brian Stokes Mitchell. Sings show tunes.”
She looked at me, confused. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You were at the symphony?”
I nodded. “Yes, I really, really was.”
“Okay, then. Care to give me the particulars?”
“Certainly. We—my girlfriend, Toni Blair, and I—got to Benaroya Hall about seven thirty. Parked right there in their underground garage. We took the elevator upstairs and met my parents in the lobby—it’s their box, and they were already there waiting for us when we arrived—probably seven forty by this point. Show started at eight, so we went upstairs and took our seats and stayed put through the end of the first half. I talked to my dad at the intermission, then we all went back inside and stayed till the end of the performance, which was probably a little before ten. Then we went back down to the lobby. We talked to some acquaintances of my parents, whose names I don’t recall, but I’m sure my parents do. Then we said our good-byes and took the elevator to the garage, probably exited the building maybe ten thirty, ten forty-five or so. Had to stop for gas at the Chevron station up on Westlake. I can get you the receipt. We made it home probably around eleven fifteen or eleven thirty.” I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Eight o’c
lock to eleven o’clock. That’s pretty much it.”
She stared at me for a second, then said, “I presume your parents will corroborate your story?”
“Certainly.”
“Okay. I’ll expect a copy of that gas receipt in my e-mail later this afternoon.”
I nodded. “I’ll send you the ticket stubs, too.”
She looked at me for a second, then she turned to John and rolled her hand in a “now what” gesture.
John chuckled. “Well, that didn’t take long, did it? Inez, do you mind if I tell Danny what happened?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“So then,” John started, “Eduard Markovic gets arrested Wednesday afternoon at twelve forty-five along with three of his friends, plus you and your associate and the fellow later identified as the male victim, a Mr. Mike Lyon. Unlike you, Markovic and his boys actually get charged for D&D. He doesn’t get out until nine a.m. yesterday after his arraignment and bail hearing. He posted five hundred dollars cash bail. Then, apparently while you were enjoying the symphony, sometime between nine and ten p.m. yesterday, he was murdered. His body was left in one of the Dumpsters in the parking lot at your apartment complex early this morning, where a homeless man who was looking for aluminum cans found it a little later, at nine thirty. He flagged down a patrol car.”
“You’re sure of the times?” I asked.
“Reasonably sure, yeah. The ME established the time of death. And the city says they picked up the trash yesterday at five fifteen a.m.—Dumpster was emptied then. Our patrol unit got flagged down at nine thirty-five a.m. Dumpster wasn’t empty anymore—Eduard Markovic was parked inside. So sometime between five fifteen and nine forty in the morning, the body got dumped.”
“Cause of death?”
“GSW. Single shot to the chest. Large caliber.”
“Murder weapon?”
“Not recovered. No slug, no casing either.”
“So when you asked about my sidearm being a .45 and all, you don’t actually even know for sure that it was a .45?” I said, giving Inez a little stinkeye.
“We know it was big,” John said. “Big exit wound.”
I nodded. “Okay. Was he murdered right there?”
“ME says not. Not enough blood. Also, there was no spent slug or casings lying around anywhere. Looks like he just got dumped there.”
I looked at Inez. “You don’t really think I’d kill someone, do you? And then be so dumb as to dump the body in the trash can where I live?”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then smiled. “I’d say not likely. Especially now that you seem to have an alibi.”
I nodded. “‘Seem to have an alibi’—thanks for the vote of confidence there, Inez. What if I’d been home watching TV?”
She smiled. “Then maybe we’d not be talking so nice.”
“But,” David said, “since Danny does in fact have an alibi, is SPD still considering him a suspect in this case?”
Inez smiled again. “Oh, come on, gentlemen. He was never a suspect, more a person of interest. I know him well enough not to think the worst of him. But you must see why I needed to talk to him?”
I nodded. “Fair enough. So are you ready for me to talk?”
She nodded. “By all means. Start by filling us in as to your involvement with this man, Markovic.”
I shook my head. “Easy. There is no involvement. None. I never saw him before Wednesday. I will say that as of yesterday morning, my new clients are Sylvia and Mike Lyon. Someone is trying to buy the building they own in Pioneer Square, called the Lyon Building. It’s on Main across from Occidental Park. We’re thinking that whoever’s trying to buy the building is trying to harass them to get them to agree to sell. Markovic may—and I repeat, may—have been part of the harassment team, but we don’t know for sure. It’s also possible that Markovic might work for a man named Pavel Laskin—we met him yesterday morning. He said Markovic was his employee. He apologized to us for his actions. He said it was a mistake. We have no reason not to believe him.”
“So what you’re saying is that the incident in the bar might not have been random?” Inez asked.
I shook my head. “Almost certainly not.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Markovic started the fight in the bar for some reason. It’s possible that when he did that, he violated some sort of order by Laskin.”
John and Inez looked at each other. Then John turned back to me. “And violating that order might have led to punishment by Laskin?”
I shrugged. “It’s possible.”
John nodded as Inez leaned back in her chair and stared at the wall for a solid minute. Then, she looked at John and shook her head. “Guess we’ll need to be tracking down this Pavel Laskin character, won’t we?”
He shrugged.
She turned to me. “You said Pioneer Square?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Occidental Park. He’s hard to miss. Man’s big. And very mean looking.”
Inez nodded. “Good. We appreciate all this.”
“No problem. Maybe next time, you can just call me up.”
She smiled but didn’t answer.
* * * *
Toni has dinner every couple of weeks with her mom and sister up in Lynnwood. The Blair family is very close, brought on, I suppose, by the shared hardships they went through after Toni’s father was killed in an auto accident when she was eleven. The girls not only survived; after much hard work and sacrifice, they eventually thrived.
Toni’s mom never remarried. She blended her role as single mom with the new role of career woman. She took a job as a waitress and now, eighteen years later, she was the regional manager for the same chain with eight restaurants in the Seattle area under her supervision. Along the way, she’d worked her butt off to help the girls through college. Toni graduated from the University of Washington. Her younger sister, Kelli, was nearly halfway through a degree in drama, also at U-Dub. All three of the Blair girls were tall and striking and of similar (feisty) temperament. I didn’t begrudge Toni her time with them even a little bit.
By agreement, Toni called when she arrived to let me know she was okay. I think she thought it was a little silly that I’d insisted, but after yesterday, I was tempted to go with her. She’s highly proficient in Krav Maga, and she’s almost always armed (a crack shot), so I shouldn’t worry about her too much, but what can I say? I’m in love with her, and with a wild card like Maroni and a potential murderer like Pavel Laskin out there, I was concerned.
Nothing I could do about it now, though, so I settled in for three or four hours in which I got to watch TV, listen to music, and play the guitar. The rain had started up again this afternoon and now a quiet but steady drumming of raindrops struck the sliding glass door that led to our patio. The lights from the restaurants around Chandler’s Cove were nearly obscured.
I was kicked back on the sofa with my guitar tuned DADGAD and working on a particularly difficult passage in a Juber song when my phone beeped, informing me I had a new e-mail from Dwayne. Rather than try to read it on my phone’s tiny screen, I walked over to the table and opened it up on my laptop. There was a file attached titled “Enrico Maroni” and a note from Dwayne on the cover that said:
Danny—
You were right. Enrico Maroni is a scumbag. File attached.
Pavel Laskin is worse. Let’s meet in my office, Monday 0800.
—Dwayne
That’s Dwayne’s way of getting right to the point. I opened the PDF file on Maroni and spent the next few minutes reading through it.
When I was all done, I read it again, then I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Basically, Dwayne was right—Maroni really was a scumbag. And it turns out that he’d undersold things a bit when he’d told Toni he’d just gotten out of jail. The fact was, he’d just gotten out of prison in Monroe. He’d been arrested three times before, including once when he was eighteen when he’d been cau
ght masturbating as he peeked through an open window in the girls’ locker room at his own high school. He was sentenced to two years’ probation and mandatory counseling, which he completed. Toni sure as hell didn’t know about this, or I’m pretty sure she’d never have saved his ass in the parking lot.
A year later, he was arrested for burglary, but the charges were dropped when the DA failed to assemble the case on time.
Then, in late 2009, he’d been caught living with a runaway girl who was just fifteen years old. He was twenty-four by then, and the state of Washington takes a dim view of an adult engaged in a sexual relationship with a minor below the age of consent (sixteen in Washington). In this case, it led to a conviction of child molestation in the third degree, which, by virtue of his prior conviction, earned Maroni an eight-year sentence. He’d served four of ’em at Monroe and had been paroled last month with four more years to go. In addition to all his other problems, the guy was now a registered sex offender.
I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, and thought about what I’d just read. In my experience, sex offenders are hard to read and, at least at the early stage, hard to predict. Some of them are totally nonviolent. Sad? Yes. Pathetic? Most likely. But cruel and violent? Usually not. But there are exceptions. Some of the most vicious, sadistic, bloodthirsty monsters ever known started out with some sort of sexual deviancy that, given the “right” personality and circumstances, just blossomed into murdering lunacy. Bundy, Gacy, Ridgway, Richard Ramirez—all these guys were sexual deviants who eventually morphed into the most infamous killers we’ve ever known.
So where did Maroni fall on this spectrum? That was the question. I studied his file. If I put my hard-nosed, analytical hat on and decided to throw down some odds, I had to say that statistically, he almost certainly wasn’t in the Bundy category for the simple reason that not many are, thank God. But that was small comfort because when it involved Toni, I didn’t have the luxury of viewing Maroni as a statistic, a sort of data point falling somewhere on the sexual deviancy probability scale. This was personal. I mean, given the guy’s relationship with my girlfriend—the person I loved most in the whole world—he didn’t need to be anywhere near as bad as Bundy to get my attention.
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