Emerald City Blues

by Smalley, Peter

  I couldn't help it. I liked Malloy, but Sneer was too much. "Officers, you're here because I let you in. If you want to make this official you'll have to come back with a search warrant, arrest me here and now, or contact my lawyer to request a sworn deposition. And that is everything I have to say on the matter at this time."

  Sneer spat. "You play games with us and you'll lose, angel. I promise you that, by god."

  "Maddie," Malloy looked heavenward. Praying for patience, likely. "Please don't make this hard on us. We know you didn't do it. This isn't some kind of put-up. We just want your help solving a tough case. You yourself told me yesterday you knew Cooke socially, so I hope you'll do what's right for his sake even if you won't do it for ours. If you remember anything that might help us, leave a message for me down at the station. Dispatch can get it to me directly if it's urgent. Now, we're sorry to have troubled you." He cleared his throat and stepped toward the door, taking his cap out from under his arm and settling it in place with a practiced gesture. Neither mollified nor resigned, Sneer followed after him. His mouth was twisted in a sour line.

  I made no move, so Malloy sighed and opened the door to let himself out. Sneer fixed me with a look of pure vitriol. "Men come to see women all the time," he said venomously, "but not to see you, Miss Sheehan. You might try being with a man once, just to see how it feels." And with that parting shot he ducked through the doorway.

  My face was scarlet. With two swift steps I seized the door and slammed it shut as hard as I could. Bastard.

  FIVE

  The sign read CLOSED. I knocked anyway.

  Mary Louise came to the door, saw who it was, and let me in. Her eyes were still noticeably red. "Oh, Miss Sheehan, it's been awful here these last two days, just awful." Her voice was wretched, hoarse and almost overwrought. "You don't know what it's been like, having to tell all the doctor's patients he was m- that had had passed on." Mary Louise put one wrinkled hand to her mouth for a moment and crossed herself with the other as we walked farther into the waiting room of Tommy Cooke's practice.

  "I know," I told her simply, putting a gentle hand on the older woman's shoulder. "I remember it was like that when my father passed. It was like everyone in the city had to drop by and express their condolences when all I wanted was for the whole world to stop." I gave her a sympathetic half-smile. She had known my father. Everyone had. "It must be so hard for you, having to deal with all this. Being Tommy's receptionist can't have been the easiest job in the best of times, and right now is hardly the best of times."

  "Oh, my dear, you don't even know the half of it. As bad as it has been breaking the news to some of Doctor Cooke's older patients - some of them were with Dr. Cooke's father's practice and saw Thomas grow up, you know - I've never wanted to be someplace else so much as when the police came to ask me questions about him. I thought for a while they suspected I was the murderer!"

  I shouldn't have been surprised. It was standard procedure in a murder investigation to visit the victim's place of business and interview his known associates. I imagined Lieutenant Sneer grilling poor Mary Louise and tried not to grind my teeth. "Oh, Mary Louise. I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for you."

  "Oh my, yes. So many questions, and I'm afraid I wasn't much help. Almost everything I knew they could have learned just by reading his daily logs. Dr. Cooke kept records of all his patient visits, you know. So meticulous! I wonder sometimes how I ever could have kept track the way he did, but it was just his way. His father, rest his soul, was the same way." She crossed herself again.

  "Mary, did the police take Tommy's patient log book?" She looked up, surprised. "Yes, I'm looking into things a bit myself. I'd like to get to the bottom of it if I can. For Tommy."

  Mary pursed her lips. "Dear, I don't mean to criticize, but you know I don't really hold with women being private investigators. The police are the ones to deal with this. What would you do if you found the murderer and he came after you? The very idea." She had scandalized herself, but it wasn't the first time I'd heard this from her. Not many people thought much of my choice of careers. "Besides, dear, the police took the patient log with them. Evidence, they said. I got a receipt...hmm, somewhere on the desk, I think."

  So much for that angle. "It's all right, Mary, please don't mind me. I'm just trying to help in whatever way I can." Time for the next line of questioning. "I wonder - I'm sure the police already asked you this, but did Tommy have any patients who were upset with him for some reason? Did he do anything unusual in the last few days, anything at all out of the ordinary?"

  "Oh my, no. Dr. Cooke was always such a dear, he had a wonderful way with his patients. Such a nice man, it's a wonder he never married..." I held my tongue at that, but she was already prattling on. "Dear me, I can't imagine any of his patients being upset with him. He was such a good doctor, really caring about each one of his patients, not just their bodies but their lives, really... No, I can't say he did anything unusual or out of the ordinary in the last few days. He came in at the same time he always did, wore the same raincoat, left his wet umbrella to leak all over my nice floor..." She clucked her tongue. "I had to remind him every time, I did. Why just the other day when he came back from lunch at his club-"

  A strange look came over her face then. I've seen it before, even caused it once or twice. Fear.

  "What is it, Mary?" I probed gently.

  "Well." She smoothed her skirt and raised her chin. "While Dr. Cooke was taking his lunch the day before yesterday, a man came by asking for him. I didn't think much of him, though he was polite enough. I never did manage to get used to all the foreigners being around the city." She was old enough to have been a young woman during the Klondike gold rush; I could just imagine what that must have been like. "As I said, he was polite enough, asking for Dr. Cooke, but he seemed more than a little put out to find Thomas was not in. I asked if he would care to leave a message. He said..." Rheumy eyes sought mine and her voice quavered. "He said he would leave a message. Just that. But the way he said it - it put a chill in my very soul." She looked down, hands trembling in her lap until she clasped them together. "He left, and I've never been so glad to see someone's back, may God be my witness."

  I knew what she meant. I was feeling the same chill. But I had to know. "Mary. What did he look like?"

  "Ah...thin." She seemed startled, then focused on the memory. "Tall and thin, he was. He wore a black wool coat, long, past the knee. And a white shirt with a high collar. Gloves. And he carried a silver-topped cane."

  "Do you remember what color his eyes or hair were?" I held my breath.

  "Blond," she said immediately. "Pale blond hair, and light colored eyes. I don't recall exactly, they could have been light green or grey but I couldn't swear to it now."

  Great. I had a lead, thanks to Mary and Markel. But what to do with it? Who was this man? "Can you remember anything else about him?"

  "He was only here a few moments." Mary cast her eyes back into the waiting room as if picturing him there. "I remember he went out to a very new automobile when he left, a black A-model Ford I think."

  "Was he alone?"

  "No... There was a driver. A foreigner, from that odd fur hat he was wearing. He was standing by the car and opened the rear door when the blond man walked up." Mary put her hand to her mouth in sudden realization, a touch of horror in her eyes. "You don't think they have anything to do with...?"

  "I don't know anything at all, Mary." I patted her hand sympathetically and forced myself to speak calmly. She'd been through enough already. "I'm simply being thorough, and I'm sure it's nothing. You've had a hard few days, but it will be better soon. I know the police will take care of this, I just know it." I stood and she followed me toward the door. "I'll come by in a few days and we'll go somewhere and have tea, just the two of us. How does that sound?"

  "Oh, Miss Sheehan, that would be a godsend. I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to it." The throb of gratitude in her voice was palpabl
e. It made me feel an utter cad, forcing her to relive those moments. I pressed her hand once more and bid her good morning.

  Then I stepped out into the cold downtown wind and felt the cold steal through my coat and chill me through and through.

  Markel’s blond devil had been here too, the day before Tommy died. The day Tommy had come to see me. The day he had found a note under his door with the word Veniam written on it. I come. The wind gusted and I pulled my trench coat closer. Leave a message. Veniam.

  I remembered the look of fear on Mary's face. I hoped my own didn't wear it as well.

  SIX

  I had an address.

  Sure, it had cost me. But who wouldn't jump at the chance to pawn her dead father's Worshipful Master Mason ring to a seedy pawnbroker off Pioneer Square who had as much as accused her of stealing it?

  The good news didn't end there. I might have depressingly little change in my pocket now, but I did have something to give me a cold, brittle smile as I walked down First Avenue: a 1923 Beretta. The small Italian pistol fit nicely in my palm, though I had begun to notice it had a tendency to grow freezing cold while it rode in the pocket of my trench coat. The leering pawnbroker had not been able to come up with a holster rig suited for a female frame, and in the end I'd run out of patience with his attempts to paw at me. The weight of it against my leg was reassuring.

  A short stop at Sears & Roebuck gave me enough ammunition to make the clerk ask if I planned to pay a call on the Capones, but I let it pass. I had an address.

  The logic was simple. If Mary Louise was right and the two men had been foreigners, I made them as likely to have arrived in Seattle by boat or train. Thus, they would need the new automobile Mary had seen to get around the area. There was only one Ford dealership anywhere close to the port and King Street Station, and a new A-Model would certainly have come from there. After a short cab ride to the Ford dealer, it took no time at all to cadge a bill of sale out of the eager young man behind the counter. What is it about beautiful, commanding women that turns grown men into grinningly compliant boys?

  Whatever it is, bless it. It saved me a bribe I couldn’t afford.

  The bill of sale was distressingly light on details like the name of the purchaser, but it did have a delivery address. So it was that I found myself kneeling next to a shiny black A-model fresh off the lot. Hell, the tires were still clean. In rain-soaked, muddy Seattle that meant either it wasn't driven much, or it was still brand new. I'd used up most of the day with gumshoe work already, and night was settling in over the city as I peered around the corner of the A-model at the address I'd obtained.

  It wasn't exactly promising. The warehouse was off Harbor Avenue north of Riverside, not far from the West Seattle ferry terminal. The length of it jutted out into the waters of Elliott Bay like the aggressive chest of a waterfront prostitute trying to convince Harbor Island to let her show it a good time. There were a few lights here and there, but the building and much of the area around it were dark and indistinct. The only sounds were the lapping of the water against the pier pilings and the occasional backfire from a car driving up Admiral on the hill behind me. Across the water, downtown glowed in the darkness like a proverbial city on a hill. Those hills were a bit shorter nowadays since the Denny regrade, but the metaphor held well enough.

  With the car there, I figured someone had to be inside. Maybe more than one someone. The thing was, I wasn't so sure I wanted to go right up to the door and knock just to see who would answer. Not until I had some idea who and what I was dealing with. The memory of Tommy's postcard was fresh in my memory. So was Markel's description of "that blond devil" and the look of fear on Mary Louise's face.

  But hey, I was heap big private investigator, right? So get with the investigating already, girl. I lowered the brim of my father's fedora and forced myself to take a step beyond the corner of the A-model. Then another. See how easy this is? My brain tried to reason with the rest of me, but the rest of me wasn't having any of it. Primitive survival instincts kept telling me to run. I ignored them. Staying crouched at the waist, I moved step by slow step toward the north side of the warehouse. A wooden dock reeking of old fish and fresh creosote wrapped around that side of the building, giving tantalizing access to windows I might use to peer inside and get a glimpse of the car's owner. It would be nice to know what I was dealing with before walking in on a murderer.

  I put my back to the north wall and moved slowly, trying to keep my footfalls soft. Nothing echoes like a dock at night. Not far ahead was a stack of crates covered with a canvas tarp. With luck, I could climb up and see through a nearby window. Ignoring the mournful call of the ferry's horn drifting across the bay, I approached the crates and began to look for a handhold.

  The canvas tarp was loose. That suggested these crates were either recent arrivals, or departing in the very near future. What did the blond devil have entering or leaving the port? It was worth a little time to investigate, I decided. Right now any clue was useful. Lifting up a corner of the canvas and squinting, I tried to read the block print lettering on the side of the crate in the dim light. The closer I came, the stranger it looked. Then I understood. It was Cyrillic. I lifted the canvas higher and leaned in close beneath it, trying to see if there was more that might help me determine what was inside the crates.

  I had gotten no farther than that when my right side exploded in agony.

  Rolling to my left, I fumbled clumsily for the Beretta. My trench coat had become tangled underneath me, and the pistol with it. Above me, a dark shape moved in the shadows and then lashed out with another vicious kick to the ribs. My breath shot out of me in a sickening rush and I flailed helplessly, gasping for air, finding none. I lifted myself to my elbows, struggling backwards until I had my shoulders against the crates. The dark shape watched me vainly trying to get my hand into the pocket of my trench coat beneath me, then reached down to pick something up from beside the building. It was a crowbar, the kind used to open crates like the ones I was leaning against. Except that now it looked like it was about to open me, instead.

  The figure took a step to my right, moving away from the building to get a better arc to swing the crowbar. As it did so, it stepped out of the shadow of the stacked crates. In the faint light coming from downtown I saw her face, dusky and beautiful and merciless. She had dark hair and eyes beneath a fur hat... a fur hat Mary Louise had described to me just that morning. With that long wool coat to obscure her figure... I was looking at the blond man's driver, and she was foreign and dangerous and beautiful in a way that hurt me more than what she was about to do with that crowbar.

  "Why?" I croaked, the lack of air making my voice break.

  She paused. A razor smile appeared above her narrow chin, exposing teeth as sharp and white as the business edge of a new moon. "For power," she said, the Russian accent crisp and unmistakable. And something more. Something in her voice reminded me of someone. Who could it be?

  Then I put two and two together and got twenty-two. Before I could stop myself, I opened by my stupid mouth and said it. "Gerd. You learned from Gerd."

  Her smile broadened. She leaned into her swing. Darkness.

  SEVEN

  Of all the hangover cures I've ever had the misfortune to try, a jail cell has to be the least effective.

  My head was three sizes too small for the bongo drums pounding inside it. My mouth felt like half a dozen winos had used it as a sponge bath, and all my clothes smelled like, well, a jail cell. Imagine that. The shadow of prison bars bisected my face, backlit by the unfeeling light of a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. And of all the beautiful things that existed in the world at that moment in time, the view that greeted me when I opened my sleep-crusted eyes at last was the smirking visage of Lieutenant Sneer.

  Damn him, anyway.

  "Rise and shine, gorgeous." His nasal drawl was almost comforting. I'd not been certain I would wake up at all. By comparison, even this was preferable. Barely, but preferable. "I hope
you like our little bed and breakfast. Now that you've had your beauty sleep, it's time to start singing."

  "Why don't you go get me some coffee, maybe a cheese croissant or some quiche or something, and then we can talk?" My voice was low and hoarse, a crow's guttural croak.

  He barked a derisive laugh. "You've got some stones, angel. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not until you talk. I've been waiting to have this conversation ever since you showed up at the Cooke murder site. You thought it would be more fun to play dumb and bull me for a while. But now it’s my turn, wise guy."

  "Did they teach you to talk like that in cop school?" I closed my eyes and yawned. Ouch. Mistake. I hurt all over but nowhere was worse than the throbbing ache in my coconut. It felt like I'd gone nine rounds in the ring with John L. Sullivan. Bare-knuckle.

  "They taught me a lot more than that, beautiful." Sneer squatted near the bars and fixed me with his best you're-busted-now glare. "They taught me how to recognize a guilty conscience when it's staring back at me from behind iron bars."

  He had me there. But the only things I really felt guilty about were dead on a muddy field in France, ten years back. Unless I counted not helping Tommy soon enough. Dammit. "Nice try. You've got no goods on me. I'll be out of here as soon as someone who can sound out the words habeas corpus comes along."

  "Not so fast, angel." He gave me that band saw smile again, drawing it out, savoring my growing unease. "I can only hold you for a day without charging you, true. But I've got some good news for you. You're under arrest. We've got you on criminal trespass, breaking and entering, and arson. You're not going anywhere, sweetness. So why don't you sing me a nice little song about how you just happened by my crime scene up on Capitol Hill the morning after the murder of someone who just happened to mention you in his datebook, and then just happened to show up at a warehouse in Riverside in time for it to burn down to the waterline?"