“Outside the rehearsal space once, and another time after a gig. I was putting the drums in my car and she drove by. She had one of those old cars, one of the big ones, it kind of surprised me.”
My heart was beating fast. Maybe I really had something. “Green?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me. “You know who she is?”
“Not yet. But I’m going to find out.”
He stubbed the cigarette out on the metal railing. “Is there anything else? I got to get back.”
“Was everything still good on the record deal?”
“Yeah. Why, did you hear something?”
“No,” I assured him. “Just checking. Thanks for telling me about the girl.”
“De nada.”
He shrugged and left. I put a dollar in the busker’s guitar case and started the walk home, lighting a cigarette of my own as I walked up First Avenue.
Carla was at her espresso stand, sheltering under the large umbrella. The shoulders of her coat were a darker blue from the rain, and her hair looked bedraggled. Without waiting she made me a latte.
“What do you know about Craig and Sandy?”
“Not much,” she shrugged. “I think I told you pretty much everything.”
“Do you know if he was he seeing anyone else?”
“No idea. I didn’t run into him much, like I said.” She looked at me with curiosity. “Why? Was he?”
“I don’t know. I’ve just heard a couple things, it might be nothing. A girl in a big Seventies car. One of the powerful ones.”
“You mean a muscle car?” she asked and I nodded. “That sounds more like the island.”
I hadn’t considered that. Maybe it was someone from his past.
“Someone thin and blonde in a green car? Mean anything?”
“Not really. I hardly go back there any more, just to see my folks sometimes. You’d do better asking Craig’s brother, he might know.”
“He kind of made it clear he didn’t want to talk.”
She shook her head sympathetically. “Yeah, he can be like that. He was always kind of a dick.”
“He said his best friend died of an overdose.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that now. He was pretty broken up about it at the time.” She frowned. “Yeah, I can see how this would hit him.”
I thanked her, took my coffee and walked up the hill. It was definitely interesting. Maybe the blonde really was someone he knew from Bainbridge Island – it was only a short ferry ride away.
At home, I called The Rocket and talked to Rob. I could have stopped in but this was easier on the phone. I told him about the package.
“Fuck, a bullet!”
I could hear his outrage down the line. “The cops have it. I got the impression they weren’t taking it too seriously. We haven’t had a detective around for any follow up.”
“I don’t care. Laura, I’m pulling the plug on this. It’s gotten way out of control.”
“Don’t,” I said. I kept my voice firm and even. “I want to continue.”
“After that?” He sounded dubious. “Are you for real on this?”
“Yes.” I was certain. “And before you ask, my boyfriend supports me on this, too.”
“Okay,” he agreed with a sigh. “But on one condition – any more trouble, anything at all, and that’s it, okay? I figured this would end up being a pissant little story, not my writer getting threatened. I’m not having you get hurt.”
“Well, it’s not like I want that, either.”
“Anything else and we’re done with it,” he repeated. “Agreed?”
“Yes,” I said after a small hesitation.
“I mean it. For now you’d better tell me what you’ve found recently.”
I brought him up to date, especially about the blonde and the car. He listened attentively, and I heard the scratch of pen on paper as he made notes.
“So how do you think she figures into this?” he asked finally.
“I really don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t. But she’s the only thing I’ve got right now, and from what Mike told me, it sounds like he had something going on the side that Sandy didn’t know about.”
“Or maybe she did,” he suggested. “Jealousy can be a pretty powerful motive for murder.”
“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I see it with her, though.”
“Think about it,” he said. “Craig’s about to get plenty of money with that record deal. His girlfriend finds out he’s seeing someone else and thinks he’s about to dump her. So she kills him. It could have happened that way.”
I didn’t know much about murder, but I did know that jealousy killings were usually crimes of passion. Craig’s death hadn’t been like that. If someone had killed him, they’d planned it carefully and coldly.
“What I really need to do is talk to Sandy.”
“Not heard anything yet?”
“Nope. I might go down and see her friend again tonight.”
“Don’t push it,” he advised. “You don’t want to spook her.”
“I know. But she seems like the one with more of the answers.”
“You hope. If she’s responsible she’s hardly likely to confess, is she?”
“But she’ll be able to tell me a lot more about Craig.”
“There might well be things he kept from her, too. Do you really want to be the one to tell her about this girl?”
“Yeah, okay, point taken,” I said slowly.
“Just keep talking to people. You’re doing something right. If you need any help with anything, just let me know. And for Christ’s sake watch out, Laura. I mean it; I don’t want anything else happening to you. You tell me if something happens. Then we’ll pass it over to the dailies and let them look into it.”
“I don’t want that,” I said. I poured a cup of coffee and took a drink. “Not after everything.”
“I know,” he agreed sympathetically. “Sometimes it’s all for the best, though.”
We hung up and I started to understand how possessive I’d become about this story. I didn’t want to end up reading all the dark secrets in the Seattle Times or the Post-Intelligencer.
In the evening Steve took the car to head off to band practice, driving away slowly in the unfamiliar vehicle. About seven I shrugged into a jacket and walked into town. The rain had stopped but the asphalt still glistened, and car tires made a high hiss as they passed.
The Two Bells was fairly empty, just a few people enjoying dinner or lingering over Monday after-work drinks. Zydeco was playing on the stereo and toes tapped all over the bar while Clifton Chenier played that accordion.
I ordered a Henry Weinhard’s and glanced at the menu, although it was hardly necessary; there was only one thing I ever ordered here: the burger with potato salad. It was the best in Seattle – even the local papers all agreed on that.
Dani was behind the bar, dressed in blue jeans and a smock, an apron around her waist, her hair tied back. She looked around, saw nothing to do and came over to talk.
“How’s things?” I asked.
She shrugged, looking at me with a slight wariness, as if she wasn’t sure how to treat me. “Same old. How about you?”
“Well, I’ve been threatened, the brakes failed mysteriously on the Pinto, and someone sent me a bullet.” I’d picked my words carefully. Her mouth formed a tight O and her eyes widened. It took a moment for her to collect herself.
“What? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Someone doesn’t want me investigating Craig’s death, he made that very clear.”
“Shit.” She drew the word out, watching my eyes.
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “It’s not good stuff.”
“Has Sandy called you yet?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t heard from her. Look, Dani, I need some help. I could really use to talk to her now.”
“I passed on your message,” she told me, keeping her
eyes down so I couldn’t see them.
“Please, can you ask her again? I don’t know what’s going on in all this, but I’m going to need to talk to her to try and find out. She’s the one who knew him best.”
“I’ll go call her again now from the payphone in back. She won’t know what’s happened to you.” Dani extended her hand and put it on mine. “I’m sorry, really, I am.”
The burger, served on French bread, the juices dripping, was good as ever, the potato salad had just the right touch of mustard and everything else. It made me realize how hungry I was. A few of the regulars came in, taking up the bar stools and filling the place with bright, brittle chatter. I sat and joined in, keeping an eye on Dani as she worked. Finally she took a break and came to sit by me, sipping on a beer and lighting a cigarette.
“I told her what you said. She’s willing to talk to you.” Dani paused. “She just needs a little more time, that’s all.”
“How long?” I asked cautiously.
“Before the end of the week. She promised. And she’ll meet you, it won’t be over the phone.”
I nodded. It was Monday, so by Friday I’d know a great deal more than I did now. Before then I needed to try and find the muscle car blonde and hear her story.
“Thanks,” I said.
“She was really sorry about all the shit that’s happened to you.”
I gave her a quick hug, made my farewells to the faces I knew and walked home. The evening was becoming crisp, one of those spring nights where the clouds would roll away and let the temperature drop.
Steve was already home, sitting on the couch with his guitar plugged into a tiny amplifier. I hung back by the door to hear him singing and playing, his voice repeating lines as he tried out different chords, working on a new song. He had talent and he kept improving. Whether he was good enough was a different matter. The critic in me knew he’d never be great, but he loved music, making it, performing it. If luck went his way he might even scrape a living from it for a while, and that was all he asked, to have been there and done it.
Hey,” I said finally. “I like that.”
“Oh.” He reddened with embarrassment at having been heard. “It’s got a long way to go yet.”
“There’s real potential in that one.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I do.” I came over and kissed him, feeling sudden contentment at being home and with the man I loved. “How was practice?”
“Really good.” He smiled. “We’re going to do one more session on Wednesday then we’ll be ready for the gig at the weekend.”
I knew how important the show was. Opening for Soundgarden at the Central was a big-time opportunity. There was a guarantee of a big crowd and record company people in the audience – every label was after Soundgarden if all the rumors were true, and there was talk of serious money advances and massive recording budgets. Steve’s band would be bottom of the bill, playing while people came in, but those people would still hear them. It was the kind of break every band in Seattle dreamed about.
Steve had insisted that I hear none of the band’s new music, so I’d come fresh to it at the gig. The singles they’d released had shown promise and he said they’d come a long way since then. I loved to see him so excited about it all, to believe in it. I knew just how much this show meant to him, how he’d been building it up in his mind. He believed the band had the chance to make it, to find a deal with a big label, make an album and tour. He’d heard all the same rumors I had, that record company executives were in town every weekend, and a feeding frenzy could be coming soon. He didn’t talk about it, but I knew he kept his secret dreams of a Craig-type advance. Most of the musicians in town did.
The reality was likely to be different. Unless they were really good, with something different to offer, the best Gideon’s Wound could hope for would be another couple of singles, maybe an entire LP if they were lucky, on some obscure label. From that they might be able to string together a small tour, and that might end up being their entire claim to fame. And even that would be stretching things. Most bands never moved beyond gigs in local bars.
He knew that just as well as I did, but he buried it beneath the faith that his music had the special quality that set it apart, that made people desire it. Without that he might as well never have picked up a guitar. And if he trusted in his music, I would too. I loved him, it was the least I could do. I’d put the critic aside and let the fan and the lover stand there at the Central. And I’d be there to pick up the pieces if it didn’t work out.
He was still playing when I went to bed, the sound turned all the way down, stopping every few seconds to scribble on a legal pad, crossing words out, thinking, putting in others. He was wrapped up in his art, excited, transported. Later I felt him settle beside me with a long sigh that could have been either contentment or frustration. Slowly his breathing leveled into rest.
The phone roused me from work the next morning, the bell loud and angry inside the apartment. I answered from reflex, without even thinking who might be on the line. Only as I said hello did it occur to me that it might be the message man.
“Laura?”
“Hey, Anna.” A small wave of relief flooded through me.
“Listen, I might have someone for you to talk to about that car, if you’re still interested.”
“Hell, yes I am.” I started to reach for a notebook and pen.
“I remembered this guy who works on them for people, you know, boring out the engines and stuff like that. But he also goes to a lot of the shows and knows people in car clubs. If he can’t help you, I don’t know who can. His name’s Ed. I told him you’d probably give him a call.”
“I’ll do it right now,” I said. “And thanks, I really appreciate it.”
I poured another cup of coffee and dialed the number. It rang for a while before a voice answered. In the background echoes and bangs I could hear the cavernous space of a garage and the sound of an air compressor and drills. I could feel the adrenaline inside and tried to calm myself. This would probably lead nowhere. I asked for Ed.
“Hold on,” the voice said, “I’ll get him.”
When the man came on the line the sound was much smaller – in an office, probably. The noises were still there, but faint and distant.
“You’re Anna’s friend,” he said in a voice made raspy by too many cigarettes. “Yeah, she told me about you, the writer.”
“That’s me,” I answered. “Look, this is going to seem really strange.”
“Oh honey, strange is good,” he chuckled. “I only start getting problems at weird.”
“Well, it might even be weird. I’m looking for a green early Seventies muscle car.”
“Plenty of those around. You know what make?”
“No,” I admitted.
I expected him to sigh in frustration. Instead he simply said, “Then there’s not a lot I can do to help you.”
“How about if I tell you it’s driven by a woman. Young, blonde.”
He laughed. “Then I’d say you were looking for Jenna.”
“You know her?” I felt light-headed.
“Yeah, I know Jenna. Seventy One Plymouth Sport Fury GT, four forty engine with the six pack option.” He recited the car mantra as if it was holy. “I’ve done a lot of work on that beast for her.”
“Do you know how I can get hold of her?” I asked.
“I might,” Ed said cautiously. “Depends what you want with her.”
“All I want is to ask her a few questions.” I could hear the urgency in my voice. “I’m working on a story and I think she might be involved. Call Anna back if you like; she’ll vouch for me. I’m not going to cause any trouble. If Jenna wants to talk to me, that’s fine. If she doesn’t, that’s okay too.”
He thought for a long time, so all I could hear was his breathing and the muted noises and shouts of work in the background.
“I’ll give you her number,” he told me finally. “That way it’s up t
o her if she wants to meet you and talk. How about that?”
“I’d be very grateful.” He passed it on, I thanked him once more and hung up, staring at my scrawl on the paper. I could just call Jenna and see what happened. Or I could check the reverse directory at the central library. That would give me her full name and where she lived. With that information I could turn up at her door, where it would be much harder for her to say no.
Ethically I knew what I should do. But after threatening phone calls and a bullet in the mail I was growing tired of the proper way; I needed some answers. I found my address book on a shelf, thumbed through it and dialed a number.
“Central library. This is Monica,” a crisp voice answered. No matter when I called, she always sounded prepared and in control.
“Hi, it’s Laura Benton.”
“Hello again, Laura. Two calls in a week? You must be busy.”
“It’s this story. I’m looking for an address from a phone number.”
“I think I can handle that for you.” Her voice seemed to twinkle. “Just tell Auntie Monica.”
Three minutes later I knew where Jenna lived. An hour after that I was in the Horizon. The traffic on Interstate 5 was still quite light, before the rush hour crawl home, and I made good time out past the King County line. The address was on 196th Street Southwest, one block off a main drag, a small complex of eight apartments that was shielded from the street by a high hedge. There was nowhere to park close by that wouldn’t arouse suspicion from the residents in their identical tract houses, so I drove into the empty lot for the apartments and turned off the engine.
According to the mailbox, Jenna Wright was in apartment four; no other name was listed next to hers, so she lived alone. I rang the bell but it brought no answer. I went back to the car, cracked the window, took a book from my pocket, and settled down to pass the time.
By my watch it was five-sixteen when she appeared, the exhaust rich and throaty on the Fury. The paint might have been an ugly color, but it had been buffed to a high gloss and the chrome shone; she was proud of her ride.
Jenna was small and thin, just as I’d been told, dressed in polyester whites like a nurse or a dental hygienist. Her blonde hair was gathered back in a neat ponytail and a pale blue jacket covered her arms.
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