“When did you get back?”
“Right around ten-fifteen.”
“And what did you find?”
She was quiet for a long time, rolling the cigarette through her fingers.
“He was in the living room,” she said quietly. “Lying on the floor. He still had the needle in his arm and he was tied off.”
“Tied off?”
“Around his arm.” She rubbed her bicep to illustrate it. “He had a rubber tube. And the works were on the table.”
“Was he already dead?”
She nodded sadly, her eyes glistening again.
“What did you do?”
“I called 911.”
“That rubber tube,” I asked, curious, “was it something you had in the house?”
She inhaled smoke deeply and blew it out toward the ceiling. “I don’t know,” she answered with some surprise. “I’d never seen it before. Maybe it was out in the garage or something.”
“Was it from when you were using last year?”
“No, we never used anything like that. Craig had this necktie from some job he’d had, we used to use that. It was like a little joke. And we’d gotten rid of all the syringes and needles when we quit.”
I decided to let that drop. She didn’t know where it had come from, and a rubber tube wasn’t a common household item. It was something to look into later.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “but I have to ask – how was your relationship? Were you monogamous?”
“Of course we were,” she replied immediately, as if the question had been stupid.
“Did either of you ever cheat?”
“No. We loved each other, why would we do something like that?”
I smiled gently at her. So she hadn’t known about the blonde. I’d leave it that way, there was no need to give her another thing to grieve over.
“I know it’s hard, but after they’d taken Craig’s body away, what did you do?”
“I don’t know. I mean it, I really don’t. I guess I just sat there for a long time, trying to take it all in.” She raised her eyes to look at me. “I don’t even think I’ve taken it in yet.”
“Where did you go after?”
“I called my sister. She came and got me. I’ve been staying with her and her husband ever since.”
“Have you been back to the house at all?”
“Once, to check the mail and pick up some things. It was weird, the place felt so dead, it really seemed like no one lived there anymore. Do you want to see it?”
“Sure.” Her offer surprised me.
“I need to go over there, anyway. It might be easier if someone’s with me.”
It would be interesting to see how they’d lived, and there could be something there to help me. More than that, Sandy could use the support.
“Do you know where it is?”
“I do.”
“You want to ride with me or meet over there? I’ve got my sister’s car.”
“Be easier if we drive separately.”
“I’ll see you over there, then.” She picked up her purse and swept out as I collected everything and put it in my bag.
As I drove across the West Seattle Bridge I thought about what she’d told me. The detail about the rubber tube was interesting. It was possible that Craig had it somewhere, but I doubted it. If he’d used a necktie before, he’d almost certainly have gone for that again if he was going to shoot up. So where had the tube come from? It was a piece that didn’t fit.
I parked on Fauntleroy and walked up the short, steep hill of Kenyon. Sandy had pulled into the driveway, and the hot engine of her Nissan pinged lightly as it cooled. The front door of the house was open and I walked in, feeling a sense of wonder. Having delved into Craig’s life so much over the last week and a half, finally I could see it up close.
There was a coat rack on the wall piled with jackets and a parka. In the mirror next to it I saw my face, tired, eyes intense, hair uncombed and untidy, eye shadow a dark smudge. I looked a mess.
I walked through to the living room, glancing around and trying to take everything in. The table stood against the wall under the front window, a couch sat opposite, the television and stereo in the corner. One wall was lined with bookcases, the top shelves filled with old psychology texts, spines cracked and creased, with a few novels tucked in between. The bottom two shelves bowed under the weight of LPs and I knelt to look at the titles. There was everything from early Elvis through the Beatles, the big punk bands, and even some embarrassments like Styx and Journey. Maybe they’d been Sandy’s.
I heard footsteps on the hardwood floor and she came through from the kitchen.
“I made some coffee,” she said, handing me a cup. “Just black, there’s no milk.” Her face was pale with the stress of being here, and her hands shook slightly as she held the mug. “He was over there,” she told me, nodding at the couch. “The spoon and shit were on the table.” Her voice was flat and she turned around and walked out of the room. I followed her into the kitchen. “Sorry,” she said.
“There’s no need to apologize. Being here must be tough for you.”
The air was stale and I understood what she’d meant when she said it seemed dead in here. She’d piled the mail on the counter and began sorting through it idly, putting all the junk on one side.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” I asked, feeling guilty at the question. But I felt that this place where he spent his days and nights would give me the best sense of Craig.
“Help yourself,” she replied without raising her head, and I heard her rip open an envelope. I started to wander through the house, letting my hand trail lightly over objects, a chair in the dining room, a shelf that held odd, kitschy trinkets, Day of the Dead dolls and Santeria candles in their glass jars.
The place was neat, with a thin layer of dust over the furniture. I traced my fingertip through it, feeling the silence and loneliness in the house. The house had only been empty for a few days, but it could easily have been months or even years. Through the window I saw the grass in the backyard needed to be cut again. A few more weeks and the flowers in the border would be blooming brightly. A tall wooden fence enclosed the garden, keeping it private, the garage stealing some room from the plants.
On the other side was the only bedroom, with corner windows looking across to Elizabeth Heston’s house and out to the yard. The bed was made, everything tidy, no clothes on the chair. Three guitar cases were lined up next to a Fender Twin amplifier, a little old Pignose amp on top of it, distortion and delay pedals on the floor at the side like colorful little slippers. I pulled the cases out and looked inside. I didn’t play, but I loved guitars, their shapes and the music they made. Craig owned a white Fender Stratocaster, the instrument I’d seen him use each time I’d seen the band, a Japanese Ibanez copy of a Gibson SG and, in the last case, a beautiful vintage black Les Paul that must have cost him well over a grand. A cheap acoustic was propped in the corner, and on the dressing table, surrounded by Sandy’s make up, was a cassette recorder and a microphone. I rewound the tape a little then pressed play. There were a few guitar chords repeated over and over, ideas that would have meant something to Craig. No farewell speech, no confessions, no finger-pointing.
I put the instruments back and poked my head into the small bathroom, the white fixtures gleaming, the checkerboard tiles of the floor clean. The laundry hamper in the corner was half-full, the medicine cabinet held only ordinary things – toothpaste, aspirin, floss, Tampax, the standard items from any house. Other than the guitars there was little to show that a musician had ever lived here.
Back in the kitchen, Sandy was still opening mail, glancing at the contents and throwing most of it away.
“What’s going to happen with the house?” I asked her.
She turned weary eyes on me.
“I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it.” She looked around the room. “I guess it’ll go to his parents. It’s not like he r
eally owned it. The publishing deal just gave him enough for a down payment. There was still the mortgage every month.”
“He didn’t leave it to you?”
“Come on, it’s not like he’d made a will or anything,” she answered. “I couldn’t live here, anyway. Not now. Every time I went in the living room...”
“Tell me,” I said, “who did you buy your heroin from last fall?”
“A guy called Nelson,” she replied.
“Was it always him?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I was just thinking, if Craig really had decided to shoot up, he’d probably have gone to the same dealer. I doubt he knew too many people selling smack.”
“I was the one who asked around and found him.”
“Do you know how I could get hold of him?”
She looked at me curiously then rummaged through her purse for an address book. She found the page and copied down the phone number on one of the envelopes she’d discarded. “Here.” She handed it to me.
“Have you talked to him since?” We both knew what I meant. She shook her head again. I decided it was time to press her a little. “I told Dani that since I started looking into all this, I’ve been threatened. But there’s more than that. The brakes suddenly went on my old car. I was sent a bullet in the mail. I keep getting phone calls saying I should quit the story. And now there’s what Nick McDonald told me. Please, if you have any idea what’s going on, tell me.”
She didn’t take her eyes off me but sat down shakily at the kitchen table. I sat across from her and took both her hands, feeling them move under mine.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. Tears were running down her cheeks. I dug a Kleenex from my purse and wiped them away slowly. It seemed like a remarkably intimate act, and I felt an odd mix of embarrassment and guilt. When I’d finished I put the tissue in her right hand and closed her fingers around it.
“Why?” she asked after a long time. “Why would someone kill him? He was the sweetest guy.” Her eyes had lost their focus and I knew that though her body was here, her mind was in the past. “One time he came down to the restaurant while I was working and gave me this big bunch of flowers and sang to me. Everyone applauded. I don’t think I’ve ever blushed so much in my life. But it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.” She shook her head again and came back to me. “Why would someone want to kill someone like that?”
I sighed. “All I can tell you is that someone’s hiding something and I haven’t been able to find out what it is. Someone killed him, I’m sure of it. That’s why I needed to talk to you. The more you can tell me about Craig, the better chance I have of finding out what’s going on.”
“But I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “I don’t understand why.” She brought her small fist down hard in frustration.
“That’s okay,” I assured her. “You’ve done a lot already. You’ve talked to me, you’ve shown me this place.” I smiled at her. “And you’ve given me Nelson’s number. Did Craig know any other dealers?”
“No. Do you think he..?”
“I don’t know. But if Craig did score it would probably have been from him.”
She nodded her understanding. “Yeah, I guess.” She ran a hand quickly through her hair. “Look, when you call Nelson, make sure you tell him I gave you the number. He’ll talk to you then.”
“Are you still working?”
She lit a cigarette, her fingers moving quickly. “I’ve taken some time off.” She gave a tiny, wan smile. “I don’t really know if I still have a job, we’ll see when I’m ready to go back. I just couldn’t...”
“I understand.”
“Look, do you mind if I have some time alone here?”
“Of course not.” I’d asked all I needed. For now, anyway.
“Do you think you’ll find an answer?” she asked as I turned to leave.
“I’ll try,” I told her. I’d do everything I could to find the killer. And stop the calls and the fear that was infecting me.
“I want you to do something for me.” She was managing to keep her voice steady, the words only wavering slightly. “When you find out, let me know. Even if you can’t prove it. You can tell Dani, she’ll pass it on.”
I closed the door quietly. After the stuffy, dead air of the house, outside smelled clean and fresh, a breeze pulling off the Sound with a tang of the sea at the edge of it. I walked back down to the car, but stopped before unlocking the door. Instead, I headed down the path into Lincoln Park. There were a few mothers walking with their infants or pushing strollers, but still plenty of silence and space. I walked all the way to the point. Container ships moved in the distance, tiny against the vastness of the water.
Sandy had given me plenty to think about. I had a lead to follow, if it went anywhere. I’d seen where Craig lived, and how he lived, a reminder that musicians weren’t all wild, sloppy creatures. He liked things ordered and in their place.
The wind began to pick up, bringing darker clouds in from the horizon. I made my way back to the car, turned in the ferry lot and headed back to Queen Anne and home. For once I couldn’t enjoy the music on KJET; it seemed vapid and pointless. Even the abrasive drone of the engine was better.
Twenty
I sat at the table and made notes of everything Sandy had told me, along with my impressions of the house, writing while it was all fresh in my head. Then I transcribed the tape of our conversation at the OK Hotel, adding the sheets to those already in the folder for the story. It was tedious work; I was a slow typist, pecking away with two fingers on each hand. Sometimes I wished I’d followed my mom’s advice and taken a secretarial course.
When I finished I made coffee and read through everything. All Sandy had told me fleshed out my picture of Craig, and the small things, like the tidiness of the house, gave me insights into what made him tick. I felt like I was inching toward the truth. It was still tantalizingly out of reach, but coming closer. I looked at Nelson’s number for a few minutes before dialing.
“Yeah.” His voice was low and lazy, a purr like a lion who’d just eaten his fill.
“Sandy Armstrong said to get in touch with you,” He didn’t reply, waiting for me to continue. “My name’s Laura Benton.”
“So? What do you want?” he asked finally.
“She said she bought from you last fall.” I took a deep breath. “Don’t hang up on me, okay? I’m a music journalist and I’m doing a story about Sandy’s boyfriend’s death. It was an overdose.”
“Go on,” he told me, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“I’m not out to sic the cops on you or anything like that.”
“I’m glad to hear that, lady.” He still sounded entertained, but I could hear the edge of a threat underneath.
“All I want to know is why and how he died.”
“Sounds like you already have the how if he ODed.”
“Yeah, but he’d stopped using.”
“Maybe.”
“So what are you saying? He was still buying?”
“I’m not saying anything,” he replied firmly. “And I’m damn sure not going to say anything on the phone. If you got questions, I’ll answer them. But I’ll only do it in person, so I can make sure you’re not recording or wearing a wire.”
“That’s fine,” I agreed readily.
“Okay.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You know Pioneer Square, right? I’ll meet you by the totem pole there tomorrow at ten.”
“That’s fine. How will I know you?”
“Tell me what you look like.”
I described myself as honestly as I could.
“You got a Mariners hat?”
“Yeah, somewhere.” Someone had given me one as a well-meaning present long ago. I’d put it in a drawer and never even worn it.
“You have that on and I’ll find you.”
It seemed too mysterious, like a spy movie, but if that made him happy it was fine. All I cared about was fin
ding the information I needed. I’d be there on time, dressed however he wanted. After a moment’s thought I called the number for library information.
“Central library. This is Monica.”
“It’s Laura Benton again.”
“Did you find that address okay?”
“Yes, thanks.” I smiled; Monica had the sharpest memory I’d ever come across. “Tell me, are there any statistics on heroin dealing in Seattle?”
“Last week it was heroin, today it’s heroin dealers. Something you’re not telling me?” she said playfully.
“Just for a story. Really.”
“If you say so, sweetie. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you back.”
I went out on the deck to smoke a cigarette and waited. I’d just stubbed out the butt, making an arrow pattern in the ashtray, when the phone rang.
“It’s Monica. There isn’t much to find. A couple of articles in the Times from a few years ago, some old police stats. Nothing very useful. From a quick read it looks as if no one’s really sure how many there are. The police believed about sixty back in 1980. Five years ago a reporter thought it was maybe a hundred. Go figure.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“Sometime you’ll have to tell me what you’re working on. It sounds intriguing.”
I laughed. “We’ll see.”
“I think I’m starting to feel like a sidekick.” She giggled. “Should I buy a cape and mask?”
“Librarian Girl?”
“Ooh, I like that. But if you’re dealing with druggies, look after yourself.”
“I will,” I promised, and hoped I could.
By the time Steve arrived home the rain had begun, a light, airy drizzle. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing away the water, and pulled me close for a long kiss that held a promise of fun and romance for later.
“How’d it go with Sandy?” he asked as he hung up his jacket. “Do we have any beer in the refrigerator?”
“There’s still a couple,” I answered. “It was interesting. She took me over to the house.”
“Did she tell you anything?” He brought out two bottles, popped the caps and handed me one.
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