by G. M. Ford
Have to take her on the fly, he thought. No problem.
He began sidestepping to his left, looking for a better angle of fire. Detached and calm, he waited for her shadow to appear in the halo of the office door. He could hear the slap of her boots on the floor. He smiled as he raised the gun. And suddenly there she was, awash in the office lights, wearing some sort of black cape. He saw her face, the wide eyes as she glanced over her shoulder into the darkness, the deep-red lipstick. He sighted down the barrel. Exhaled.
And then his left foot came down on something metal and irregular, and with a pop his ankle rolled beneath him, sending bolts of agony shooting up and down his lower leg. The pain sent him lurching forward, hopping on his good foot. Ahead in the gloom, the office door slammed the wall and then ricocheted itself closed again. He cursed himself and hobbled after the retreating shadow.
Reduced to quarter speed, he gimped the distance and threw open the office door. His ankle was on fire as he hobbled around the counter. The exterior door flapped in the wind, its metal blind clanking to and fro. Above the roar of the wind and rain, he heard an engine start. He cursed again and limped out the door, silenced automatic held with both hands.
Five yards to his left, a peeling blue Toyota fish-tailed in the muddy gravel, its rear end swinging out of control as the tires fought for traction. Ramón could barely make out the shape of the driver through the fogged rear window. He aimed and squeezed off a shot. The rear window shattered and disappeared. He could see the back of her head clearly now, the black hair bouncing as she fought the wheel, trying to keep the careening little car on a straight line.
Bitch don’t get lucky twice, he thought to himself.
He aimed carefully. The little car was going nowhere, its tires spinning in the mud. Fifteen feet to the back of her head. He smiled, exhaled, and began the slow pull of the trigger, just as the rear end of the car swung back to the left. Suddenly finding firmer ground, the spinning tires spewed a hail of mud and gravel back into his face, choking him, blinding him, sending his silenced shot sailing off into space.
Ramón wiped his face with his sleeve and then choked as he spit out a small rock. Again, he pawed at the debris on his face but managed only to spread the glop around. His right eye was filled with mud, his left a mere slit. Mouth awash in grit, he was still trying to clear his vision when Gerardo slid the Mercedes to a stop.
“Come on, man!” Gerardo screamed. “Come on!”
Ramón limped around the front of the car and threw himself into the passenger seat. Gerardo tromped on the accelerator, rocketing the car forward, slamming the passenger door, forcing Ramón to brace himself with his bad foot. He groaned in pain.
Gerardo held the accelerator to the floor. The Toyota was fifty yards ahead, speeding toward the gate, throwing up a rooster tail of mud in its wake.
“We gotta get her,” Ramón said through clenched teeth. “No matter what.”
The Toyota became airborne as it bounced out the gate. The Mercedes had already made up half the distance. Ahead, a half mile of access easement connected the construction yard with the collection of warehouses and loading docks that ran along the east side of Western Avenue. Nothing needed to be said. They had to get her before she made it out to the traffic on Western.
The Mercedes only needed the first two hundred yards to close the remaining gap. Gerardo’s mouth hung open as they roared up to the Toyota’s rear end. Ramón braced himself on the dashboard as Gerardo drove the front bumper into the rear of the speeding Toyota, sending the little car careening left and right. For a moment it looked as if she would lose control and either roll the car or slide down into the marsh, where they could easily finish her off. Instead, the Toyota swung wide and then suddenly righted itself for a final dash to the warehouses ahead.
Ramón leaned out the window, tried to steady his arm on the mirror, and fired two shots. Nothing. He cursed the rocking of the car.
“Get her,” he said, as much to himself as to Gerardo. “Get her.”
The Mercedes was fifteen yards behind and gaining fast when she crimped the wheel and tried to turn the Toyota left at full speed. They watched in anticipation as the Toyota began first to slide sideways into the building, then as the car began to raise two wheels to the sky. Through the filthy windshield, Ramón caught a glimpse of the undercarriage as the car began to roll. Gerardo stood on the brakes, sliding the Mercedes around the corner in a controlled power slide. Both men felt certain they had her now. Gerardo babied the gas pedal, ready to move in close. Ramón switched the gun to his left hand and put his right on the door handle, ready to jump out and finish the game.
Suddenly, a feather of sparks appeared. Instead of flopping over on its side, the Toyota’s roof hit the cinder-block wall, sending the little car bouncing back onto its wheels, careening down the narrow alley like a drunk.
Again, Gerardo floored the Mercedes. The big car roared forward, throwing Ramón back into the seat. Ramón pushed himself forward. He stuck his head out the window, just as the Toyota turned right at the end of the building, bounced off a fence, and disappeared from view. The rain stung Ramón’s cheeks, as Gerardo slid the car between the building and the fence. And then the world went red and blue.
A Nationwide moving van was backed up to a loading dock, its massive red-and-blue trailer completely blocking the way. Ramón could see her eyes in the rearview mirror, which explained why she never hit the brakes.
The Toyota plowed into the trailer at full speed. Gerardo stood on the brakes. Ramón braced himself on the window frame and watched as the nose of the little car ducked under the trailer, as suddenly, yet seemingly in slow motion, the Toyota’s windshield exploded and the car’s top began to peel back like a soup can.
Gerardo spun the Mercedes in a complete circle, leaving them pointing back the way they’d come. He looked over at Ramón. White spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth. “Go finish her,” he said. “Strike her out.”
Ramón felt a slight discomfort in his ankle as he jogged toward the Toyota but couldn’t, at that moment, remember what had happened to cause the pain. The remains of the car steamed in the downpour. Some-where in the wreckage an electric fan still whirred. The windshield was dust. The top had been peeled completely back onto the trunk, leaving only the shattered body of the car wedged beneath the trailer.
He was no more than a dozen feet from the rear of the car when he heard voices. On the far side of the truck, somebody said, “Holy shit.”
“Robby, call nine-one-one!” shouted another.
Ramón began to backpedal. When a pair of legs hurried toward the front of the truck, he turned and hustled back to the Mercedes.
Gerardo wasted no time getting them back around the corner.
“You finish her?” he asked.
“No,” Ramón said. “We got tourists.”
Gerardo stopped the car and looked over at his partner, who, for one of the few times in their twenty years together, looked shaken.
“She hadda be dead,” he offered.
“Took the top of her head clean off,” Ramón said.
“You seen it?”
“Yeah.”
A long silence ensued. Finally, Gerardo spoke. “What now?”
“We better clean up our other mess,” Ramón said.
Gerardo dropped the Mercedes into DRIVE and started rolling.
8
Tuesday, October 17
9:11 p.m.
The rain fell in volleys, arching in from the south like silver arrows, blurring the windows and hammering the hull with a fury. The gimbaled ceiling lamp squeaked as Saltheart rocked back and forth. A fender groaned as the boat mashed it against the dock.
The sounds pulled Corso’s attention from his keyboard. He got to his feet and stretched. Although he’d lived aboard for years and seldom noticed the boat’s movements, tonight he could feel the rocking. As the wind buffeted the boat about the slip, he yawned, walked forward into the galley, an
d dumped his cold coffee into the sink.
He poured himself a fresh cup, doctoring it with a little cream and a spoonful of sugar. He looked up again just as the alarm buzzer went off. The last twenty feet of C dock were covered with bright green Astroturf, ostensibly to provide better traction but in reality to hide a web of pressure-sensitive alarm wires that warned Corso of the approach of visitors.
They were leaning into the wind, using a quivering umbrella like a battering ram. Even in semidarkness, through rain-sheeted windows, he had no doubt about these two. These two were cops. He grabbed his yellow raincoat from its hook and stepped out on deck.
Outside, the wind and rain roared. The air was alive with the sounds of slapping waves, groaning timbers, and the tink-tink of a hundred loose halyards, flapping all over the marina. At the top of the swaying masts, the anemometers whirled themselves blurry in the gale.
They stood shoulder to shoulder on the dock, sharing the umbrella: the new breed of cops, a pair of stockbrokers with thick necks, squinting in the tempest. The one on the left sported a helmet of sandy hair that trembled in the breeze. The other guy wore a black wool cabbie’s hat. They were both about thirty and accustomed to walking in people’s front doors without an invitation. Standing as they were, six and a half feet below Corso’s boots, they found themselves in an unaccustomed position of weakness, and Corso could sense it made them uncomfortable. He smiled. From waterline to deck, Saltheart had nearly six feet of free-board. Without the boarding stairs, there was no getting on deck gracefully. It was strictly assholes and elbows and hoping like hell you didn’t fall between the boat and the dock, where you’d be trapped and, on a night like this, would either drown in the frigid water or be ground to jelly between the fiberglass hull and the concrete dock.
“You Frank Corso?” Hair Helmet asked.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
The question sent them digging around in their coats. Coming up with a pair of Seattle Police Department IDs. They held the IDs at arm’s length. Corso leaned down over the rail. Detectives First Class Troy—the hair—Hamer and Roger—the hat—Sorenstam.
“What’s this about?” Corso asked.
“Margaret Dougherty,” Hamer said.
“Meg?”
“Yeah,” said the other cop.
“What about Meg?”
They exchanged a look. Hamer hunched his shoulders against the wind and gestured toward the boat. “You think maybe we could—”
“What about Meg?” Corso insisted.
“She crashed her car over by Western Avenue,” Sorenstam said.
“Into a Nationwide van,” added Hamer.
“She okay?”
“We’re investigating the accident,” Sorenstam said.
“Is she okay?” Corso said, louder and slower.
“Why don’t we step inside and—” Hamer tried again.
“What’s going on?” Corso said.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Corso—”
“I mind.”
“She’s up at Harborview.”
Sorenstam made a sad face and waggled a hand. “Docs say it’s touch and go.”
Corso felt his insides go cold. Felt so much like somebody’s palm was pressing on his chest that he actually looked down, as if to remove the offending hand.
He sighed, folded back the hinged section of rail, lifted the stainless steel boarding ladder from its place on the side of the pilothouse, and turned and hooked the steps over the bulwarks. “Come on aboard,” he said.
Corso led them in through the port door. Sorenstam thoughtfully left the umbrella on deck before stepping inside and looking around.
“Nice,” he said. “Nice setup you’ve got here.”
“It suits me,” Corso said.
“Helluva view of the city,” said Hamer, as he began to unbutton his overcoat.
Corso held up a hand. “Whoa, don’t get too comfortable. I’m going up to Harborview. You’ve got between now and when the cab gets here.”
He grabbed his cell phone from the navigation table, dialed nine, and pushed the talk button. After a moment, he recited his phone number, then his name and address. He left the phone turned on and set it back on the table.
“Car in the shop?” Hamer asked.
“Don’t own one,” Corso said.
“Not a black Mercedes?”
Corso stuffed his wallet into his right rear pants pocket. “I own a one-third interest in a Subaru Out-back. Coupla other people here on the dock and I bought it together. Parking’s a pain in the ass and none of us needs a car full time, so we went in together.”
“Pretty unusual,” Hamer commented. “Famous guy with a lotta money like you doesn’t own a car of his own.”
Corso pulled his overcoat from the narrow closet. “Guess I’m just an unusual guy,” he said. “What’s this about a black Mercedes? Was it involved?”
“We’re at an early stage of our investigation. We—”
Corso cut him off. “You guys want to stop jacking me around here or what?”
The phone rang. The electronic voice said the cab was waiting.
He shrugged his way into the coat. Stuck the phone in the pocket. They stood stone-faced as Corso grabbed a Mariners baseball cap from a hook over the door, pulled his ponytail out through the hole in the back, and settled the cap on his head.
He slid the door open. Gestured with his hand. “After you,” he said.
Corso followed the pair down the steps and onto the dock. Hamer stepped forward. Got right up in Corso’s face. “I’d think a real friend of Miss Dougherty’s would be more anxious to help bring this matter to a close.”
“I’d think a couple of cops would have better things to do on a night like this than blow smoke up my ass.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Sorenstam.
“I’m supposed to believe a couple of dicks are down here on a night like this over a traffic accident?” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “What? Things have gotten so slow they’re assigning traffic cases to detectives? Is that it?”
Sorenstam reached in his pocket. Pulled out a black leather notebook and flipped it open: Corso. Sat. 7 pm. Coastal. Dougherty’s handwriting.
“There’s this,” Sorenstam said.
Hamer moved even closer, crowding Corso now. “And a witness who says he saw a black Mercedes on the scene. Says he saw a guy with a gun get in the Mercedes and drive off. He says the guy was tall and dark. Had a ponytail.”
“Now you add that to coupla fresh bullet holes in the trunk of her car,” his partner said. “And you’ve got pause to wonder.”
“Pause to wonder,” Hamer repeated.
Sorenstam read Corso’s mind. “Car was a rust bucket,” he said. “The holes are clean as a baby’s ass.”
“And that brings you down here to me?”
“You’ve got two priors.” Sorenstam said it like he was sorry it was true. “Assault one and assault with intent.”
“Against members of the press,” Hamer added.
“Meg’s a friend.”
“Her diary says it was more than friends.”
“We had a thing going for a while.”
“She dump you?” Hamer asked.
“It was mutual,” Corso said. “Until this morning, I hadn’t seen her in six or seven months.”
They tried to stonewall it, but Corso could see the surprise in their eyes.
“This morning?” Hamer said.
“Around noon. Maybe a little before.”
“Where was this?”
“The federal courthouse.”
“So you two just ran into one another?”
Corso shrugged. “We were both doing what we do.”
They looked blank.
“The Balagula trial,” Corso said. “I’m writing a book about it. She was there taking pictures. We ran into each other.”
“Just coincidence, huh?” sneered Hamer.
“After all these months,” his part
ner added.
Corso opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, and turned and walked away instead. At the far end of the dock, a pair of mallard ducks quacked angrily as they paddled around in the flotsam and jetsam driven ashore by the storm. Corso pulled open the gate and started up the ramp toward the parking lot. Above the bluster, he could hear the cops jogging along behind as he strode to the top.
Corso was one stride onto the asphalt when Sorenstam stepped in front of him, forcing him to come to an abrupt stop. “Happened around four o’clock,” Sorenstam said. He was so close, Corso could smell his breath mints. He looked over his shoulder. Hamer was tailgating him hard. Corso took a deep breath.
“Let me make this easy on you fellas. At four o’clock this afternoon, I was having drinks with a federal prosecutor named Renee Rogers.”
“Where was this?”
“Vito’s on Madison.”
The cab’s headlights appeared behind a crystal curtain of rain.
“She’s staying at the Madison Renaissance,” Corso said. “Give her a jingle.” He sidestepped out from between the cops and walked away.
9
Tuesday, October 17
9:29 p.m.
When Corso slipped through the door, there were three of them in the room with her.
Dougherty lay on her back, tilted halfway up in bed, her head bandaged up like the Mummy. Her black cape hung from a hook on the wall, like some nocturnal flier wounded and brought to ground. There must have been half a dozen tubes coming out of her. Corso winced at the sight.
Standing with her back to the bathroom door, chewing on a knuckle, was a girl of about sixteen, wearing a white uniform and a red-and-white striped apron. Next to the bed stood a pair of orderlies, a yoke of late twenty-somethings, losers spending their boogie nights emptying bedpans. One of them, a redheaded guy already sporting a nice case of male pattern baldness, stood with his hands in his pants pockets, squinting down at the bed, where his partner lifted the side of Dougherty’s hospital gown with the tip of a pen.