“Uh, Sarai. Is she home?”
“Yes, she not here. She go store. Want feed me.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
We stood there, awkwardly pondering our next move. Mok opened the door wider to allow us entry. As I propped the umbrella outside the door, we stepped inside.
“You want food too?”
“No thank you, we’re fine,” Charlie said. “When will Sarai be back?”
“Soon. I much hungry.”
“Did you enjoy San Francisco?” I asked.
“Very much good trip. I go many places. Park, bridge, car cable, Alcatraz, fisher wharf, Chinatown. I even go BART.” He was quite proud of himself. For someone who had only been in the country once before, he certainly seemed comfortable finding his way.
“Well, tell her we stopped by then. When do you leave for home?”
“Ah, home,” Mok said, a glazed look in his eyes. “Soon. Tomorrow go back to boat.”
“You miss your home,” I said.
He shrugged. “Some time I do. Some time I not. Long journey. You want drink?”
Again we declined, not particularly wanting to be there when Sarai returned, although we had justification to check in on her. We told Mok how much we had enjoyed meeting him, wished him a safe journey home, and said our good-byes.
“That could have been awkward,” Charlie said.
“Thank goodness you’re clumsy,” I said, popping the umbrella into full open position.
“It does appear to have some benefits,” Charlie agreed. “So, now we wait until Mok leaves.”
“Right,” I said.
“In the meantime, tomorrow we go down to Tacoma, then over to Bremerton to talk to James Webb’s prison mates.”
“Hopefully Sarai will leave the house again soon and we can go inside and get what we need.”
“Hopefully.”
* * *
“Why are you taking me to the University?” Josh asked for the second time in a period of fifteen minutes. Apparently the avoidance technique did not work with him.
“I thought you would enjoy a change of scenery, laddie.”
He gave me that look Jenny had warned me about, the look that told me he saw through me.
I chuckled. “And I’ve a busy day.”
“You don’t have to baby sit me, you know. I know how to lock doors and windows and not open the door to strangers. And to stay put.”
I raised a single brow.
“Okay, but I did that just one time and it was for a good reason.
I waited.
“And I’ve promised I wouldn’t leave the house on my own. Ever again.”
“So you don’t want to hang out with Matt?”
He smiled. I’d called his bluff. “Yeah, sure I do. He’s cool.”
“But?”
“But I want to know what you and Charlie are up to. Jenny tells me stuff. She lets me in on the cases she’s working on.” The lad was too smart for his britches.
“I’m helping Charlie with a tricky case, that’s all.”
“Thought so.”
I pulled into a parking space outside Matthew’s dorm just as he was chatting up some girls who were walking by. At least that’s what he appeared to be doing. For all I knew, they were the ones chatting him up. I could understand why. He had inherited the McNair charm from his grandfather. And he looked so much like his mother that it always startled me. He had inherited her beautiful brown eyes instead of his father’s blue ones. I wondered if Jenny had told him about the change in our relationship yet. I suspected that she was waiting for his visit to the island the coming weekend.
When he saw us, he finished his conversation and came running over. He opened the passenger door and Josh tumbled out, greeting him with one of those weird hand shake deals that I had never understood in my youth and still didn’t.
“Hey, Mac!”
“Hey, Matt,” I said back. “I’ll call you on your cell before I come back to pick up Josh.”
“I can bring him home, no problem.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, as long as you feed me dinner.”
I laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding dorm food.”
Matt scrunched up his face to indicate that my deduction was indeed accurate. “I’ll be sure to have extra vegetables,” I promised.
He grinned. “I appreciate it. Some salad would be good too. With fresh lettuce.”
Josh smiled as Matt swung his arm over his shoulders. You’d never know they’d met only once for little over an hour when Matthew had stopped by the house to meet him. They were cute together, these two. They could have been brothers.
“And don’t forget, Mac,” Josh turned back to look at me. “Tell Charlie if you guys need my help on that case you’re working on, I’m available.”
I was still laughing as I drove out of the parking lot. Right up until I realized just how much help we did need.
* * *
He was forty but looked sixty. His thinning hair was light grey, almost white. His shoulders appeared to be locked into a permanent slump and his eyes had a vacant appearance as if no one was there. Even his drab brown corduroy shirt was wearing thin at the cuffs and elbows. I supposed that was what happened when you held up a liquor store at gun point and injured two people in the process, spending several years in prison as a result. Or maybe it was what had caused him to resort to such drastic measures that had him looking beaten down by life.
There was no offer of refreshment . . . or a chair.
I left the questioning of Ray Dowling to Charlie. From my assessment, we learned little but it was enough. In between his use of Aileen’s favorite word—causing me to wonder why it was that when she said it with her Irish accent “fockin’” did not sound quite so unattractive—I gleaned that he had shared a cell with James Webb for two years and that James’ wife, son, and daughter had stopped coming to visit long ago, until his son was old enough to drive himself.
The only other visitor was his father. “His mother never came. Father said she was too fragile or some bullshit. And the bastard just came round to give him hell. Left him depressed every time.”
“And angry?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah, angry, but it was the depression that was tough. Reminded him what a failure he was.” He snorted. “The irony was, the idiot did it for his old man and his old lady. His asshole father was always tearing into him ‘cause he missed out on so many bids. That guy Sharkey was this big successful engineer and architect too—so’s he could take on a project big time and bring in his own contractors. Webb never got a shot at any of the really big jobs. They always went to that Sharkey asshole.” Suddenly his eyes brightened, almost convincing us that there was someone actually alive inside there.
“Are you still in touch with him?” Charlie asked.
“Nah. I got out over a year ago. No idea where he ended up. Hopefully no where near his father.” Another derisive snort. “Not that the asshole would want him anywhere near him now. And Webb’s wife sure as hell don’t.”
“Sad story,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, well most of us in the pen have goddamned sad stories.”
Charlie nodded. “I’m sure. So he probably still blames this Sharkey fellow for his run of bad luck.”
I detected a slight straightening of the man’s back, or at least a movement in that direction. Maybe it was only potential energy. Finally, after what seemed like an interminably long minute, his response came. “Nah. He did. But he got over it.”
“How did he seem when you got out?”
“Seem? You mean like was he depressed?”
“Right.”
He shrugged. “I guess. But not like he was.”
“And not as angry?”
“No, not near as angry as when I first met him.”
“Except when his father came around? Did you meet him? His father?” I asked. It was the first words I’d spoken since our
introduction. I wasn’t even sure why I’d asked it.
“Oh, yeah. I met him. A real piece of work. Met him twice and shit, he even made me depressed.”
“And angry?”
“Angry enough to want to slam his face against a wall.” Definitely potential energy waiting to erupt.
* * *
“So, I take it we got what we came for?” I asked Charlie as we climbed back into his Bentley.
“I’d say so, laddie. Good question by the way.”
“So if his father can provoke this guy’s anger, we can assume he would provoke his own son’s.”
“Aye, we can assume that. But enough to seek further revenge against the rival who makes him appear to be a failure? Your impression?”
“Let’s wait until we interview the guy in Bremerton,” I said as Charlie guided his car toward the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
It was starting to drizzle as we made our way up the Kitsap Peninsula. I grabbed the file folder beside my seat and opened it to read about the man we were going to interview. By the time I finished, I asked Charlie, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He chuckled. “We’ll be fine.” He patted his hand against his chest which meant he was carrying a gun. Great. “There’s one under the seat for you if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
At this point, I wasn’t sure anything would make me feel more comfortable. I’d been working with Charlie here and there for the past several years, but mostly from the safety of the inside of a car, behind a camera lens, sitting at a computer, or attending a social event. Rarely did his work require that we carry a gun. I reached under the seat, grabbed the revolver, glanced down at it before shoving it into my jacket pocket. Fortunately Charlie had trained me to use the damned thing. And fortunately he was the one with the semi-automatic. As we drove through a ramshackle area of the city and stopped in front of a four by ten trailer that sat in the midst of two feet high weeds, I was grateful for the weapon.
He was big. He was ugly. And he was mean. It didn’t take a rocket scientist or a physicist to determine that. His hair was shaved off. He wore a wife beater, despite the cold damp weather. His jeans looked as if they’d needed a wash three months ago and his heavy black boots were laced up the front. And he had tattoos. Tattoos up and down his arms, covering his neck, halfway up his face and on the top of his head. Angry tattoos. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a week and he looked as if he could eat a grown man for lunch.
The man grunted when we extended our hands to shake his, a gesture he ignored.
“We’re here to ask you some questions about James Webb,” Charlie said directly. “We’re doing a study on prisoners and he’s one of the subjects. Did you know him well?”
“Not really,” Jimbo Finn responded.
Hmm. They’d not shared a cell, but had adjacent cells for three years.
“Did he seem particularly depressed to you?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I didn’t really know the guy.”
Charlie took a different tact. “I imagine everyone would be depressed in prison.”
“Ever been there?”
“Only to visit,” Charlie said.
“Well, it’s a real slice of heaven. Some’in out of . . . “ He laughed. “Some’in out of hell.”
The next words out of Charlie’s mouth taught me to never underestimate the detective. “’Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another’s loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’”
“Blake,” said our ex-con.
I had learned another lesson in that single moment. Never make assumptions or fall prey to stereotypical impressions. “You know William Blake?”
The man shrugged. “Ain’t much to do in prison.”
A big black and white dog with long legs, a rottweiler body, and a pit bull head slinked into the room, hunched over, a threatening snarl revealing its teeth. Both Charlie and I stepped back. We were wise enough to respect a dog who bared its teeth.
“She’s okay,” Jimbo said. “Won’t do nuthin’ to you.”
“What’s her name?” Charlie cautiously extended a hand toward the bizarre mix.
“Tinkerbelle.”
I coughed back my reaction.
The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of her name. She went to stand beside her master, slurping his hand as he tried to scratch her behind the ears.
Charlie cleared his throat and I assumed he too was covering his amusement. “So, you did a lot of reading while you were in prison?”
“Like I said, ain’t nuthin’ much to do in there.”
“Did Webb do much reading?”
“We all did. Those of us who can read anyways.”
“Poetry too?”
“Some.”
A confession. He did know the man.
“Did you read a lot of Blake?” I asked.
He shrugged, distorting the serpent with the bulging eyes that was covering the length of his arm. “Some.”
“’A Robin Redbreast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage,’” I quoted.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I searched my mind for another quotation, something to prompt him into revealing more about Webb. I suspected Charlie was doing the same.
Finally, I suppose following my intuition, I said, “’Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage.’”
Charlie glanced over at me with a look of approval. “Did Webb do much writing?” he asked.
Jimbo smiled, an actual one this time. He knew what we were doing. “Not so much. I’d say, he had, ‘A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.’”
“You read Shakespeare as well,” Charlie said.
“Some.”
“So, what you’re saying, is that Webb wasn’t as angry as he was depressed.”
“You could say that.”
“Did you ever see him angry?” Charlie asked.
“Sure. We all got angry. We were in prison for fuck sake.”
By the time we left Jimbo Finn’s palatial estate, Tinkerbelle had allowed us to pet her, and her owner had shaken our hands.
“Smart ass,” I mumbled to Charlie as we closed the car doors behind us. “You knew more about him than that report revealed.”
Charlie chuckled. “You think I’d be stupid enough to go in there otherwise?”
“So, why’d you tell me to bring a gun?”
“So you’d feel more comfortable.”
“Gosh, thanks. You might have told me the rest of what you’d learned about the guy.”
“And miss watching you squirm?”
“Lovely.”
Just after we had pulled onto the Bremerton ferry that would take us back to Seattle, Charlie’s cell rang. He carried on a five minute conversation, taking notes throughout. It didn’t take me long to realize that the person on the other end of the line was James Webb’s parole officer.
“We’re meeting with the perp himself?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Are you free?”
I thought for a moment. “A couple of appointments that I can change. Does he live near here?”
“Spokane.”
“We’re flying to Spokane?”
“No, he moved there recently. But he’s visiting his parents here in Seattle for a couple days and meeting with his parole officer who’s in the process of getting him reassigned to someone in Eastern Washington.”
“So, where are we meeting him? At his parole officer’s office or at his parents’?”
Charlie grinned as he shoved open the car door to stretch his legs. “Looks like we get three for the price of one. Father, Mother, Son.”
Chapter 16
We met Mrs. Webb first. Actually we met the housekeeper first as she obviously also was assigned butler duty. She spoke little, reminding me of Sarai. As to the mistress of the house, after expecting a timid subservient woman, I was surprised to find that Mrs. Webb was quite the opposite. The fragility
to which Ray Dowling had attributed her reluctance to visit her son in prison, could not in fact be what had kept her away. Nor did it appear that it could be ascribed to her husband’s tyrannical rule.
She was dressed in moderately high heels and a wool suit, with her carefully highlighted graying hair pulled back into a severe bun, reminding me of Declan’s wife Susan. Ambitious business woman, I thought. She seated us in the less ostentatious of the two formal rooms. Despite our being well-dressed in dark slacks and blazers, we apparently gave her reason to believe that we might taint her silk couches.
After sending the housekeeper to fetch her husband and son and to serve tea, she sat in the chair facing the couch where Charlie and I had been placed. “Gentlemen, I understand you are here to interview my son.”
“That is correct, Mrs. Webb.”
“Ms. Carter,” she corrected. “I did not take my husband’s name when we married.”
Ah, so that explained the name of Carter and Webb Engineering and Construction. I had a strong hunch that the Carter came first for a reason, and it was not because it fell first in the alphabet. The truth was, I was surprised their son hadn’t been given her last name instead of his father’s. But then, I was yet to meet the father.
“Would you prefer to interview James alone?” she asked.
“We would like to speak with all of you and then James alone,” Charlie answered.
“I didn’t even know he was part of a study,” Eleanor Carter said.
“That’s generally the case. It can throw off the study if the subjects are aware. It is not until we do the follow up once they’re back in society, that they are told.” Charlie was a master at manufacturing reasons to interview people.
“And the purpose of this particular visit?”
“The focus today is upon seeing how well your son has adjusted to being back in society.”
She nodded but I had the feeling she had ceased being present in this conversation. She had glanced down at her watch twice and toward the entry three times. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, standing up and leaving the room. “I have something I must take care of.”
Saving Sharkey Page 19