Seattle Quake 9.2 (A Jackie Harlan Mystery Book 1)

by Marti Talbott

  Dressed in her usual royal blue suit, Jackie stood in the doorway of her private mobile home and grinned at Carl, who was standing on a ladder with a can of polish in one hand and a rag in the other. When Michael appeared, she stood aside, let him in and offered a seat in her recliner. Cramped but immaculately kept, Jackie's private quarters held a much smaller version of their computer system, a television, a radio, and the best in audio equipment. Just now, soft music played and the smell of pine trees filtered in through an open window. She made herself comfortable on a bar stool, crossed her long slender legs and began to fiddled with a diamond wedding ring on her left hand.

  At the age of twenty-nine, Michael Sorenson gladly gave up the conventional business world as soon as Jackie offered him a job. Short men, in his opinion, were never taken as seriously as tall men. Nor did Corporate American allow him the freedom to expand, embellish and investigate new ideas. With Harlan Detective Agency, all that changed. Jackie gave him a free hand, spoiled him with more equipment than he knew what to do with and greatly valued his opinion.

  But today Michael looked confused and bewildered. He pushed his glasses up and stared into her eyes, "I think we might be in over our heads."

  "In what way?"

  "I talked to the second Mrs. Cole’s sister. She knows Evan is looking for Christina and at first she was friendly, asking me more questions than I asked her. But after a while, her voice got sort of cold. I don't think she's going to be real pleased if we find Christina."

  "What did she say?"

  Michael got up, walked to a kitchen cupboard and opened the door. He withdrew two glasses and a bottle of scotch, and then walked to the refrigerator for ice.

  "Not much really. She said Evan never hurt his second wife, Jennifer. In fact, her sister had a good life and the best doctors money could buy before she died. I asked her a few more questions, and then all of a sudden she blurted out, ‘Oh hell, he's going to find out anyway. You want to know what happened? Go to Evergreen Cemetery,' abruptly, she hung up."

  "Evergreen Cemetery…where?"

  "As it turns out, right here in Seattle."

  "And?"

  "And I found a very interesting grave."

  "Let me guess, Christina is buried there.”

  He handed her a drink, and then retook his seat in the recliner, "No, Evan is."

  "What?"

  "The head stone reads: Evan Cole, beloved husband of Christina. Born June 13, 1945…died April 10th, 1970."

  "The same day Christina supposedly drowned off the coast of Maine?"

  Michael raised an eyebrow and took a quick sip, "The very same day."

  "What is going on here?"

  Ten days later

  At KMPR, Collin plopped a piece of hard candy in his mouth and quickly tucked it between his teeth and cheek, "Enough of boring national news, here's a little local news. Guess what Charlotte Bancroft dug up in her back yard? Charlotte lost her husband of twenty-three years to heart disease, and having finally recovered from her grief, decided to dig up Harold's garden. But what she dug up was a metal box containing the records of Harold's -- other identifies. Yep, old Harold was also John Peters, Clay Wilson and Steve Watts."

  In the booth, Max slammed a stuffed toy in the palm of his hand and quickly raised it to the mike. With an English accent, the toy echoed, "Oh no!"

  Collin smiled and went on, "Our Power Company says they're still powerless to explain last night's brown-out. Some little something went wrong somewhere. And, at about two this morning, Seattle's fire and rescue trucked, and I do mean trucked, to the corner of 28th Avenue and Northwest Market in Ballard. Get this folks, a garage collapsed crushing a car. The owner of the twenty-year old garage had it inspected right after last month's earthquake and was told…it's as solid as a rock.' Don't they get it? Rocks break. That's why we have earthquakes!"

  Max narrowed his eyes and glowered, "Been reading that book again, huh Collin? That stuff will fry your brain man, make you too scared to get out a bed in the morning."

  "Forewarned is forearmed." Collin stuck his tongue out, and then quickly pretended to brush something off his blue jeans. "Gonna have a big one, you know."

  "Sure we are, right after the sky falls. It’s propaganda man, that's all."

  "And there you have it folks, the Titanic syndrome. This ship is unsinkable! Seriously my friends, if you're not as sure footed as Max here, you can get a free pamphlet on surviving earthquakes from the office of Disaster Management. They're located at…”

  Max tipped his water bottle, drank, and then glanced at the phone. A single light was blinking. He tapped on the window, got Collin's attention, and then pointed at the phone in Collin's console.

  Collin nodded and quickly punched the button, "KMPR, what's on your mind friend?"

  "I'm not a friend, I'm your mother."

  Taken aback by the unfamiliar voice with just a hint of a southern accent, Collin turned to Max, put a hand out palm up and shrugged, "Oh hi, Mom. What's up?"

  "Well, I got a letter today from your Aunt Jo in Cincinnati, you know, the one determined never to cut her hair. I swear it's longer than a month of Sundays. Her boy Carl just got a promotion. Carl, your Aunt Jo's boy, never did a lick of work in his life till three years ago last December, and then he happened upon an old man claiming to be homeless. Homeless, my Boston behind, the man owns half of Ohio. He's just miserly, that's all. Anyway Carl, that's your Aunt Jo's boy, took a liking to the old man right off and three years ago last December started the all-important job of tending the old man's canaries. Oh, it's a full time job, you know, what with the birds allowed to fly freely though the mansion. And son…”

  "What Mom?"

  "The way I got it figured, your job is far more high-flute'n than his. You ask that Max for a raise, you hear?" With that, Mom hung up.

  Surprised, Collin's eyes widened. He timidly looked at Max and shook his head.

  But Max was unconvinced. He glared, flipped a switch and brought up the sound of screeching tires followed by a fatal crash. Then slowly, the tips of his mouth curled upward into a wide grin.

  Relieved, Collin chuckled and punched line two.

  Abruptly, a man's deep voice loudly boomed across Puget Sound's airwaves, "The Lord hath sent his Prophet Daniel to warn Thee."

  Instantly, Collin pulled both sides of his headset away from his ears, "What?"

  "Thou art an evil and rebellious people, whom the Lord God shall chasten with a mighty shaking of the earth." Unexpectedly, the line went dead.

  Speechless, Collin hung on a full ten seconds more. He disconnected the call and stared at Max, "What'd he say? Can you play that back?"

  Max nodded, quickly rewound the tape and played it again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday, July 21

  Specifically built to withstand an 8.0 earthquake, the forty-seven-floor Winningham Blue Building faced Third Avenue directly across the street from the Mainland Tower. Spread over an entire city block, it had two sub-floors, five parking garage levels, giant crisscrossed pillars, and a glass observation deck on the top floor. Inside, three sets of six elevators were centrally located with a stairwell on the end of each set. Both the interior and exterior of the building were decorated in shades of blue with gold trim. Built into downtown Seattle's hillside, it served as a miniature shopping mall complete with restaurants, coffee shops, a bookstore, a cobbler shop and a flower shop. The sub-floors opened on to terraces facing Second Avenue and the Federal Building. Two blocks down the hill lay the Alaskan Freeway, the waterfront and the Bay. And every day at noon, a pianist played a grand piano in the first floor lobby, offering classical music to customers of a prominent bank branch.

  The consecutive floors of the plush building held ample bathrooms, thick carpets, potted plants, and decorative art. Custom designed executive offices on the outskirts of each floor exhibited full length, blue glass windows. Across wide hallways lay a second row of internal offices, more hallways and a third row of sti
ll smaller offices. In addition to a reception area and a break room with a sofa and comfortable chairs, each contained a centrally located kitchenette complete with sink, refrigerator, coffee maker and microwave.

  As was their policy, the building management encouraged individual companies to modify their offices, an offer eagerly accepted by the accounting firm of Paul McGill on the forty-third floor. The northern half of the floor remained unchanged with the reception area, the conference room, executive and internal offices intact. But ten years before, Paul McGill ordered the other side -- just beyond the kitchenette, virtually gutted, leaving only one office and a large room filled with crowded desks, equipment and busy employees.

  Twenty-year-old Jenna Swenson casually poked her head into the only remaining office on the southern half of the floor, "Hey boss, did you hear that Prophet guy on KMPR last night?"

  Seely Ross waved her in. Two blue lounge chairs faced her desk and all three walls were lined with matching oak bookshelves and cabinets. Seated behind a large oak desk, she kept her eyes on her computer spreadsheet, "Uh huh. Pity he didn't say when to expect the earthquake, we could all take the day off."

  "No kidding." Jenna leisurely walked to the huge, blue tinted windows. Forty-three floors up and facing east, the panoramic view included the University of Washington Campus to the north with Lake Washington, Mercer Island and the city of Bellevue straight ahead. To the south, she could see the I-5 freeway "S" curves, Boeing Field and the Cascade Mountains. Suddenly, Jenna's eyes lit up, "Oh look, the mountain is out."

  Seely scooted her chair away from her desk and walked to the window. With a dusting of soft white clouds at its base, Mount Rainier's glacier capped peak towered high in the distance. "It's about time. We've had so much rain this year; I thought we'd never see it again."

  "Hard to imagine it's nearly a hundred miles away." With short blond hair and light brown eyes, Jenna stood a full head taller than her boss. "Seely, you're the religious freak around here. Does God send earthquakes to punish people?"

  "He has, on occasion. He sent one to wipe out a golden calf and another to destroy Sodom and Gomorra."

  "Really? And does he send Prophets?"

  "I've never met one, but that doesn't mean they don't exist. The test of a true prophet is in the prophecy. If it doesn't happen, the guy's a fraud."

  "Yes, but God could sent a Prophet to warn us, couldn't he?"

  Seely smiled and walked back to her desk. "Far be it for me to tell God what he can or cannot do. But Sugar, try not to take this too seriously. It's probably just a publicity stunt. Let's go home, this 'religious freak' is tired. And in the elevator you can tell me all about Kevin. He's coming home soon, isn't he?"

  "Yep, Sunday. That's five days, seven hours and…" Jenna paused to look at her watch, "six minutes."

  "My, how time flies. Seems like only yesterday you were shrouded in gloom over his leaving."

  Jenna lifted her chin and headed for the door. "It's been six whole months, I'll have you know. And the next time the Army sends him overseas, I'm going with him."

  "Good for you. While we're on the subject, how about working Saturday and taking Monday off?"

  "Really?"

  "Really. I could use the help and if you promise not to tell, I might be persuaded to throw in Tuesday."

  "Oh Seely, you're just like a Mom…the greatest mom in the world."

  "Uh huh, this week anyway." Seely closed all her programs, turned off her computer, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. In the large room across the hall, thirty-six people kept her department of McGill Accounting Services running smoothly. Copiers lined the far wall, separated by industrial size scanners, fax machines and a walk-in vault. Seven rows of desks faced east, each with a bookcase, a chair, a computer, an adding machine, and mountains of reports.

  Tuesday, July 22

  Seated at his console, Collin finished rolling up his shirt sleeves and leaned closer to the mike, "…and by Saturday, 86 degrees. However, the clouds are coming back, folks. I'm afraid this kind of weather is just too good to last." He set a weight on his papers and then flipped a switch on his console. Slowly, the overhead ceiling fan began to pick up speed. "It's five o'clock, the traffic is backed up for miles and I've got something to say. As you may have heard, John Simony got arrested today for molesting a child. Thing is, he's been convicted before. Folks, I'm fed up with these dirt bags. A mistake over and over is a lifestyle. Twenty years ago we would have hung him. Now we give these slime balls free room and board, cable TV and a physical fitness center. And who pays for all that? We do! Then, a few years later, they let guys like him out to rape again. If a law needs to be changed, it's this one. As soon as they're convicted, we should put them on public display and then we should hang them…publicly! Call me, tell me what you think."

  Max stared at the un-lit phone, looked at Collin and shrugged.

  "Speaking of taxes," Collin went on, "They've done another traffic study. Seattle now has more traffic jams than LA or New York. What I want to know is, why do we need another tax funded, outrageously expensive study? Can't they just watch the traffic reports on the Internet?"

  Max chuckled and flipped on his mic, "Maybe that's how they do their study." Finally, line one flashed. Max quickly tapped the window and watched Collin answer.

  "KMPR, what's on your mind, friend?" Collin asked.

  Again, the deep, mysterious voice blared in his ear, "Behold, the Lord sends his doves as a sign unto thee."

  "Who is this? Hello…hello?" Collin listened to the click, and then the abrupt dial tone.

  Further north of downtown, on the roof of the Ballard Independence Bank, Sam Taylor put his cell phone back in his pocket. Next, he pushed the stop button on a small tape recorder and slipped it into a second pocket. He unhooked the clasp, lifted the wire mesh and watched six snow-white doves fly out of the cage.

  "That should do it," he muttered. He shoved the empty cage behind a roof vent, and then covered it with an old blanket. "For what they cost, that better do it." When he turned, one of the doves sat perched on the edge of a vent. Sam glared and pointed toward town, "That way. See those tall buildings? Right in there is Interstate Five and that traffic jam. All you gotta do is swoop down now and then, okay?" The dove cocked its head to one side and then took flight, soaring in the wrong direction.

  His white hair newly trimmed, Sam straightened his expensive suit jacket, opened the door and descended the narrow flight of stairs. He walked down the hallway, strolled past his Administrative Assistant, admired his name in gold above the words 'Bank President,' and then went into his office. Quickly, he closed the door, took a seat behind his desk and turned the radio up. His son, Max, was playing the song “Nearer My God to Thee.”

  In the station, Max flipped his microphone off and gingerly tapped a button until the music faded. "Come on people," he mumbled. He worked the controls, repeatedly glanced at the un-lit phone and listened to more of Collin's chatter. "Call in people, call in. How's a guy supposed to stay in business if you don't call in?" Finally, the first line lit up and before he could signal, Collin answered it.

  On the other end of the phone, a woman immediately started talking, "There's a dove in my back yard."

  Collin spilled his coffee. He looked around, grabbed a paper towel and quickly wiped it up, "You're kidding, right?"

  "I'm not kidding. It's white and sitting in my pine tree."

  "Are you sure it's a dove? I mean, have you ever seen one?"

  "No, but I've got an encyclopedia with a picture. It's a dove all right, I'm positive. I'm scared. Are we going to have an earthquake?"

  Collin quickly softened his voice, "Don't be scared. On the other hand, we did get a report from the University of Washington Seismology lab this morning. They say seismic activity is increasing."

  Max puffed his cheeks and flipped his mike on, "Collin, we live in volcano land. It wouldn't be right if seismic activity didn't increase occasionally. The time to worry i
s when the seismographs stop moving." Suddenly all the lights on the phone began to blink.

  Collin grinned and quickly punched the next button. "KMPR, seen any doves lately?"

  "No," a man answered, "but you do know there really was a Prophet named Daniel in the Old Testament, don't you? I mean, it's not impossible to think…"

  Collin took six calls in the first ten minutes, and then reached for the seventh, "KMPR, what's your name?"

  "Skip."

  "Hi Skip, you believe in Prophets?"

  "Sure do. I think this guy might be for real. Thing is though, the voice sounds vaguely familiar. I can't quite put a name to it."

  "I know what you mean. It sounds a little like Tennessee Ernie Ford without the accent. You figure it out, you let me know, okay Skip?"

  "You got it."

  "Thanks for calling." Collin sipped his coffee, and then took the next call, "KMPR, you're on the air."

  The eighth caller was another man. "Listen, I run a pet shop in Federal Way and some guy came in here yesterday looking for doves."

  "Really? What'd he look like?"

  "Old, gray hair, shabby hat, you know. Looked like one of the street people except he was wearing after shave."

  Collin sat up just a little straighter, "You sell him any doves?"

  "Two."

  "He didn't happen to pay by check or credit card, did he?"

  "Nope, had a big wad of cash. Thing is, there was something about his eyes. They were blue, a real bright blue like…like he had some sort of, you know, fire in his eyes."

  In the booth, Max switched off his mike. "Fire in his eyes, this is great stuff." Lightly tapping two soft switches at the same time, his lips parted in a wide smile. Quickly, he shoved a pile of papers aside, typed six words on his keyboard and hit enter.