by T. E. Woods
“So good luck finding any prints is what you’re telling me.”
Jimmy shrugged. “There are other ways to catch bad guys.”
Two uniformed officers stepped into the room, one holding a plastic evidence bag.
“We found this out in the alley.” Mort knew this guy. David Guilfoose. He was part of the rookie class two years ago. “Some mud on it, but this mud’s fresher than the rest of the garbage back there.”
Mort slipped on a pair of latex gloves, pulled a black vinyl purse out of the evidence pouch, and sifted through the contents. A comb, a tube of lipstick, two five-dollar bills, a crumpled business-size envelope, and a key. He unzipped a small compartment on the back wall of the purse. “Bingo.” He pulled out a small plastic wallet. One side held a driver’s license. The other a photo of two girls posing in front of a Ferris wheel. Mort knelt down beside the corpse and compared the photo to the dead girl lying at his feet.
“She’s Francie Michael.” Mort read off the license. “Nineteen years old. Five foot five, 145 pounds.” He scanned the body. “Age seems right. She might have fudged a few pounds. Tacoma address.” He looked up at the officers. “Good job. I won’t forget it.”
Guilfoose and his partner nodded and stepped clear of the door to allow Tyler Conner and his assistant entrance to the room. Dr. Conner took a long look at the corpse. “First thing that jumps out is that ligature mark.” He glanced overhead. “No rafters. I’m assuming your crew didn’t remove a rope from around her neck.”
“They did not,” Mort said.
“So we can rule out suicide and therefore justify the presence of Washington State’s finest homicide team.” Dr. Conner knelt, placed two gloved fingers under the corpse’s chin, shifted the head, and raised the eyelids. “Vessel burst consistent with death by asphyxiation.” He traced his fingers along the purple bruise on the neck. “Something wide. A belt maybe. Irregular bruising. Indicative of a start-stop tightening.” He looked up at Mort and Jimmy. “This woman did not die quickly.”
“My team took scrapings from under her nails,” Jimmy said.
The coroner shook his head. “No fighting. Her hands were bound, too. Blood pooling around the wrists.” He looked to her ankles. “Legs, too. I’ll know better once I get her to the lab, but I’m willing to bet this woman died slow.” He picked up her arm for closer inspection. That’s when Mort saw it.
“Hold it.” He bent down. There, on the upper inside. He hadn’t noticed it before Doc Conner moved her arm. A small red tattoo. Round. Like a family crest or an official emblem. Maybe a bird with two heads.
Chapter 19
Mort checked the clock. It had been three hours since they left the crime scene, each with assigned tasks. Now they were in his office. Mort at the whiteboard, Micki with her open laptop on her knees, and Jimmy passing out slices of chicken-and-garlic pizza while Bruiser sat sentry at the door, too proud to beg but ready to catch.
Jimmy settled into his chair with two slices on his plate. “I can sum up what I got before my pizza gets cold. My team processed the whole scene. Building and alley. Not one useable print. No fibers either. Nothing beyond that purse the uniforms found. Whoever did this has a retirement career in cleaning waiting. We canvassed the area. That part of downtown gets quiet after ten. It’s all retail shops and small businesses on the lower two floors of the buildings. Whoever broke in came in through the alley. No security cameras. Neighbors live three floors up. No one saw anything suspicious.”
“But the murder happened there.” Mort’s stomach was tightening. “Doc Conner’s positive she wasn’t moved postmortem. Francie didn’t die fast or easy. No one heard a scream?”
“Those walls are two feet of brick and concrete.” Jimmy looked as frustrated as Mort felt. “Coroner said she probably died around three in the morning. With the nearest pair of ears sleeping two stories above? It would have taken a bomb blast to wake anybody.”
Mort hated what he was hearing. “Micki, that leaves you to save the day. Give us something.”
Micki swallowed the last bite of her first slice before reading off her computer screen. “Francie Michael, age nineteen. Five foot five inches tall, 163 pounds. No history of arrests or traffic stops. No pending legal action. Current address is a one-room apartment in the Tacoma flats. Shares it with her boyfriend, one Miguel Hernandez, also aged nineteen. He goes by the name Chippy. He has one prior arrest for loud and disorderly, another for public drunkenness, and seventeen speeding tickets, six of which are outstanding. He and Francie both work part-time at Low Dollar Rent-a-Cars on the SeaTac strip. Vacuuming and washing the cars when they return. According to Chippy he’s been there nearly two years. Met Francie when she started about six months later. He says they’ve been living together for about a year.”
“What’s he got to say about Francie’s murder?” Jimmy asked.
“He’s shook up,” Micki said. “According to him he was out with his buddies last night. Gave me the names of four of ’em and they all tell the same story. Met at one of their houses, ate takeout barbeque and drank a few beers while watching the Mariners. Then they headed down to a neighborhood bar until closing time. Bartender and two waitresses verify. According to Chippy, Francie wasn’t home when he staggered in around two forty-five this morning. He thought she was pissed at him and went to her mother’s house. Said he was too drunk to do anything but fall into bed. He tried to text her when he woke up, but her phone was sitting on the kitchen table.”
“What about the mother?” Mort asked.
“That would be Gigi. She lives in the SkyVue trailer community in Federal Way. I went to see her after I left Chippy. She hadn’t yet been notified of her daughter’s death.”
“Sorry that fell to you.” Mort had no doubts Micki had found gentle words for a stunned mother. “Was she able to give you anything?”
Micki shook her head. “Gigi’s pretty much housebound. I wouldn’t be surprised if she weighed four hundred pounds. Lost one foot to diabetes. No car. Makes do on disability. Says the last time she saw Francie was about two weeks ago when she dropped off some groceries. A couple of neighbors came by when they heard her crying after I broke the news. She seemed glad to have them there.”
“What about that ink?” Crystal Tillwater and Francie Michael sported an identical tattoo. Mort needed a thread to tug on.
“Chippy said Francie came home with it a couple of weeks ago. Said he was angry she’d done it without his approval.”
“Bit your tongue on that one, huh, Mick?” Jimmy tossed his uneaten crust over his shoulder. Bruiser made one elegant leap and caught it midair.
Mort ignored Jim’s attempt to get a rise out of Micki. “Did she give him any explanation? Maybe it’s a club insignia? Her favorite band’s logo? Anything?”
“Quite the opposite,” Micki said. “I guess he went into a tirade about it, demanding an explanation, but she refused to talk about it. He said she kept it covered with sleeves or bandages.”
“That’s weird,” Jimmy said. “Most folks can’t wait to show off a new tat.”
“Not Francie. Gigi told me I must be mistaken when I asked her about it. Said her daughter hated tattoos. Thought they looked dirty. I showed her a picture of it. Not only did the design mean nothing to her, she said her daughter was deathly afraid of needles. Swore that if Francie had gotten a tattoo, Chippy forced her to.”
Mort drew a circle around the photo of the odd emblem taped to the whiteboard. Two birds in a circle. “Heard anything from any Seattle parlor?”
“Nothing.”
“Francie’s from Tacoma,” Mort said. “Get photos to the shops down there, too. Let’s see what the artist has to say.”
“Already on it.” Micki scrolled down her screen. “I followed on the contents of her purse. The lipstick’s available at any drugstore. Nothing special about the comb, and the key is to her apartment.”
Jimmy pulled another slice of pizza from the box. “Why can’t we just once have someon
e scribble their murderer’s name with their dying move? It happens in the movies all the time.”
“Well…”
Mort knew Micki’s instincts were solid. “What is it?”
Micki closed her computer. “That purse of Francie’s. Small, carrying the bare essentials for a night out.”
“She probably left the mother ship at home,” Jimmy offered. “I’m amazed at the gear women lug around in those bags. Like you’re afraid you’re gonna need a manicure or the address of your long-lost Aunt Hattie at a moment’s notice.”
Micki bit. “Maybe we need to keep it heavy so we can swing it upside some guy’s head if the situation warrants.”
“What caught your attention?” Mort loved their banter, but not now.
“That envelope. It was a bill from Rite Now Finance.”
“What about it?” Mort asked.
“It wasn’t stamped and ready to go, like she planned to drop it in the mail,” Micki said. “It was just the bill. Postmarked ten days ago.”
“What’s your point?” Jimmy asked.
“Evening purses are small. Women take only what we’ll need for the date. Lipstick, keys, comb, a few bucks in case we need to call a cab.”
Mort nodded. “So why did Francie put a bill she’d had for more than a week in her purse?”
“Exactly,” Micki said. “On a hunch I called the Rite Now Finance store listed on the bill. The manager’s hesitation to discuss customer details disappeared when I told her I was investigating a murder. She morphed into Super Citizen right away. Guess who else has an account? Crystal Tillwater.”
Jimmy leaned back and smiled. “Payday loan stores. Leeches of working folks everywhere.”
The irritating Rite Now jingle followed by Charlie Fellow’s goofball promises played in Mort’s head. It was a long shot. Their stores were all over western Washington, probably with tens of thousands of customers. But right now a long shot seemed worth the time. He grabbed his keys.
“Micki, you and me.”
—
Staz walked into the office, closed the door, walked up to the desk, and punched the man who sat there. Hard. In the face. Then he yanked the man’s arms behind his chair and cuffed them together. The man squirmed, swore, and spit blood through his teeth. Staz pulled a hammer out of his jacket. The man fell silent, holding his breath. When Staz proceeded to nail the man’s pant legs to the floor, he seemed to relax.
The man sounded like he was trying to be friendly. “A simple ‘Can I have a moment of your time’ would have worked.”
When the man was completely secured, Staz stood and pressed a button on the phone hanging around his neck.
The woman’s voice came from the speaker. “Francie Michael is dead.”
The man’s eyes grew wide. Staz watched the color drain from his face. “Dead? Our Francie?”
Staz stood in front of him, watching the performance.
“This is terrible. When? How?”
Her voice was clear and direct. “Do you expect me to believe I learned of our employee’s death before you?”
The man turned pleading eyes toward Staz. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” He shook his head. “Our little Francie. Dead. This is horrible.”
“Stop!” Staz felt the vibration of her voice against his chest. “Only one of two scenarios can be true. Either you knew of Francie’s death and made the decision not to tell me; or you were truly unaware, which means you’ve lost control over your employees and customers. Don’t bother trying to choose which option you think will bring the easier consequence.”
“Let me look into it,” the man begged. “Like you said, I’m here, you’re there. I got people. Connections. Let me find out and get back to you.”
“Do you think your connections are better than mine?” Staz knew the answer. He wondered if this man did.
“Tell me what you want,” the man said. “I’ll do it. For you. For Francie.”
“The last woman has died in our employ. Do you understand?” the woman asked.
The man nodded like a jackhammer. Staz thought of a dog he had years ago. That dog used to shake his head so hard he’d bruise his ears.
“I do. I’ll do better. I’ve been so stressed running both businesses. I know it shouldn’t get in my way, but sometimes it does.”
“Our employees leave of their own accord,” she continued. “With money in their pockets and a place to go. Their lives are better because they’ve been with us. You will make sure of it.”
“I will. I been thinking about ways. Give me three months. I’ll be the example you show off to your whole organization.”
Staz knew she’d be unmoved by his promises.
“Crystal’s death cost you thousands of dollars,” she said. “Yet that wasn’t enough to remind you how seriously I take the well-being of the employees I entrust to your management. Perhaps pain serves as a better reminder. Staz?” Her voice was directed to him now. “Don’t hang up. I want to hear this.”
He nodded as though she was in the room. He hefted his hammer and hoped she was enjoying the man’s stuttered pleas. He reared back and took a pounding swing at the man’s right foot. He wondered if the phone’s technology was good enough to pick up the sound of cracking bones.
Then he reared back and delivered his second blow.
Chapter 20
Lydia pulled her Volvo into a stall opposite the worldwide headquarters of Rite Now Finance and surveyed the scene behind the intermittent pulsing of her windshield wipers. The storefront operation sat in the middle of a highway strip mall probably built when Lyndon Johnson was promising a Great Society. The eastern end was anchored by an outlet of a nationwide drugstore. The west end boasted a same-day dry cleaner. A Chinese takeout restaurant and three vacant units completed the parcel. She remembered Greg Dystra saying it wasn’t exactly Morgan Stanley.
She turned off the Volvo’s ignition and pulled the hood of her rain jacket over her head. Paul Bauer’s take on Delbe’s disappearance rose in her mind.
“She’s a grown woman. She’s allowed to take a powder,” he’d said in his confident baritone. “Give her a week. She’ll call complaining you don’t have an opening for the next month and she simply must get in to see you.”
But his assurances couldn’t shake her own instincts warning her that her patient was in serious trouble. Delbe said her problems stemmed from her debts. Her father said Delbe’s debts were to Rite Now Finance. It was as good a place to start as any. A phone call earlier this morning to Greg with a lie that she’d be in Seattle and wondered if he’d be interested in a touch-base cup of coffee had been met with an enthusiastic yes. She canceled her appointments and drove the hour north, knowing she likely was heading into a dead end.
But Delbe sounded so desperate. Lydia’s thoughts were as bleak and low as the clouds swirling outside. She said the debt was too big. Someone had found a way for her to pay. Delbe said there was no other way; she was merchandise now, branded and belonging to them. She said they were sending her away.
A familiar compulsion pounded inside her. She opened the car door and stepped into the pouring rain.
The lobby of Rite Now Finance echoed the style and sophistication of the building in which it was housed. Worn gray linoleum laid the base for two distinct areas. To the left, seven empty orange vinyl chairs were aligned in an L shape. Three sat with their backs to the glass-paned storefront, while four took their position against the adjoining pea-green wall. Serving both sets of chairs was a low coffee table originally designed to be used in an outdoor patio setting. It was covered with coloring books, crayons, and an assortment of pamphlets hawking Rite Now products and services. To the right, a half wall stood in front of a reception desk. It was the same bilious green as the others and was accented with scuff marks and dents. A rail-thin woman in her mid-sixties, boyishly cut hair more salt than pepper and wearing candy cane reading glasses sat separating stacks of papers. A sleek wedge of hand-carved polished wood announc
ed she was Esther Hardgrove, Receptionist.
“Good morning. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Greg Dystra. I’m a bit early. Traffic was light.”
Esther took an exaggerated glance at a large mounted wall clock. “You got like fifteen minutes. You wanna wait or you wanna go grab a cup and come back? Works for me either way.”
Lydia was surprised by the woman’s accent. “New York?”
Esther shrugged. “Brooklyn. What can I tell ya? Fell for a soldier boy back when I was stupid. Promised me he’d show me the world. This is as far as we got. What the hell, two sons and five grandsons later, I’m still crazy about the guy. You stayin’ or what? I could let him know you’re here, but Greg keeps to his schedule like it’s an official state document. I tell him lighten up but he’s like everybody else here. Nobody listens to me.”
Lydia sensed that wasn’t the case. Esther was the type of woman who kept whatever parade she was in marching to her orders. Lydia pulled a copy of the New York Times from her leather carryall. “I brought the paper. If you could let him know I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”
Esther’s eyes twinkled over her readers. “You wouldn’t mind leaving it when you’re done?”
“My pleasure.” Lydia turned, chose the chair in the corner, and settled into the headlines. She scanned past stories of City Hall shenanigans and water main breakages. A report of the president’s plan for resolving the latest hostage situation caught her eye. She read until directed to continue on page A17. Her fingers flipped through the pages. She looked up out the large-paned windows as she simultaneously popped the paper open to where the story picked up.
That’s when she saw him.
Actually, she saw Micki Petty first. It took a heartbeat for her to recognize the familiar-looking auburn-haired woman with an athlete’s body exiting a green Subaru. Another heartbeat later she saw Mort getting out of the driver’s seat. The two of them stood there, Mort speaking, Micki nodding. Lydia stared at him. He’d lost weight. He walked with a heavy step. The lines around his mouth were more pronounced. She had a moment to wonder if it was missing Allie or hating her that caused his obvious pain. All speculation disappeared when she realized they were heading her way. A surging heat rushed through her. She looked to her left. Esther was busy again. A long hallway behind her desk promised a back exit, but there wasn’t time to use it. She glanced out the front windows to see Mort and Micki step onto the wide sidewalk in front of the strip mall. She opened the paper wide, held it in front of her, and inhaled shallow, quiet breaths.