"Shit I was just trying to get my ID and I...damn, she thought it was a gun I bet," Larsen said as he jammed the car into gear and raced through the stop sign and into the lot, after her. "What a stupid move. I should have let her commit to the street. She woulda got caught in traffic and...Christ, where'd that girl go?"
"You sure it was her?"
"Absolutely. She's even gone back to her natural hair color. By herself on a moped, wearing a baseball cap and a gray sweatshirt, little green pack on her back."
"So where the hell is Lucy Ripken?"
"Where the hell is Ellen Longford's what I want to know," said Larsen. "Man, I had her." They drove up a couple of blocks on Alaskan, circled up to Western and back down, searching, then doubled back for a run up First. At Pike Larsen blipped the siren, clearing a narrow path, then whipped a left into the market.
Ellen turned right and went down a hill, ending up at the north end of the Market. She liked the crowded look of it, and so swerved the moped into the Market, headed the wrong way, picking a slow path among trucks, pedestrians and cars. She didn't know where she was going, but the crowds offered shelter. Then a clump of street-crossing pedestrians cleared, and she practically ran head-on into the green cop car. "Fuck!" she said, and without thinking swerved the bike sideways and jumped off as she let it slide in front of the cop car. She ran back the way she'd come, then dodged up an alley, pack bouncing on her back.
Devereaux and Larsen jumped out of the car fast. "You go after her," Larsen shouted. "I'll move this thing and radio for back-up." Devereaux ran down the street, dodging around people—contrary to the cinematic version of copdom, neither he nor Larsen rarely if ever knocked anyone down in a foot chase, and wouldn't dream of shooting at someone if there was even the slightest chance of innocents being hit. Being a polite policeman has its upside; the downside was this: a block down the market he knew he'd lost her. Crowded alleys, byways, connecting stairs, and passageways ran off in a multitude of directions, and he had no idea which she'd taken. She'd driven practically into their arms twice in fifteen minutes, and they'd failed to bring her in. He walked back to the car cursing. Larsen leaned against the car, cell phone in hand. He turned it off. Devereaux shook his head. "She disappeared. Place is like a maze up there. Maybe we drive around a while she'll turn up again."
"Well, I’ve got four uniforms looking. They’re on bikes and they know their way around. Hey, we got one of 'em anyways. Just got a call from Harris. Ripken's coming in on the next ferry with her lawyer. We're supposed to meet at his office in Pioneer Square."
"Maybe she'll know where the kid was going."
"I don't think so. Seems the kid's on the run from her now too."
“...So now you know why I’m moving to Seattle. Escape the New York hassle.”
“Seems you walked into a different kind of hassle, didn’t you, Lucy?” Yates said, eyeing her sympathetically. They watched the city from an upper deck bench as the ferry slowed, nearing the dock. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“For the feds? Yeah, they don’t worry me much. It’s not like I really did anything...wrong, you know? Morally, I mean. This kid was in a nightmare dilemma. I’m not sure I would...or could...have done what she did, but I can sure understand it. Besides, like I said, I dated a DEA undercover cop. Not that I knew he was a cop at first.”
“Right. But this is different. And skip the talk about morality. It doesn’t play in court, believe me. You ever been arrested? Got any kind of record? Cuz if you do the DA could paint a pretty picture of you, former felon, aiding and abetting a murder. A daughter killing her father. Christ, it’s almost biblical.”
“Yeah, it feels that way, doesn’t it? I’ll tell you one thing, I sure never had my rear end on the line quite like this before. I got busted a couple of times in college for sitting in against a war here, a chemical plant there. Nothing serious. Don’t even know if it’s on the record.”
“Well, this is going to be different. This is a big story. I’m trying to get some of my acquaintances in the press in on it, because I think you have a weirdly sympathetic situation here, and so this means that at some point we may be encountering the screaming baboon brigade, thrusting their microphones and videocams in your face.”
“Hey, I’m a writer. I’m simpatico.”
“This isn’t about writing, Lucy. Or journalism. It’s tabloid hell—and when they bring Ellen in, same deal.”
“That’s going to be hard for her, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Too bad we need them. But we do. They make good cover. Feds can’t get away with anything. Nor can the right-to-life lunatics, should they be around.” The ferry bumped gently against the dock, and stopped. “Time to roll. You ready?”
“Sure. So they gonna meet us here?.” She followed him off the boat onto the pedestrian ramp, past the video rental, the souvenir shop, the coffee store, and a pair of neatly groomed panhandlers. Jack handed one a buck, and waved off his thanks.
“I told them to wait at my office—it’s just five minutes away—but knowing how the cops operate, they’ll probably be loitering at the dock, hoping to catch us by surprise. Like that’s going to give them some kind of advantage.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m glad this ordeal is finally getting someplace. I only wish...Jesus, where is that girl?”
“My guess is she’ll end up on Broadway, up on Capitol Hill, hanging with the street kids. There’s a bit of a street scene downtown too, but it’s really sleazy.”
“I wouldn’t be so freaked out if she wasn’t pregnant, Jack.”
“Don’t look now, but there’s the greeting party,” he cut her off as they neared the end of the pedestrian ramp. A black man in a suit waiting a few yards ahead had his eyes trained on them. Lucy squelched her newly developed instinct to run for it as he moved into their path.
“Miss Ripken?” he said, his voice soft. “Lucy Ripken?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m John Larsen, with the FBI. I’m here to...”
“Yeah, we know why you’re here,” said Yates. “You’re supposed to meet us at my office, Larsen.”
“We just happened to be in the neighborhood, looking for a friend of yours,” he said. “So we decided to meet you here. By the way, Mr.—”
“Yates. Jack Yates, attorney, representing Miss Ripken.”
“Well, Mr. Yates, you are no doubt aware that Miss Ripken is a fugitive and a suspected felon wanted for questioning in the matter of a murder in Utah, and a missing juvenile.”
“So are you here to arrest me, or what?” said Lucy.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” said Larsen. “My partner’s down below, with the car. If you want to come along now I won’t have to use the handcuffs.”
“Cuffs?” Yates snorted. “This is voluntary, Larsen. Don’t play games. Murder! You don’t need to throw words like that into the mix here.”
“So stick ‘em on,” Lucy said, holding out her wrists.
Larsen eyed her. “Forget the cuffs. Hey, by the way, your friend arrived a little while ago.”
“Did you find her? Did you guys get her?”
“No way. She disappeared. She was...tricky.”
“A fifteen-year old runaway on a stolen moped. Big game, Mr. Larsen,” said Yates.
“She’s a smart girl, Jack,” said Lucy. “I’m not surprised she got away. Dudes in suits come at me, I’m inclined to run, too.”
“We got the moped,” Larsen shrugged. “Where’d she get that thing, anyway, Lucy? In any case we have people looking. She’ll turn up. We got the bus and train stations covered, the local police have her picture. She’s not going anywhere. I don’t think she would have gotten quite this far if it wasn’t for you, Lucy. I bet you have some kind of story to tell. All I can say is it better be a good one. My place or yours, Mr. Yates?”
“Let’s go to my office, and if you still want to arrest Lucy—Ms. Ripken—after you hear what she has to say, we’ll mosey on over to the Federal
Hotel. How’s that sound?”
“That’s fine. Hey, Mo,” he said, as Devereaux arrived on the scene. “Lucy Ripken, meet my partner, Mo Devereaux. Mo, this is the elusive Lucy. And Jack Yates, her attorney.”
“Howdy,” said Devereaux. “Nice to lay eyes on you after all this time, Ms. Ripken. H’lo, Mr. Yates.”
“Likewise,” said Lucy. “Only forget about me. Ellen’s the problem here. Ellen Longford. She’s on the lam again, and—”
“Yeah, we just missed her,” said Devereaux. “Most unfortunate. You wouldn’t happen to know where’s she’s headed?”
“Especially since she’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant! Holy shit! How pregnant?”
“Let’s save it for the meeting, eh?” said Yates. “Right this way, folks.” They headed down First Avenue towards Pioneer Square.
Ellen nursed a cup of coffee for twenty minutes, hiding behind an opened newspaper. She and Lucy had fallen to page three of the local news section. A quote from her mother said that she was praying for her next to a picture of her with her mother. Neither of them smiling. Daddy took it, she remembered, eighteen or so months past, on Ellen’s 14th birthday. After Mommy passed out from gin he’d fucked the birthday girl that night. She put down the paper and ventured cautiously out onto Second Avenue. The air had turned cooler, and the sky had gone steely gray. The street looked clear of cops. She put her jean jacket on over the sweatshirt and headed at a fast walk east on Pine away from the Market. She zigged here and zagged there, working her way up hill, and in half an hour arrived on Broadway in the heart of Capitol Hill’s commercial district. Walking north along Broadway, she liked what she saw: lots of kids on the loose, funky stores, bars, restaurants, rock n’ roll blasting out of doorways; the street, seething with energy. People in leather and lace, dirty jeans and plaid shirts, boots and tattoos. This was where she wanted to be. Felt like a place to get lost in. A few blocks up Broadway she stopped at a pay phone by a supermarket parking lot, and called Robin’s number. While it rang she focused on some kids hanging out across the street. She liked their punky looks, the way they just sat there, lolling on the sidewalk like they owned it. “Hello?”
“Hi Robin this is Ellen.”
“Ellen?”
“You know, Lucy’s friend”
“Oh, hi. How are you?”
“Listen, Lucy’s gonna call maybe. She’s gonna be looking for me. I don’t want her to worry.”
“Wait a minute, Ellen. Where’s Lucy?”
“Just tell her I’m fine. Tell her I’m going somewhere else. Tell her—” she burst into tears. “Tell her whatever you want to, I don’t care.”
“Ellen, wait. Where are you? What are you going to do?”
“Bye, Robin.” Ellen put the phone down, and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve. She looked across the street. Two boys and three girls, sitting in a row, butts on the sidewalk, backs against a wall covered with peeling layers of rock n’ roll concert posters. Mohawks, earrings, nose rings, tattoos. Attitude Ellen could feel all the way across the street. She turned her baseball cap around so the bill pointed backwards, then headed over, forcing traffic to a halt in the middle of the block. A car horn honked, she flipped the driver off.
She went over to the five kids in a row. “Spare change?” one of the girls said.
“No way,” Ellen said. “But that’s a cool tat.” She admired a dragon on the black-haired girl’s shoulder, peeking out from beneath the straps of the faded blue overalls she wore. It breathed red fire. “Where’d you get it?”
“What the fuck you wanna know for?” said one of the boys. His skinny, zitty white face was crowned with a bristly purple mohawk about six inches high, gelled into place with what looked like axle grease; two rings looped through his left nostril, and a wisp of blue tattoo smoke rose from a machine gun tattoo on his calf , just above the high black lace-up boots he wore.
Ellen looked at him. “Just curious is all, asshole. Maybe I wanna get one. What’s your problem? I mean aside from the hairdo from 1975.”
“No problem. Fuck you.” He smirked. “You guys wanna book? There’s no fucking body with any money here.”
“I ain’t got spare change, but I do have these,” Ellen said, showing them a little brown plastic prescription bottle she’d grabbed from the cabin bathroom. She held it up and gave it a shake.
“What’s that?” said the other girl, a dyed blonde kid about fourteen, wearing the same lace-up black boots they all wore, along with black pants and a black t-shirt.
“Valium,” Ellen said. “Got a bunch in here.”
“Cool,” said Mohawk. “I wanna be sedated,” he sang, and held out his hand. “I’ll take two.”
“Just a minute, OK? My name’s El...Alice, and I’m, you know, lookin’ for a place to crash. You guys got any ideas?”
They exchanged glances, and then dragged themselves and each other to their feet. “So what else you got in the bag?” said Dragon Girl. “Hey, my name’s Rita.”
“Buncha stuff,” Ellen said. “Clothes, mostly. It’s all I got. So what’s the deal? You guys got a place, or what?”
“Some of us been stayin’ in this house a couple blocks from here.”
“You can come there if you want,” the other girl said. “You new in town?”
“Um, yeah. Just got here today.”
“So how ‘bout some of those valiums?” Mohawk said.
She gave him two, and each of the others took two as well. They scarfed them dry as they walked down Broadway in a little pack, not giving way, no one leading. Ellen liked how the yuppie pedestrians looked at them with disdain, or distaste, or just plain hostility. Even pairs of gay men holding hands—you didn’t see that in Utah—gave them that disdainful stare. The stuff she’d been feeling was all happening right here, on the street. Outcast, scorned, who cares? Got your new friends, you’re on your way. Cool. She stuck one little pill in her mouth, forced herself to swallow it down. She gagged a little on the bitterness, then took another.
The ragged crew turned on a sidestreet, walked a block and a half, then went down an alley. “This way,” Mohawk said, his voice now furtive. One by one they slipped through a hole in a hedge. Ellen, last, emerged into an overgrown backyard with a broken swingset and trash cans strewn. Across the yard a one-story, paint-peeling blue wooden house loomed. She saw a white face at a window, then it vanished. She felt the tranquilizers kicking in, slowing her down as she followed the gang across the weedy lawn and slipped into the house through a back door.
Pretty soon they were all comfortable, zonked out in fading day and candlelight on the two broken-down sofas and the single mattress that furnished the living room. A tinny little tape player softly rattled with Nirvana, long dead Kurt Cobain soulfully whining about his gone life. By now Ellen knew all their names, and they knew her as Alice. Mohawk was called Kenny, and he lived with his parents most of the time. The blonde girl was Iris. She’d been on the street for three months. The black-haired girl with the dragon tattoo was named June, and she lived with her parents too, usually. Her dad taught economics at the University, but she said her mom drank herself stupid every day. The other two boys were Billy and Zoo, and never said anything. They’d hitchhiked down from Alaska a couple months back because all their favorite bands came from Seattle. The white face at the window belonged to Adrienne. She didn’t like to go outside for fear she’d be found and returned to her daddy, who lived near a town called Kent and beat the shit out of her every night she was home. She’d been in the crash house for two weeks—ever since they found it, abandoned and soon to be razed for a new eight unit condo project. She depended on Kenny for almost everything. He stole a lot of food from his parents’ house, and he said they never noticed, they had so much.
Ellen lay on the mattress, her head on her backpack, and in the warm calm of sedation wondered what next. For the moment, it was good to be here with some kids in a safe place. Lucy had been helpful, getting her across half the coun
try and looking out for her, but now Ellen felt she could figure things out on her own. The valium cushioned her mind like the backpack did her head, and as she laid back on the mattress, wrapped in a tatty old blanket, she could vaguely make out through the hazy fog of her slow, comfortable high that everything was going to work out just fine. She imagined she heard the soft laughter of a newborn baby, her baby, as she drifted off, exhausted, into druggy, dreamy afternoon sleep.
Lucy finished her story. After a few seconds, Devereaux said, “Whew!”, then reached out and turned off the tape recorder and popped the cassette out. The four of them sat in Jack Yates’ private office, near the top of the Smith Tower.
“So where’s this DVD?” Larsen said. “I bet you’re going to tell us...”
“Ellen’s got it,” Lucy said. “But I saw it. It’s for real.”
“Regardless of that—and I know, I know, what that guy did is really ugly—but what you’re saying is there’s murder on that DVD too, Lucy. She killed her own father.”
“Goddamned right she did,” said Lucy. “And I personally can’t seem to find a way to blame her.”
“In western Washington, this is a case of manslaughter, maybe,” said Jack Yates. “With enough mitigating circumstances to stop a truck. I don’t know about Utah. But that’s not for me to decide. Lucy here is my client, and I am assuming you’ll not be pressing any charges in her case.”
“Utah’s a different world, Mr. Yates,” said Larsen. “Take it from me.”
“Yes, I know, I know,” said Yates. “Those Latter Day Saints are a tribe unto themselves, aren’t they? But we’re talking about a minor federal problem here, aren’t we? I refer to Lucy’s strictly incidental part in this tragedy. Her unwitting recruitment as an accomplice. So what do you propose to offer? I mean, you’ve heard the story. You’ve gotten full cooperation from Ms. Ripken.”
“And a hell of a story it is. For the moment we’ll assume it’s all true.” Larsen gave her a look. She gave it right back. He turned back to Yates. “So: she’s going to have to cooperate. We’ll get a waiver on extradition. She’s going to have to plead to something—some kind of aiding and abetting, I don’t know. But I think we can guarantee you don’t do any time, Lucy,” he said.
Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7) Page 18