The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6)

by Sibella Giorello

  I drew a deep breath, and held it tight. Do not cry.

  My car door swung open.

  “You’re late!”

  “Eleanor.” I blew out all that pent-up breath. “This has been the world’s longest day. I really don’t have energy for—”

  “Move over.” She threw her sequined purse into the car. “I’ll drive.”

  “Drive—where?”

  “None of your bee’s wax.”

  * * *

  She eased the Italian sports car onto I-5 north. Rush hour traffic swung around us, horns blaring. After two minutes, I realized the problem.

  “Eleanor, I think it’s illegal to drive on the freeway at twenty-five miles an hour.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  I glanced at Madame, perched on the backseat ledge, and closed my eyes.

  The Ghost lulled me to sleep.

  * * *

  “Wake up!”

  We were in Seattle, parked on the street near the waterfront. To my right was the sidewalk. To my left, cars whisked past Eleanor’s window which also framed a piece of the wharf. I leaned forward, glancing up at the pieces of dusk that floated between the glassy skyscrapers like amethyst. The street sign read 2nd Avenue.

  “What’re we doing?” I asked.

  A man appeared at Eleanor’s door. He wore a blue uniform.

  “Hello, Mrs. Anderson,” he said. “I’m your valet.”

  “Hello! Aren’t you cute?” She grabbed her sparkly purse, then latched onto the guy’s arm, hoisting herself from the low-slung seat. “I am certain this sports car will tempt you, young man. So here’s my offer. You may take one short drive within a three-block radius. After showing off, park it. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  I opened my door. Madame jumped out. My backpack was still in here. I considered the guy driving around with it. If somebody stole it … I slung the pack over my shoulder and climbed out. The valet was leading Eleanor to the sidewalk.

  Her chin was rising.

  Uh-oh.

  “When so many are lonely,” she called out to Seattle, “it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.”

  “Right, sure,” he replied.

  “I can take her from here,” I said, literally taking her off his hands.

  “Raleigh,” she said, “who said that?”

  “You did.”

  “Camino Real—and where’s your dog?”

  I pointed. Madame was already heading toward a gray-haired doorman who stood beside a bright brass door. The building itself was white marble, weathered by years of heavy rain. I glanced back to see The Ghost, disappearing down 2nd Avenue. “Eleanor, tell me what’s going on. I really don’t like surprises.”

  “But I adore surprises.” She waved at the doorman. “Hello, you must be new.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped his hat, opened the door. “And you must be Mrs. Anderson.”

  Eleanor snapped open her purse and pressed a dollar bill into his hand. He thanked her. We stepped inside.

  “Oh, Raleigh, look!” she cried. “Just like old times.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  We stood in a lobby covered in marble. Walls, ceiling. But it wasn’t white like the exterior. And it wasn’t ordinary stone. A deep brown, the marble was veined with ochre and gold. I ran my hand over the polished surface. “What is this place?”

  “The Smith Tower. Harry owned part of it.”

  An elderly black man stepped out from behind a guard’s desk. His posture was stooped, like the brass buttons on his blue uniform weighed too much. “Miz Anderson?” He gave Eleanor the world’s best smile.

  “Patterson!” Eleanor’s voice ricocheted off the marble. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you. Please, come meet my friend Raleigh.”

  We shook hands. His skin felt dry. His smile never faded.

  “Right this way,” he said.

  He ushered us into an elevator. So old it still had the accordion-style door. I picked up Madame. Patterson yanked the clattering brass cage closed, swung a brass lever, and we took off. The floors swept past, inches from the cage door. Two, three, four…

  “Patterson, tell Raleigh about the Smith Tower.”

  He began a speech that had the practiced rhythms of a tour guide. The Smith Tower was built in 1914. At the time, the tallest building west of Chicago.

  “Tell her about that silly gun man,” Eleanor said.

  Seven, eight …

  “What silly gun man?” I asked.

  “He’s the Smith,” Patterson answered. “Of Smith & Wesson.”

  “Now I’m interested.”

  He talked about the building’s many owners, including Harry Anderson. When he shifted the brass lever, the elevator slowed.

  Ten, eleven…

  “Ladies, welcome to the twelfth floor.”

  “Thank you, Patterson,” Eleanor opened her purse and took out a twenty. “Please give my best to your family.”

  “Yes’m. Thank you.”

  Patterson pulled open the cage, winked at me, then disappeared back into the elevator.

  More marble. And it glowed like moonlight. Eleanor led me past the office doors with pebble-glass panels. The business names painted on them were antique black-and-gold. I counted three lawyers. One dentist. Two architects. One psychologist…

  “And here we are!”

  The last door, at the end of the hall. It read: Anderson Enterprises.

  Eleanor inserted a key, and raised her chin. “You can be young without money, but you can’t be old without it.”

  I waited for the who-said-that question. Instead she swung open the door and tilted her head.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Go in.”

  The office had three large rooms. A main area with a leather couch, two reading chairs, and a breathtaking view of Seattle’s waterfront. A utility kitchen sat to the side, with another window facing north, framing a piece of the Space Needle. The bathroom was pink tile, pink sink, pink toilet…all for Eleanor, I suspected.

  When I looked over, she was standing beside the leather couch, brushing her hand over the worn surface. She stared out the window. City lights sparkled along the waterfront.

  “Eleanor?”

  She turned. Her eyes shone like those city lights.

  “Why’re we here?”

  “Shame on you. You haven’t been listening to me. What did I just say?”

  “You can be young without money. But it sucks to be old and not have it.”

  “That is pathetic paraphrasing.”

  “Come on.”

  “I never wanted anyone to rent his personal office.” She glanced around the room, rhinestones sparkling in her glasses. “But now I’ve found someone he would approve of.”

  “Eleanor.” I gasped. “I can’t afford to rent this—”

  “Of course not. It’s free.”

  I blinked. “Free.”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  “I can’t accept it.”

  “Raleigh, if you reject this gift, I will throw you and your little dog out on the street. Do you understand me?”

  I opened my mouth. But her expression closed it. There was a real woman underneath the actress and she was more formidable than any character Tennessee Williams ever dreamed up.

  And yet, there was also an unexpected softness in her eyes.

  “Why do you think I keep those high-strung thoroughbreds? They cost me a fortune just to feed. But they’re highly entertaining. It’s the same reason I agreed to help you with all that skullduggery at the track. I hate being bored. And frankly, my dear, your unemployment is boring. I want you to start doing real work.”

  Madame jumped up on the leather couch.

  Eleanor glared at her. “I don’t suppose that creature will be told to disembark from the furnishings?”

  My first smile of the day began inside my chest. It climbed up my throat and spread across my lips. Eleanor. That little glittering general. Out the window, neon
and streetlights blurred. When I blinked, I felt something trace down my cheek. The feeling in my heart was heavier than sorrow, yet lighter than laughter. And it made me think of something my dad once said.

  Did I ever tell you what Thornton Wilder said? he’d asked me. He said we’re only alive when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

  “Raleigh?”

  I looked over at her. Such a gift. Such a treasure. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Now get to work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She wasn’t kidding about getting to work. Behind Harry’s desk, I found boxes. They contained even more surprises. A new computer delivered directly from Microsoft’s headquarters in Redmond. Glass beakers, pipettes, brass sieves for separating soil by grain size, and a heat lamp.

  But the crown jewel? One gorgeous microscope, direct from a science supply warehouse in Tacoma.

  “That cowboy fellow in Spokane told me what to order,” Eleanor said.

  “I’m speechless.”

  “Excellent.” She sat on the couch opposite Madame. “If your mouth is closed, you’ll work faster.”

  I still had geologic maps in my pack, bought during my time with the Bureau’s Seattle office. I found the quadrant that contained the Icicle River and traced my finger along the water line as it ran through the mountains where Annicka Engels died. The river cut through the ancient granite like a buzz saw.

  “How long will this take?” Eleanor asked.

  I shook my head. I needed to concentrate.

  “When will you be done?” she asked.

  “Science isn’t like a Broadway play.”

  “But it’s forensics.”

  I tried to smile. Television. Once again, it was ruining reality. “Forensics is really slow work. It requires extreme patience. So maybe you should go get some dinner.”

  “All by myself?” She feigned horror. “You would let me wander the streets of Seattle unprotected?”

  “Take my gun.”

  “Heavens!”

  “Take the dog.”

  She eyed Madame, poised at the couch’s other end. “Will she obey?”

  “Will you?”

  I received one withering look—from both of them. Let the smart set believe dogs don’t have human-esque personalities. I knew differently. “Madame.”

  She jumped off the couch, stretched, and wagged her tail.

  “Perhaps.” Eleanor stood. “I’ll have Patterson call us a cab.”

  “Order something for the dog,” I said.

  Eleanor slammed the door.

  * * *

  With my new equipment stationed around the office, I cut open the box Peter sent back, and took my new soil samples from my backpack.

  Snapping on gloves, I divided the soil from Annicka’s boots into two parts. The first half I rinsed in a sterile beaker—thank you, Eleanor—in the pink bathroom which still had monogrammed towels marked E and H.

  Draining the water, I placed the sample under a heat lamp—thanks again.

  I didn’t rinse the burned soil from the church arson. I was concerned I could wash away the flame accelerant. Gasoline, propane. Lighter fluid. Alcohol. Who knows what they used?

  I also didn’t rinse the second section of the boot soil. Taking ChapStick from my backpack, I rubbed it over a glass slide, pinched the dry boot soil and dusted the grains on the now-sticky slide, and placed it under the sleek new scope. It was even nicer than my scope at the Bureau—God bless Eleanor—with eight levels of magnification.

  And what did I see?

  A wild mess.

  The sand was shard-shaped. That meant geologically young, not rounded by eons of erosion. But the silt grains were soft-edged. And it was hard to get a good look at anything else because there was so much biological material in here. Organic matter. Grass. I adjusted the focus. No, hay. I also found two strands of something that looked so fine, it required the most powerful magnification, 2000X.

  Hair.

  I pushed away from the scope, rubbing my eyes, and called Peter.

  “How you likin’ them fancy digs?” he asked.

  “And you told her what equipment to buy.”

  “No red-blooded American man could ever say No to that woman.”

  “Not to mention that this whole setup works entirely in your favor.”

  “Good and howdy.” He chuckled. “I thought it might also keep you from being ticked off about gettin’ paid in hotel rooms.”

  “We can discuss that later. And I don’t expect the Bureau to barter with us.” I explained the burned grass at Our Lady of Snows.

  “KKK?”

  “They usually burn a cross. This is a six-pointed star.”

  “Satanic?”

  “Maybe. FBI’s classified it as a hate crime. I come in as the freelance consultant.”

  “Hot dog. Let’s move it fast.”

  “I’m on it.” If I could make a quick and accurate turnaround, we might gain a foothold with Bureau’s field office. That would mean more work. And less dependence on Jack. “I’m sending you the arson soil.”

  “What for?”

  “I need you to run it through the GCMS.” Gas chromatography—mass spectrometry. A mouthful of a name that was the gold standard of forensic testing. The GCMS instrument doesn’t just find unknowns, it names them, and any trace elements that otherwise would be disintegrated beyond identification. I’d used it before on several mineralogy cases, including a cross burning in Virginia. “Run it through the machine, then call me. I’ll take it to the Bureau.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Raleigh, that doo-hickey of a machine costs a small fortune. I don’t got one. Unless you want to ask Granny Warbucks—”

  “No.” I dropped my head. “If we have to send this soil to the state…” I didn’t need to finish that thought. Why should the Bureau hire us if we needed the state to identify the compounds?

  “Take it to the wildlife biologist,” Peter said.

  “Who?”

  “You missed my note. Didn’t your mama teach you to read the card before you open the present?”

  I shoved my hand into the Express mail box and found a folded piece of paper. His handwriting was precise, block lettering. Lab handwriting, the kind that stands up in court. I read the wildlife specialist’s name. “Lani Margolis?”

  “Formerly of Stanford. One really smart cookie.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s brilliant,” he said. “But now nobody’ll hire her full-time. Got one of them independent streaks. Like another gal I know.”

  I glanced at his note again. “There’s no phone number.”

  “She refuses to use a phone. See what I’m saying?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Get in that spiffy little car and go find her.”

  I looked at my watch. Past seven o’clock. “You’re sure she’s at this address? It’s not like I can call her and find out.”

  “She’ll be there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Lani never leaves the lab.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Thanks to Patterson, I found Eleanor and Madame at a tiki bar on First Avenue. When I parted the beaded curtains, a familiar figure was up on stage holding an unnecessary microphone to belt out the Karaoke version of My Way. Six people sat at the various tables, sipping umbrella drinks and listening to Eleanor talk about a few regrets. In the wings, the small black dog waited. What an animal.

  I got them both into The Ghost and headed north.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said. “Every woman needs one thing from a man.”

  “Good to know.”

  Her breath smelled like vermouth, that mix of sweet and musty. It must’ve been a few martinis because she didn’t follow up with her usual question. So I prompted. “Who said that?”

  “I did.” She brushed one bejeweled hand over the cloud of white hair. “But I
would like you to name that one thing. Because every woman needs that one thing from a man.”

  I checked my phone’s GPS. We still had a ways to go.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

  “Safety. Every woman needs safety.”

  “My dear, if that were true, you would’ve married the lovely Mr. Fielding.”

  DeMott. My ex-fiancé.

  “Okay,” I said. “Adventure.”

  “Raleigh, I said every woman. Not you with Stanley.”

  “His name’s Jack. And I wasn’t thinking of him.”

  Not entirely.

  She scooted up in her seat. “You can’t tell me the answer?”

  “A really good kiss.”

  “Have you been kissing that animal?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Madame took no offense, although her ears did prick forward. Probably because with Eleanor’s voice, everything sounded urgent.

  “I have not kissed Jack.”

  “I suggest you keep it that way.”

  “I might not have a choice,” I said, handing her my phone. “Check the directions, I think we’re lost.”

  I leaned forward, peering through the sloping windshield. Pop-up headlights were definitely high on the cool factor, but at night driving downhill through hairpin turns, it felt like I was following two light sabers straight to my death.

  “This says …” Eleanor glanced out her window. “Puget Sound is directly below us. So one wrong turn and we’re out of this mortal coil.”

  “Maybe I typed in the wrong address.”

  Eleanor wasn’t listening. She’d rolled down her window and stuck her head out, bellowing into the black night. “I don’t want realism!”

  I glanced in the rearview. I swear Madame rolled her eyes.

  “I want magic!” Eleanor cried.

  “Hello? I need to drive.”

  She pulled her head back into the car, patting the white crown. “That line’s from Streetcar.”

  “You promised,” I said.

  “I promised not say a word during your interview with this person we’re going to see.” She rolled up the window. “I promised to be as silent as Gloria Stuart.”