Emerald City (13 page)

“Going to be tough, opening for Soundgarden.”

“Yeah, but think of all the people who'll be there. That's always a good thing. Is he psyched for it?”

“Quietly,” I said. “I think it'll really hit him on Friday.”

“Look for me there on Saturday.”

He hung up. I poured more coffee, sat on the couch and thought. Really,
those two phone calls hadn't helped me at all. Everything seemed above board, so perhaps business hadn't been the cause of Craig's death.

So what was left? Only drugs, it seemed. That could make the trouble very real.

It seemed strange that no one had mentioned the names of any of Craig's friends, as if he only existed in the vacuum of the band and Sandy. No one lived like that; everyone had different circles of acquaintances. Mike might have some names, but it would be lunchtime at the market and he'd be swamped with customers. There was Carla. They might not have been close in recent years, but they did go back a long way; she might know who'd been close to him. And she was only a few minutes' walk away.

“Hey,” she said, already grinding beans for me. “How's it going?”

“Not bad,” I said. “How about you?”

She glanced around at the lack of custom and shrugged. “Some days aren't so great.”

“So what do you do?”

“Drop back and punt, same as always,” she told me with a grin. “Not much I can do, really, the customers have to come to me.”

She pulled the lever on the machine and a shot of espresso, almost black, fell into the cup. Then she carefully steamed the milk, her eye on the thermometer, before pouring it artfully over the coffee.

“Tell me something...” I began.

“Is this about Craig again?” she asked warily.

“Uh huh. Did he have many friends?”

“I don't know,” she said after considering the question. “It's like I told you, I didn't see a lot of him.”

“I thought maybe people he'd known before. Back on Bainbridge.”

“A few, I guess. There's this guy, Nick. He was from the island and moved over here after high school. I know the two of them used to get together, sometimes even the three of us. And I met a couple of guys over at Craig's apartment. There was...” She paused, trying to remember. “John, maybe? I don't recall the other guy, but they seemed to be together pretty often. That was a few years ago, though.”

“Do you know any last names?”

“Nick's is McDonald. I haven't seen him in forever. He was a nice guy, bright but not always too smart, you know? Kind of a stoner. I don't think I ever knew the last names of the other guys.” She paused for a moment. “I think Craig mentioned Nick a year or so back. He said he'd run into him somewhere.” She looked at me. “Sorry, I don't know anything more than that.”

I paid her for the latte. “That's great,” I said. “It's something.”

“Have you found out why he died yet?”

I shook my head. “I'm meeting Sandy tomorrow, though. She might be able to help.”

“I know she doesn't like me, but I'm sorry for her, no one should have to go through what she has. Did you find that girl you were looking for, the one with the car?”

“Yeah.” Over the course of the morning I'd almost forgotten about Jenna. “Just another lead that went nowhere.” I decided to change the subject. “You going down to see Steve's band on Saturday?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“I'll buy you a beer there.”

“You got a deal.”

I started to walk away. “That McDonald, is it M-C or M-A-C?”

“M-C,” she called back.

There was no Nicholas McDonald in the phone book, but eight with the initial N. Four didn't answer, one was an old man, two were female, and I left a message at the last. By the time I hung up I felt frustrated, as if some small victory had been snatched away from me.

When the phone rang I snatched at it without thinking, hoping it was a McDonald returning my call.

“Hello, Laura.” The voice made me freeze. “What did you think? That I'd forgotten you?”

I was trying to breathe, to gulp some air into my lungs. Somewhere in my head I'd begun to convince myself that the threats, even the bullet, weren't real. Just hearing him made me understand that they'd never gone away. I said nothing.

“Did you like your little present?” he asked, quietly taunting. “It was just a little reminder. Bang bang.” He chuckled and let the silence grow for a few moments. “I hope I won't have to make any more of these calls. They're becoming tedious. If you don't drop this story immediately, you'll regret it.” He
paused. “Or that boyfriend of yours will.”

The line clicked as he hung up. Slowly, very slowly, my heartbeat began to return to normal. My hand was shaking. But even in the depths of my fear I realized something. If he'd been serious about hurting me, he'd have done it before now. He'd terrified me, but nothing he'd done had crossed the line into real danger. And right now he was running out of options. He could threaten all he wanted, but if he cranked it up and hurt me or Steve, the police would become involved and he'd be found. Then whatever he'd been trying so desperately to hide would be out in the open. They guy wasn't a fool; he wouldn't want that to happen.

I made a fresh pot of coffee and went out on to the deck. The air felt clean and fresh. The thought heartened me; I felt safer, and smoked a cigarette slowly to calm myself. I stayed out for a few minutes, then returned to the phone to try the McDonald numbers again.

Two more were home, but neither of them was the Nick I was seeking. I continued down the list hearing the phone ringing. On the last number I was about to give up when a breathless voice said,

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I said, “I'm looking for Nick McDonald.”

“You've found him.”

“Hi, my name's Laura Benton. I know this might sound weird, but did you know a guy called Craig Adler?”

“Craig?” he answered in surprise. “Yeah, I know him. Why, what's happened?”

“I'm sorry,” I told him, “he's dead.”

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, how did it happen?

“An overdose.”

“Craig was back using smack?”

“That's what killed him.”

“Man.”

“Listen,” I said, “I'm writing a story on him for The Rocket. I'd like to sit down and talk to you about him. To find out more about him.”

“Yeah, I guess. Man, I only saw him a week ago ... Saturday.”

“What?” I sat up so fast the coffee spilled all over.

“Yeah. He came over and we went for lunch. When did he die?”

“A few hours after you saw him. Look,” I said urgently, “I could really use to talk to you. What are you doing today?”

“Nothing much. I'm kind of unemployed at the moment.”

“You mind if I come over?” For a moment I thought about all the warnings about not going to a strange man's home. But this was work, and I could look after myself.

“Sure, just give me about thirty minutes.”

The address was up at the top end of the University District, an old three story house that had been converted into apartments a long time ago. Now the units looked beat up, worn and weary, blue paintwork peeling away from the wood, struts missing from the porch railing. A rickety wooden staircase took me all the way up to the top and I knocked on the glass of McDonald's door.

He was fresh from the shower, dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, his hair still wet. The pupils of his eyes were large. He was already
stoned.

“Hi, come on in.”

He led me through to a small living room with old, battered furniture, a student bookcase made of planks and breeze blocks, each shelf weighed down with heavy volumes. There was a small stack of LPs against the wall and an old stereo. The smell of stale pot clung in the air. He saw me looking and said, “All stuff from when I was at college. The problem is a philosophy degree doesn't really help you get a job.”

He had the look of someone who wasn't too comfortable in the real world. We sat and he said, “Craig's really dead?”

“He is,” I said.

“Man, I can't believe that.”

“You said you saw him the day he died?”

“Yeah,” he replied slowly. “We'd meet up once in a while. He'd call me and we'd go out to eat.”

“What time did you meet up?”

“I don't know. Maybe one or two.”

“How was he? Happy?”

“Psyched.” Nick smiled. “He was talking about the deal the band was going to sign. He was flying.”

“Where did you go?”

“The Greek place down on the Ave. Then we came back here, smoked a little and he left.”

“You knew him on Bainbridge?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me curiously. “How did you know?”

“Carla told me.”

“Carla?” His eyes turned owlish in surprise. “Is she still over here?”

“She's doing well, she owns a coffee cart.”

He smiled and nodded. “Wow, that's cool. She was always a hard worker.”

“How often did you see Craig?”

“Just...” He shrugged. “I don't know. Like I said, he'd call every few months and we'd get together.”

“What else did you talk about?”

“Just normal stuff, I guess. His house, his girlfriend. Nothing much, really. Mostly he was just really up about the record deal. It sounded pretty big time.” He shook his head. “Why would he OD with all that?” He raised his eyes. “Anyway, he quit last fall. He told me.”

“Go on.” I smiled, encouraging him with my eyes. “What did he tell you?”

“I don't know, we were talking. He told me before that he'd used a few times. I asked him if he was still and he said no, he'd quit. It was tough, he said, but he'd been clean a while.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I'm not sure, four or five. I wasn't really looking at the clock, you know?”

“And he seemed fine then?”

“Yeah. It was cool. He said he'd call when he got back and take me out next time. He'd left his wallet at home so I had to pay for the meal.”

“Did he say where he was going when he left?”

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “I don't remember. He'd dropped his girlfriend at work before he came over. I guess he was going home.” He
looked straight at me, his face stunned. “He really ODed?”

“That's what the coroner said.” I didn't believe it, but that was the official version.

“Shit.”

“Tell me anything else you can remember,” I said. “Please.”

“I don't know.” He stood up and padded around the room, hands fidgeting on his shirt and in his pockets. “It was just, like, no biggie, getting together the way we always did. We ate and talked. No way did he seem like he was going to overdose. A couple of people came over while we were eating and he was friendly, laid-back.”

“How come you didn't know what had happened to him?”

“I don't read the newspapers. I don't have a television. I don't really care too much about what goes on in the world.” It made sense, and fitted with the personality he'd shown me.

“You know you were one of the last people to see Craig alive?”

“Really?” he asked. “Man.”

“Did anything else happen? Anything you remember?”

He narrowed his eyes as if picturing the scene. “Not really,” he said slowly. “We talked about a couple of people we used to know back on the island, stuff we'd heard. Like I said, we came back here and smoked a bowl.”

“You're certain he didn't have his wallet?”

“Yeah, why?”

It rang true. He'd gone to Heaven and Hell later on Saturday and he hadn't had the money for the Leonard Cohen album he'd wanted. “Just checking.”

“That was kind of everything.”

I stood up. “Thanks,” I told him. “You've been very helpful.”

“Look, you don't know about the funeral, do you?”

“Sorry.” I hadn't thought to ask Sandy. “I'll try to find out.”

As always, the sidewalks in the U-District were filled with pedestrians, students still looking clean-cut and eager, even as the school year tailed away, while the young street kids aimed for cool and laid-back as they leaned against walls, smoking and checking everything out. I remembered coming here myself when I was fifteen or sixteen, amazed by the place. It seemed so cool after my suburb just a few miles away. I'd wander around all the record stores and come back whenever I had money. It had been a good place to hang out back then, full of hope.

Small stores had come and gone and the character of the place had altered over the years, the mix of the bohemian and the banal tipping slowly toward desperation. I rarely drove through here any more, and the frequent halts of the traffic reminded me why. I was glad to finally be able to cut across to Wallingford with its well-tended houses, then across the north shore of Lake Union to home.

I had plenty to consider. I'd no doubt Nick McDonald was telling me the truth. What it meant was that Craig hadn't bought the heroin that killed him. He'd gone out without any money. People didn't buy smack a day or two in advance.

The adrenaline was buzzing through me as I drove. For the first time I believed I might be making real progress. It was only one tiny step closer to the truth, but there was still so much more to try and understand.

By the time Steve arrived home I was sitting on the deck, drinking a beer. I told him what I'd discovered. He seemed pleased but distracted.