Emerald City (14 page)

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just nervous about Saturday. It's getting to me.”

I'd have been a wreck by now in his situation. “They'll love you,” I promised, and prayed it would be true. “Just not as much as I do.”

He smiled, but it was no more than a tightening of his mouth. “We've got the final practice tonight. I'm going to take the car if that's okay.”

I pulled the keys from my jeans and handed them to him. “You want something to eat first? I could throw something together.”

“I'm not hungry.” He rubbed his belly. “I don't think it'd stay down if I tried. I'm just going to make some coffee and get changed.”

Inside, he put the Pretenders on the stereo, the first album when there was still plenty of bite to the band, and Chrissie sounded mean and lowdown, a woman who'd learned the hard way not to take any shit. I heard Steve moving around, pouring water, then walking through to the bedroom.

I closed my eyes and let the music and the air wash over me for a while, banishing reality.

“I'm heading out,” he said. I hadn't heard him walk up to me. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Wish me luck.”

I hugged him quickly and he slipped away, carrying the guitar in its case, his mind full of other things. I heard the engine and the soft sound as he drove away.

Steve's alarm woke me. I felt refreshed and ready to meet Sandy later. I'd be happy if she gave me even some of the answers I needed. I still had far too many blank areas.

I took a shower and as the hot water poured down I remembered the phone call, hearing the voice again and a chill passed through me for a moment. Fuck him. I was going to be strong, I was going to move ahead. I was going to find him and why he'd killed Craig. If he really tried to hurt me or Steve the cops would start looking at everything again and he didn't want that.

In the living room Steve handed me a cup of coffee.

“How did it go last night?” I asked; I'd been asleep by the time he returned.

“Pretty good,” he answered, but his tight voice and tense face told the truth.

“Ready?” I tried to make the word sound light.

“I don't know.” He cupped the coffee mug and took a quick drink. “If you want to know the truth, we sounded like shit.”

“Why?”

“Connor kept speeding up on the drums and Jerry screwed up at least four times on the basslines,” he explained in exasperation. “I mean, this isn't even on the new material.”

“Maybe they're as nervous as you.”

“Maybe. But if we sound like that at the Central it's all over.”

“You won't,” I told him. “They always say that a bad last practice makes a good gig, you know that.”

“Who says it?”

“Everyone. Look, you never know, you could blow Soundgarden off the stage.”

“Oh yeah, like that's going to happen.” At least he smiled. “But I'm glad you believe, anyway.”

“Of course I do.” I was surprised he even needed me to say it. He did have talent, and I loved him.

Once he'd left I tried to settle to some work, but gave up quickly. All I could think about was meeting Sandy. I came up with questions to ask and scribbled them down on a legal pad. I checked the batteries in the tape recorder several times, did tests to make sure everything was working, and drank my way through five cups of coffee until I could feel the jitters.

I spent the morning in constant movement, unable to settle anywhere for more than a minute. By ten I felt as if I was wearing tracks in the carpet from walking around the rooms. Finally I picked the car keys off the table and went out. The day smelled fresh, as if rain had come through overnight and scrubbed the air. I stopped and pulled it deep into my lungs, looking out over the lake, watching a seaplane glide in to a smooth landing, bobbing across
the water before it slowed near the dock.

I left the car in the lot by Astor Park and walked across to The Rocket. Rob was in his office, sitting with a pen and editing a story.

“Hey, hotshot girl reporter,” he said. “Any more threats?”

I shook my head so I didn't have to lie out loud.

“That's something. How's the story coming along?”

I told him what I'd learned from Nick McDonald, and that I was meeting Sandy.

“Maybe you'll get something more to work with,” he said. Something seemed to hit him. “If he didn't have any money on him he couldn't have bought any heroin.”

“Yep, that's what I thought too. I'll see what Sandy says. I'm hoping she can tell me plenty. But she seemed shocked when I said I thought Craig might have been murdered. She didn't want to believe he'd ODed but I guess she hadn't thought of that.”

“She'll have had time to think about it now.” He took a cigarette from the pack in the drawer, looked at it, began twirling it in his fingers. “Maybe she can give you something to open this all up.”

“No idea. Some clues, maybe. I guess if she'd known anything she'd have told the cops.”

“So the big question is where the smack came from and how it got in his arm,” Rob said after a while. He put the cigarette back in the pack. “You know, he could have gone out later and scored.”

“It's possible. But what about the works, the needle and stuff? Where did that come from?” I paused. “Besides, the coroner's report said there was
plenty of alcohol in his system when he died. I don't see someone getting drunk then shooting up, do you?”

“Not really,” he agreed. “Go get 'em. And let me know what happens, okay?”

“I will.”

As I turned away he added, “And any more threats at all, tell me and we'll pull the plug on this.”

The downtown streets were busy, especially the stretch of First that went past the market. There was a constant stream of pedestrians, Seattleites looking purposeful, tourists stopping and glancing around, pausing and blocking traffic to take pictures of the big Public Market sign.

The OK Hotel was in a strange part of downtown almost under the Viaduct and close to the Sound. It was surrounded by warehouses and delivery docks, out of sight of the shopping streets and set back from the waterfront. If you didn't know it existed you might never find it: a disenchanted wonderland.

Once it really had been a hotel, but after years of emptiness it had reopened as a café with bands in the back room. A mysterious, blocked-off set of stairs went up to the old hotel itself – I'd gone up there once and found old newspapers and photographs in the abandoned rooms, curious touches of Seattle history. Now the wood had been polished up, an espresso machine stood behind the counter and the kitchen was functioning. It was a funky little place, its bright blue wooden front standing out from the drab brick all around.

At eleven it was too late for the breakfast crowd but still early for lunch. I ordered a sandwich and a latte and found a table that was out of the way, where we'd be able to talk without interruption. The staff were chatting and
laughing, and I passed the time inspecting the artwork all over the walls, checking my watch every minute, as nervous as a teenager waiting for my date to show up.

I could see out through the large front windows and watch ferries gliding across the waters of the Sound, the big vessels looking almost stately as they moved. Time ticked past slowly, heading toward noon until I watched the hands meet at the top of the dial, glancing towards the door every time someone entered or a shadow passed along the sidewalk. She was an hour late.

Five after twelve became ten after, and I was beginning to believe she'd decided not to come. Another five minutes passed; I drained the last of my coffee and started to pack away my notebook and recorder. Maybe I shouldn't have been too surprised. She'd been reluctant to talk and then willing. Another change of heart shouldn't have seemed too unlikely.

I'd stood up, bag heavy on my shoulder, when she walked in. In another time, or on someone much older, her clothes would have been called widow's weeds. In Seattle, on a woman in her twenties, being dressed all in black was simply hip. She wore the black jeans and sweater unselfconsciously. I smiled and gave a small wave and she held up a finger, indicating for me to wait as she placed her order.

I'd settled back down by the time she came over.

“I'm really sorry,” she said in a rush, speaking so fast the words collided with each other, sweat glistening lightly on her skin. “I was running late and then I was driving around forever trying to get somewhere to park. I ended up in a lot down past the Kingdome and then I had to run all the way here.”

Sandy had classic American features, the nose maybe a little too wide,
teeth perfect and white, blonde hair shining, parted simply down the middle and gathered back in a ponytail, no makeup. She was pretty, but not in a way that would leave anyone overwhelmed or jealous. She could quite easily have been the girl next door except for the redness around her eyes that could only be the product of grief.

“It happens,” I agreed with a gentle smile. “I'm just glad you came.”

“I said I would.” She took a pack of Salems from her purse and lit one. “I'm sorry I didn't call you back earlier, too. I was just, you know...” She looked at me and shrugged.

“It's okay, honestly.” I reached over and squeezed her hand lightly in sympathy. That lit up her face and I began to understand what Craig had seen in her. It made her transparent and left a glow that seemed to come straight from her heart. “You know I want to talk about Craig, about everything.” She nodded, brushing ash from the jeans. Up close I could see the loose threads on the sweater at the cuffs and the neck; this was her everyday wear, not something chosen specially to impress me. “Before that, though, I want to tell you something. I talked to a guy called Nick McDonald yesterday.”

Her mouth widened into an O. “Craig was going to meet up with him after he dropped me off on...” She didn't need to finish the sentence.

“They had lunch. Craig had left his wallet at home. I know he got an album from Tony and Warren's store and he didn't have any money with him.”

“He did that sometimes. He didn't always have the greatest memory.”

“Well,” I began slowly, “if he didn't have any cash he couldn't have scored when he was out.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Did he have his wallet when...?”

She was slow to answer. “I don't know. I guess he did. I'd have to check.

But what you're saying, that's proof he didn't buy and OD by himself,” she said, her voice rising.

“It's not concrete,” I pointed out. “But it's something.”

She sat back. “Thank you,” she told me. “That's the first positive thing I've heard.”

“Do you think you can handle some questions?” I asked.

“Sure.” She sat up straighter in the chair.

“How long were you together?”

She took a drink of coffee. “About a year and a half. I moved in when he bought the house last spring. We'd already been dating a while, it was pretty serious. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do,” I agreed, thinking of Steve. “And were things good the whole time?”

“Well, there were ups and down, you know, like speedbumps. That's just the way it goes, isn't it?”

“True enough.” I gave her a smile. “It'd be easier if guys told us what they were feeling, wouldn't it?” I paused. “Did you grow up around here?”

Sandy shook her head. “Spokane, the other side of the mountains. I came here to go to college and decided to stay after I graduated.”

“Your degree's in psychology?”

“Same as half the world,” she laughed. “If it had been anything useful I wouldn't have ended up waitressing at Denny's.” She looked around curiously. “Maybe I'll put in an application here.”

“Are you going to stay around Seattle?”

“I guess. I haven't really been thinking too far ahead, you know?” She
wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Most of the time I can't even believe he's not here. I keep wanting to turn to him and tell him something or think I'll be seeing him in the evening. I loved him,” she said with a childlike fierceness and earnestness. “I really did love him. I'm not sure what I'm going to do without him.”

“Do you mind if I record this?” She shook her head and I switched on the recorder. “First, you're sure he wasn't using?”

“Positive,” she replied without hesitation. “I lived with Craig, he wouldn't have been able to hide that.”

“But last year you guys were shooting up.”

“We were.” She announced the words as if she was sick of them.

“Why did you start?” I truly wanted to understand.

“Fuck, I don't know.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Someone shot Craig up at a party. He couldn't believe how good it felt and he wanted to feel that way again.” She gave a sad smile. “Then again. And again. Next thing he knew...”

“So why did you begin?”

“Because I loved him. I wanted to go where he went. And part of me was curious about the effect. I wanted to see what it did.”

“What did it do to you?” I was curious to know.

“It was like nothing else. It was beautiful.” She drew the word out. “You smoke weed?”

I nodded.

“That's like the tiniest fraction of what getting high on smack feels like.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality. “Does that make sense at all?”

“I think so.”

“It's really great. Seductive.”

“So what made you stop?”

“We were junkies,” she answered flatly. “I knew it, and that meant it was time. And things were getting serious with the label. It was pretty obvious they were going to want Snakeblood. But it's like I told Craig, they're not going to take someone with a habit. That's just a liability. So he decided to clean up. We both did. But I was never into it as bad as he was.”

“How did you manage to quit?”

She ground out the cigarette and immediately lit another, blowing a long plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

“Cold turkey. Three days of shitty, screaming, puking, sweating hell.” She stared at me, her eyes challenging. “Get through that, get it out of your body and you have a chance.” She smiled. “As long as you can get it out of your mind.”