The Rivers Run Dry (34 page)

“Because if you would like to move to another unit, something more . . .” He searched for the correct words, the diplomatic terms that concealed the Bureau's view of agents who spent their entire career in Violent Crimes, the knuckle-draggers of the agency. “. . . something more long-term,” he said, “it can be arranged. Your supervisor will support any request for transfer. Although I under-stand he would appreciate your staying in his unit.”

I thanked him. He stood, extending his hand, and I left his office with a numb sensation that seemed to pervade all the way to my feet. I rode the elevator down to Violent Crimes where my desk was already blanketed with fresh manila folders containing new cases, new perps, new paths on an ancient map where X marked a treasure called Justice. And outside, in the wind-whipped autumn air, a man moved freely, bearing a conscience that allowed him to cannibalize a young woman's soul, to maim her in ways that might never be healed, to demand a bargain he never intended to uphold. Out there, a man lived without punishment, without consequence, just like the man who shot my father in an alley one cold November night and left him to die.

I picked up the phone, punching the extension for the Tweedles. The twin who answered identified himself by his real name, so I had no idea which one I was speaking to.

“This is Harmon,” I said.

“Oh,
you
,” he said. “What do
you
want?”

“Have you looked at the film from the casino?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find anything?”

“We found something and we sent it to Lucia Lutini. She's a
lady.
She treats people with
respect
.”

“She's a saint,” I said, hanging up.

I walked to Lucia's desk where a Post-It note stuck to the dark computer screen said she was in the second conference room. I walked down the aisles of cubicles, past Jack who was talking on the phone, his feet propped up on his desk. As I passed, he gave me a nod, and when I opened the conference room door, Lucia didn't turn around. She was gazing at the television. Staccato images flickered in black and white.

“The Tweedles said they found something,” I said.

Her brown eyes appeared polished, her expression distant. “Yes. They had a lot to cover. Twenty-four hours times two weeks, plus the September records you found. They isolated three scenes with the girl. She's stunning.”

Picking up the remote, she pressed the rewind button. On screen, figures rushed backward, stopped, then moved forward as Lucia hit Play. The camera angle seemed to be above the corridor leading to the main restaurant and bar, the wide alley where I'd seen Stacee Warner coming in and out with her tray.

“There,” Lucia said. “See her?”

Her flaxen hair appeared white on the screen, rippling down her back. She walked with confident strides, reminding me of a leggy young colt. Nothing like the creature I met in the cave.

“And here comes . . .” Lucia said. “There.”

Courtney had stopped at the edge of the wide alley, apparently waiting, her head turning left and right, the long hair flickering under the bright lights. Then a man appeared. He was taller than Courtney, she had to lift her head to look up at him. But his face was obscured both by the camera angle and by the bill of his baseball cap. He took her elbow, she smiled. They walked away.

“Let me see that again,” I said.

Lucia hit Rewind. Courtney walked backward, away from the man. Then back to him. I watched him wrap his fingers around her arm. And I could feel his hand on my own elbow. “He used that same gesture on me,” I said. “On the mountain when he walked me into the forest.”

Lucia was silent. “Unfortunately, this is all the Tweedles found of him. He's not in anything else. The other shots show the girl playing cards. She's a controlled player. Or was.”

“It's not the father, is it?”

“I wondered that too, because of the height. But you saw her reaction. She was happy to see this man. And the father has a rock solid alibi for this day. Although there is one thing.” Lucia set the remote beside the television, leaving Courtney and the man in the baseball hat frozen, mid-stride. “The mother says Courtney didn't touch those Pendleton shirts for years. And we know she wasn't on good terms with the father anymore. So why wear his shirt?”

I waited, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts.

“Women are essentially creatures of emotion,” she said. “Even the more logical ones, like Courtney VanAlstyne. This man she meets at the casino is quite tall, reminding even the two of us of her father. If he reminds us of Bill Johansen, her reaction might be even more powerful. Let's assume she misses her father, the man who taught her everything about poker. She dates a father-type, goes hiking with him and wears her father's shirt, a memento.”

“I like it. But it's still speculation. If we could just talk to her.”

“Impossible.” She shook her head. “The shrinks told the parents not to let us anywhere near her. The Bureau's not about to defy them with court orders at this point.” She tossed her head toward the TV. “But let me ask you, didn't that look like a date?”

I walked back to my desk. Jack was still on the phone, still had his feet propped up, ankles still crossed. There was a smile playing on his lips. I stopped beside his cubicle, sitting on the edge of his desk.

“You got it,” he said into the phone. He winked at me.

I reached down, depressing the plastic triangle in the phone cradle, severing his call.

“What the—Harmon!”

“Let's take a walk,” I said.

Outside the wind blew hard but carried an unseasonable warmth as Jack and I walked up First Avenue. The tips of my hair lashed against my face.

“If this is about Ngo,” Jack was saying, “you need to take it up with him. The Suggs bit was not my call.”

At the Italian market on the corner, I turned left, moving into the crowd at Pike Place Market. The chattering noise bounced off the metal roof. Jack jostled into position beside me.

“Did you hear me?' he asked.

“That night in the surveillance van,” I said, “you already knew who Suggs was. Is that right?”

“Yeah, I knew.”

“So when Ngo told me to come up with the Brush's name, and I climbed into the cab to think in quiet, how long did you two laugh over that?”

“You've got the wrong idea.”

“No, Jack. I've finally got the right idea. And you've got three minutes to explain everything, including Stacee Warner. Starting now.”

“Stacee?”

“Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds or McLeod hears you're on her speed dial.”

“What?”

“Tick-tock. Two minutes fifty-five seconds.”

“What does Stacee have to do with this?”

“The day we went to the casino, you two already knew each other. I saw it on your faces.”

He stepped aside, giving room to a man who wore a down jacket and held a copy of
Hard Times
, the homeless newspaper.

“Buy a copy?” he asked Jack.

The sleeves of the black nylon jacket were torn, and white feathers escaped, only to drown in whatever sticky substance had been slathered over the tears. Spit, it looked like.

Jack yanked out his wallet, handing the guy five bucks. The man stared at the wallet. He handed Jack the paper.

“Keep it,” Jack said, clapping the man on the shoulder. More feathers jumped from the coat. “You can sell it again.”

The man thanked him and we walked down the crowded aisle, past the displays of dried cherries and fresh honeycombs and cut flowers tied with ribbons.

He looked at me. “You don't give to the homeless?”

“Don't change the subject. I want to know about Stacee.”

“Harmon, you have no idea.”

“You're down to less than two minutes.”

“She's a source.”

“Of what—pleasure?”

“You
do
have a sense of humor. I was wondering.”

“One minute forty seconds.”

“She's my source on a counterterrorism case. The hiker who saw the Arabs on Mount Si? They were climbing up at night in street clothes, with backpacks? She's the hiker. She called us about three weeks ago, and I met her out there at Mount Si. She even identified three of them by our surveillance photos. They run a barber shop in the Central District.”

“Not possible,” I said.

“What?”

“She's part of two cases?”

“I know what you're saying. We couldn't believe it either. She did a good job keeping quiet though.”

We were standing in front of the fish market, where the guys wearing rubber aprons chattered like softball players.

“Why was I kept in the dark, Jack?”

“Because when we raided the barber shop we found dozens of automatic weapons, shoulder-launch missiles, bags of fertilizer. That barber shop was quite the haul. These guys are going to lead us to the real monster, the source of funds. None of it can leak.”

“Understood. But I'm not the media. Why not just tell me Stacee's a source on something else.”

“Because, Harmon, you came here with less than glowing references. Disciplinary transfer? A chick in Violent Crimes? We thought you were another loose cannon, one of those libbers who screams about equal rights because they can't pull their own weight. And you weren't exactly friendly.”

“Jack—”

“Okay, we were wrong. Really wrong. You just closed a kid-napping that's on par with the Lindberg baby. I stand corrected.”

“It's not closed,” I said. “The perp is still out there.”

Behind us, one of the fish guys hoisted a king salmon from a bed of crushed ice. When he launched the fish through the air, the tourists gasped. Cameras flashed, the fish's scales glittering silver. The man at other end caught the fish. The tourists laughed, clapping.

“Why are you on her speed dial?”

“That's a problem.” He nodded. “Women fall in love with me.”

I gave him a look.

“Every woman except you,” he said. “And Felicia.”

“Yes, you can't hand Felicia five bucks and feel better about yourself.”

“Don't be smug,” he said. “You're on the hook too.”

“Me?”

“She talks to you. You could actually convince her to get into a program. But go ahead, leave her out there at the casino. Free drinks, after all.”

“You're pinning this on me?”

“No, Harmon. I see how it works with you. You won't give money to the homeless on
principle
, but when it comes to offering real help, you can't be bothered either. How's the view from the high horse?”

I felt heat flushing my neck. “What do you want, Jack?”

“There's no money in the budget to pay for rehab, but there's a shelter down in Pioneer Square. It's totally free. They have a good program. If you could get her in there . . .”

The tourists shuffled past. In the absence of new orders, the fish guys began chattering again, waiting for the next pitch. I glanced down the aisle. Clusters of fresh beets, the skins still dusted with soil, lay beside cut red dahlias whose blooms looked as bright as bursts of blood.

chapter twenty-eight

T
he brass token slid down the metal channel. I stood beside Felicia, watching the tarnished yellow light bathe her green eyes until they almost looked blue. While I spoke, there was no way of telling whether she heard anything. But she didn't argue. She didn't nod in agreement either.

“Two jokers, one ace,” she said. “What's wrong with my luck?”

“There's no such thing as luck.”

“That's what you think.”

The white paper bucket was empty but she clutched it, refusing to let go. I picked up her torn duffel bag from the carpet, shrugging the strap on my shoulder.

“This is it, Felicia. I won't come out here again, and Jack is ready to wash his hands of you. If you want to take a gamble with your life, your kids, that's your business. But you've got an offer, and it's one time only.”

I turned, heading down the bright and garish corridor carrying her duffel bag. I had no idea if she was following, and wondered what I would do if she wasn't—leave the bag? Take it back to her? When I got to the exit, I opened the door, feeling a small seed of hope in my heart, then turned.

Felicia walked outside. I knew better than to say anything, and unlocked the Barney Mobile, setting her bag on the passenger side floor, holding the door for her.

She sat down, wrinkling her nose. “Man, your car stinks!”

I closed the door, walked around the rear bumper, and decided that for one night, I could keep my mouth shut. She rolled down her window and we drove out of Snoqualmie on I-90, the draft blowing through the car, the last light of day leaking across the western sky, an inconclusive end to a long day. I turned on my headlights. Felicia reached for the radio, scanning stations until she found some rap. She cranked the volume. The beat rattled the dashboard.