by G. M. Ford
I chided myself for being so retro. Recently I noticed how I was beginning to resent many of the changes that were taking place around me. As the new was ushered in and the world I’d grown up in slowly faded from view, I’d come to feel as if it somehow wasn’t fair, and that the world had an obligation to match my youthful memories. Guess it’s part of growing older.
Brett and Rebecca shared a two-bedroom waterfront condo in the old money part of Madison Park. The complex was called Madison Square. No garden. Just Madison Square, an eleven-story edifice hard by the waters of Lake Washington, almost directly opposite Bill Gates’s little glass shack over on the eastern shore.
Immediately to the north, a mile and a half of overhead lights traced the graceful arc of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge as it slithered over the lake, carrying on its back a never-ending line of traffic traversing the lake in both directions.
I turned left on McGilvra and drove it to the end, then let gravity take me to the bottom of the hill. That’s when I got lucky for the second time.
I was a block and a half uphill from the condo when what to my wandering eyes should appear but the white Cadillac Escalade, parked exactly where the signs said you absolutely, posatutely, shouldn’t park.
Apparently I’d arrived just as the drama was about to unfold. Looked like the building’s security guard had pulled open the passenger door and was reading Mr. Moto the riot act, waving his arms, pointing at the signs, and telling him to move the damn car. What the guard didn’t see was Koontz emerging from the parking garage behind him.
I put the Tahoe in reverse and backed into the nearest driveway. I doused the lights, crossed a patch of lawn, and peeked around the edge of the fence. Koontz had arrived on the scene. The security guard turned in his direction, said something, and then refocused his attention on the driver.
Without breaking stride, Koontz shouldered the security guard aside, and began to climb into the passenger seat. The guard, outraged at having been brushed aside like a gnat, reached out and put a restraining hand on Koontz’s shoulder, a move that proved to be a serious mistake.
In the blink of an eye, Koontz spun in a tight half circle. I don’t know what you call the move, but Koontz used the spinning momentum of his body to hit the guard with the back of his fist. I winced at the sound of the impact. The guard went down in a heap, his arms bobbing, stiff and spastic.
Koontz never even looked down at the guy, just stepped up into the Escalade, and closed the door. The cavalier nature of the violence hung in the air like a noxious gas. Before I had time to process my options, the Cadillac was roaring up the hill at me.
I shrank into the wet shrubbery as they rolled by, only half of Mr. Moto’s head visible above the window frame, the dashboard lights reflecting blue on the oversized lenses of his glasses. I was seriously conflicted. Part of me wanted to go down and see how the guard was doing, maybe call an ambulance, but another part was telling me to follow them, that I wasn’t going to get another chance like this, and I couldn’t just let them drive off into the night. Not with Rebecca still unaccounted for.
I hurried over and jumped into my car. I was a block or so behind them, running with my lights off, when they turned onto Madison and headed toward downtown.
No matter how many times you’ve seen Jim Rockford do it on TV, following somebody in a car is not a one-man job. Law enforcement agencies use a minimum of three and sometimes as many as six cars in order to keep from being spotted, and even then, if the subject is even remotely wary, he probably gets wise to them sooner rather than later.
By the time they rolled to a stop, I’d nearly lost them three times and had come damn close to getting myself killed running a red light down by Safeco Field. The only thing that kept me from being spotted was that these guys were predators, and predators generally aren’t in the habit of watching their backs.
With the chorus of angry horns still blaring in my ears and my hands more than a little shaky, I pulled over onto the graveled shoulder a quarter mile behind them, and watched as they turned into a warehouse complex on South Fidalgo Street.
I stayed put and watched their headlights bobbing up and down on the side of the building as the Cadillac negotiated the sea of potholes that passed for a road. When the lights disappeared around the back of the building, I hopped out to jog up the street. The old wooden warehouse building sat wedged between Parnell’s Custom Cabinets and Victory Plumbing Supplies. The barnlike structure may have dated from the 1940s or 1950s, but the sign on the front was brand new: Saint David’s Transport.
As I jogged along, I tried to recall who Saint David was and what he’d done to merit being a saint, or, often as not, what had been done to him. I thought maybe he was the patron saint of Wales, one of those guys back in the fourth or fifth century who was part of the monastic movement, but I wasn’t sure. I knew David was an old-time biblical name, but somehow it sounded awfully modern for a saint. What was next? Saint Tiffany, the patron saint of Bergdorf Goodman?
An approaching train whistle jolted me back to reality, reminding me that the Burlington Northern tracks ran directly behind the building and, beyond that, the pestilential Duwamish Waterway snaked its way through the industrial heart of Seattle. It crossed my mind that this wasn’t the sort of place that a couple of Canadian thugs would know about unless whoever they were working for was somehow connected to one of the businesses in the immediate area. The train whistle sounded again, closer now, the low growl of the massive diesels seemed to vibrate the air.
I picked up my pace. The St. David building was the better part of a football field long, an uninterrupted wall of metal siding with nowhere for me to take evasive action should the need arise. Were they to come back up the road, I’d be standing there like a deer in the headlights.
I heaved an inward sigh of relief as I skidded up to the corner of the building and peeked around. A black Hummer with B.C. plates was nosed up to the Cadillac. An advertising logo and some kind of slogan were painted on the Hummer’s door but I couldn’t make them out in the gloom.
Interestingly, Koontz and Moto were nowhere to be seen. I inched closer to the corner and swept my eyes across the rear of the building. Nothing unusual other than a couple of luxury cars sitting nose-to-nose on the gravel with their engines running.
Halfway between my position and the Escalade an old dump truck was backed against one of the loading docks. The four flat tires and briars and brambles growing up and over the rusted hood suggested it hadn’t moved this century and was well on its way to full-fledged planter status. The junker truck was cover, and cover was what I needed at that point. I was trying to decide how and when to make my move, when a flash out in the distance caught my eye.
I focused on the spot for a full ten seconds before my eyes managed to pick them out—Koontz and Moto walking back this way. Back from what? The river? That’s all that was over there. What in hell were they doing over there?
They were about forty yards out and from the sound of things weren’t going to make it back before the train got here. As if to prove me right, another blast of the whistle heralded the train’s arrival. I could feel it now, feel the weight of its cargo shaking my feet as the freight cars clicked and clanked over the uneven rails. Sounded like somebody shaking a box of tools. The whistle sounded again as the trio of train engines crept into view, blocking any view of Koontz and his little Asian friend walking back this way.
Each and every freight car had been tagged multiple times and in several hues. Gang signs, elaborately flourished signatures, and anatomically infeasible suggestions, all of it rolling by in living color. “Kilroy was here” on a grand scale. The hiphop generation rolling through a neighborhood near you.
A pair of small red lights approaching from the left said the caboose was about to arrive, and that I was about to get hung out to dry, so I sucked it up and made a dash for the truck, hoping to find some cover. The rumble of the train covered the sound of my footsteps as I raced to
the side of the derelict dump truck and rolled beneath.
My shoulder hated everything about it. I had to stifle a groan as I scrunched myself toward the rear of the truck and wedged myself between the tires. I took several deep breaths and waited for my shoulder to calm down.
The train clatter was fading as I peeked out from behind the tires. The driver’s side door of the Hummer was hanging open. The logo was an artsy-fartsy monogram. The letters STE all swirled together. ST Emtman Ltd. in block letters beneath. Below that in smaller letters: Serving B.C. since 1965.
Koontz and Moto were standing there by the open door, listening to whoever was inside the Hummer. Sounded like the mystery driver might be yelling. Koontz said something and apparently the Hummer said something back and then suddenly the meeting was over.
The Hummer’s door slammed. The halogen headlights lit up the yard like Safeco Field as the driver threw it in reverse, wheeled around the front of the Cadillac and roared off around the corner.
The Escalade, on the other hand, took its time leaving. A full minute passed before I heard the sound of tires crunching gravel. I stayed where I was. The minute they rounded the corner, I crawled out from under the truck, dusted myself off as best I could, and started jogging back up the access road.
The Hummer was gone. I arrived at the corner in time to see the Escalade bump out onto First Avenue, turn left, and head back toward downtown.
Without actually wishing it so, I began to run. Who knew? Maybe they’d catch a couple of traffic lights and I could get back on their tail. As leads went, they weren’t much, but they were all I had, so I put my head down and gave it my all.
The exertion set my ear to burning and made the ache in my shoulder nearly unbearable, but I kept running anyway, sidling along like a Dungeness crab, keeping my eyes glued on the knee-deep potholes, trying not to break a hip before I reached the Tahoe.
Imagine my surprise when I looked up to find a pair of uniformed SPD officers pointing guns at me over the top of my car.
“Put your hands on your head,” the nearest cop shouted.
“Hands on your head,” the female officer screamed.
I did as I was told, then tried the line again. “Is there an echo in here?” I asked.
They didn’t think it was funny either.
Marty Gilbert was the second cop through the door. The first introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Broils and sat down across the table from me. Standard issue detective material. Thick salt-and-pepper hair, thicker mustache, wearing his badge around his neck on a silver chain. Detective Broils made a ceremony out of taking out his notebook and pen and rolling up his sleeves before lifting his baby blues and asking, “You know why you’re here?”
“Seems to be National Arrest Leo Week,” I said.
He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his thick chest. “I heard you think you’re funny.”
“Seems to be the minority opinion.”
“Maybe you ought to travel with a laugh track,” he suggested.
I was working up a snappy reply when Marty let himself into the interview room. He stood with his back resting on the rear wall and his hands behind his back. Everything about him said that he was only there as an observer and that I shouldn’t count on any help from him.
I rattled the pair of handcuffs that connected my right hand to the table. “I’d offer to shake hands, but…” I said to Marty.
He turned his face aside.
Having arranged his pen and notebook and glasses at perfect right angles to one another, Broils put on his serious face. I watched as he slid two fingers down into his shirt pocket and came out with a business card. He threw it on the table, where it landed face up. It was one of mine.
“You want to tell me about this?” he asked.
“Turn the card over,” I said.
He hesitated, looked over his shoulder at Marty, and then flipped the card. The back of the card was clean, so it couldn’t be the one I gave to Rachel Thoms. That one had another number scrawled across the back.
“I gave that one to a woman named Rosemary De Carlo,” I said.
“When was that?” Broils asked.
“Earlier today. Around three thirty or so.”
Broils was jotting notes. He looked up. “So you admit to being there?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Ms. De Carlo was a friend of yours?”
“Nope.”
“So how’d you know her?”
I looked up at Marty, who was making it a point not to meet my gaze. “Marty,” I said. “You’re going to want to pay attention here.”
Marty did his Mount Rushmore impression as I laid it out for Broils. About Koontz and Moto warning me off. About Rosemary De Carlo impersonating Rebecca at the Alderbrook. About how Brett Ward put her up to it. About the late Teddy Healy and getting arrested at the crack of dawn, and then finding Rosemary, and the Shilshole Marine Yard. About what I learned from Northwest Maritime, and about running into Koontz and his buddy down at the Madison Park condo, and following them to South Seattle. The only things I left out were Rachel Thoms and Brett Ward’s secret porno palace, neither of which I thought they needed to know about.
By the time I’d finished talking, Marty had bumped himself off the wall and walked over to the side of the table. “You’re being straight here, Leo?” he asked me. “’Cause this is no time to be fucking around.”
“Absolutely.”
Broils still wasn’t satisfied. “What condition was Ms. De Carlo in when you left?” he wanted to know.
“Beat up,” I said. “That Healy character slapped her around quite a bit. She had a mouse under one eye and a full-scale shiner in the other. Why? What happened to her?”
“Somebody about beat her to death,” Marty said. “She’s up at Harborview. They don’t think she’s gonna make it.”
“Wasn’t me. All I did was borrow a picture of Brett Ward from her.”
“Neighbors said they heard noises around five o’clock. Where were you?”
I thought about it. “I was talking to a guy over at Fisherman’s Terminal. After that I was at the Eastlake Zoo from whence I went to Tiny Bigs down on Denny. Then I went to Madison Park and, as they say, the rest was history.”
Marty stepped out into the hall. Broils kept at it. Wanted to know what law enforcement agency had picked me up earlier in the day.
“Washington State Patrol,” I said. “Guy named Bradley.”
“And you claim this…” He checked his notes. “…this Koontz character assaulted the building security guard?”
“Knocked him stiff. Left him on the lawn.”
Broils jotted away and then got to his feet, fixed me with what he imagined to be a withering stare, gathered up his belongings, and left the room.
Forty-five minutes passed before the door opened again and a uniformed officer came in, took the cuffs off me, and escorted me down the hall to Marty’s office. Marty was on the phone, so I took a seat. Half a minute of yesses, nos, and thank yous, and he hung up.
“Sorry about that, but it wasn’t my case,” he said. “I told him beating up women wasn’t your style, but he had to find out for himself. That’s how it works around here. Three witnesses and that business card put you at the scene. It had to be done according to protocol.”
I told him I understood. He anticipated my next question.
“We had an assault report from their condo office.”
“How’s the guard?” I asked.
“Broken jaw and a fractured eye orbit,” Marty said.
“That was one punch, man,” I said. “This Koontz character is an animal.”
“I don’t like one goddamn thing about this,” Marty said.
“Join the club.”
“I’ve got a call into Missing Persons. I’ll get them cranking as soon as I can. I put out a find order on both their cars. I’ll have patrol check for their cars over at the condo.”
“What about this ST Emtman Lim
ited? And the Saint David company? Can you find out something about what’s up with them?”
“I’ve got a friend in the Vancouver PD. I’ll make a few calls.”
I started to speak, but he waved me off.
“Go home, Leo. We’ll handle it from here.” He leaned out over the desk. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, buddy, but you look like shit.”
By the time I pulled into my garage after midnight, I was slumped over the wheel, steering mostly with my chin. I crawled out and fished around under the seat and found Brett Ward’s DVDs and cameras, and stuffed them into my coat pocket.
I live in the downstairs half of the house, and even that portion is about three times as much space as I need. The maid service goes upstairs once in a while to push the dust around and flush the toilets, but I seldom make the ascent myself.
I let myself in the back door, emptied my pockets onto the kitchen table, and stumbled into the bedroom, where I plopped down on the edge of the bed.
I sat staring at the carpet for the longest time, trying to put everything I’d learned into some sort of meaningful order, but it was like reading late at night, where three minutes in you realize you’ve read the same paragraph six times and still don’t have any idea what it’s about. I stood up, dropped my clothes on the floor, and crawled between the sheets.
The second I closed my eyes, I fell back into that haunted house, can’t-quite-get-to-Rebecca dream that I’d had what seemed like a week ago but was only last night. The difference was that Koontz and Mr. Moto had replaced the maniac hillbillies as the heavies; otherwise the plot was eerily familiar.
