“I’m not sure I understand,” Toni said. “You said Gina’s your best friend. How does that jibe with this?”
“She’s my best friend,” Reggie said. “I’m not sure I’m her best friend. For that matter, I’m not sure she has a best friend. It would have to be someone from outside work.” She sniffed and dabbed her nose with a tissue.
“Did the two of you go out together after work?” I asked.
“Yes, from time to time,” Reggie answered. “We’d talk on the phone after work and sometimes we’d go out—movies, bars, that sort of thing. She had me over to her parents’ home a couple of times.”
“Do you know if she went out with other people here at the company?” Toni asked.
“Maybe occasionally. But I think that of all the people here in the company, Gina probably spent the most time outside of work with me. Not counting Robbie, of course. But the thing is, she didn’t spend all that much time with me. We’d talk on the phone and every couple of weeks, we’d go out.”
“Were you able to share things with her?” Toni asked. “For example, if you had a boyfriend, would you talk about it?”
“Sure, I could tell her things,” Reggie said. “But much as I wanted her to open up herself, she really didn’t. I can’t help but think that I was the one who did most of the sharing. I talked; Gina listened.”
“Did she ever talk about boyfriends with you?” Toni asked.
“Never. She’d talk with me about my boyfriends, but when I’d ask her about her love life, she’d just laugh and say she was too busy working. If she had boyfriends, she never mentioned it.”
“Based on the amount of time she spent with you, would she have had time for other friends from outside the company?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she answered quickly. “Like I said, we didn’t hang out all that often. She’d have had a bunch of time left over for other people.”
“Did she spend a lot of time alone?”
She thought about this for a second, then said, “I’m not sure. She didn’t tell me one way or the other.”
We were going to need to find out whom Gina was seeing from outside of the company. “Got it,” I said. “That’s helpful. Let’s move on. When you and Gina went out, was it ever for lunch or was it just after work? Did you ever go out on a weekend?”
“No, it was always after work. Gina used to go out for lunch, but lately she ate lunch at her desk or with Robbie. When we went out, it was usually on a Friday night after work.”
“Where did you go?”
“We went to a few different places. Naturally, Gina always chose them. At first, we went to this piano bar in Pioneer Square called—I forget what it’s called. It’s the place with the two pianos. . .” she searched for the answer.
“Chopstix,” I suggested.
“Yeah, Chopstix, that’s it,” she said. “Sometimes we went to Tula’s.”
“The jazz place in Belltown?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. She paused, then shook her head and said, “But lately, she had us going to a place called Ramon’s Cantina down in Kent.” She shuddered visibly. “That place creeps me out a little.”
“Really? How come?” Toni asked.
“It’s scary,” Reggie said. “A lot of lowlifes go there. It’s not a very friendly place if you’re not Mexican.”
“Yet Gina took you there,” I said. “Any idea why? She suggested it, right?”
“I don’t know why, but yeah, it was her idea. We went a couple of times. She seemed to be fine there. She almost looks Mexican, with her dark hair. I sure don’t,” she said, lifting a section of her long blonde hair.
“Ever have any trouble there?”
“No. I guess I’m surprised, but we never had any trouble. I just didn’t find it very comfortable.”
“When you were with her, did she seem to know anyone there?” Toni asked.
“Yeah, a few people,” Reggie answered. “The bartenders know her. And she knows this guy named Eddie—we met him there both times we went. She seemed pretty friendly with him.”
“Boyfriend-type friendly?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Reggie said. “I never saw them kiss or anything. But they always hugged when we went in. He would sit next to her whenever we went there.”
“Did she ever talk about him, other than when you went to Ramon’s?” Toni asked.
“No, never.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any pictures, would you?”
“I think I do, on my cell,” she answered. She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through the pictures and then handed the phone to me.
The picture showed four people sitting in a booth—Gina, Reggie, a man who I assumed to be Eddie, and another woman.
“This is Eddie?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who’s this woman on the end?”
“I think her name is Karen, or Carolyn—something like that,” Reggie said. “Gina seemed to know her pretty well.”
“You don’t know anything about her—where she lives, where she works, that kind of stuff?” I asked.
“Sorry. I don’t know anything about her except that she met us just this one time at the bar when Gina and I came in. That’s when I got this picture.”
“Okay,” I continued. “When was the last time you and Gina went to Ramon’s together?”
“About three weeks ago,” Reggie answered.
“Toni, do you know how to send this picture to Kenny?” I asked, handing her the phone.
“I think I can probably figure it out,” she said. About 2.2 seconds later, she handed it back. “Done,” she said, with a Cheshire-cat smile.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling back.
I turned back to Reggie. “Was there anything going on at work last week that might have been particularly stressful?”
“No, nothing. It gets busy at the end of the month, but in the middle of the month our workload is pretty light.”
“The business is operating profitably?” I asked. “No strain there?”
“We’re making more money than we ever have,” Reggie said. “Gina opened up all of the supplier contracts for new competitive bidding last year, and we lowered our costs by about 10 percent overall. It went right to the bottom line and doubled our profit.”
~~~~
“Did this upset any of the suppliers that got replaced?” Toni asked.
“At first. But eventually, most of the people we’d already been working with lowered their prices to match the other bidders. Gina gave them the opportunity to do that because of the long-standing relationships. They appreciated that and, like I said, most of them came to the table and kept the relationship.”
“Any vendors leave with hard feelings?” I asked.
“A couple got dropped, but we never hear from them.”
“Alright,” I said. “Well, do me a favor. Would you put together a list for us of the vendors who lost your business because of the rebidding? It’s a long shot, but who knows? Maybe someone got hurt financially and might have wanted to take it out on Gina.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay. This has been very helpful,” I said. “Let’s wrap up with some standard questions. When’s the last time you saw Gina?”
“Last Thursday at about 5:30 p.m., when I left work. I stopped by her office and said goodnight.”
“Did she mention anything about what she was doing that night?”
“No. We didn’t talk about that.”
“What was her mood like last Thursday?”
“It seemed fine. No different than usual.”
“Do you remember what Gina did for lunch that day?”
“I think Robbie came by, and they went out together.”
“Do you remember what Gina was wearing last Thursday?”
“It was a navy shirt and beige slacks. I remember because I told her the shirt looked pretty. She said it was new.”
I studied my not
es for a few seconds and saw that I’d covered everything I’d written out in advance. “Well, I think that about wraps it up for me. Toni, do you have any more questions?”
Toni shook her head. “Nope.”
“Reggie, anything else you can think of that might be helpful to us?”
“No. Has this been helpful to you? I sure hope it has.”
“Very helpful,” I said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“I just hope you find her.”
“We’ll try.”
Chapter 5
WE TOOK I-5 south to the 405, then headed south on 167 toward Kent. The landscape changed as we headed south. Compared to most East Coast cities, Seattle developed through the years without any significantly pronounced ethnic districts. Historically, there’s always been a small Asian concentration in the International District and a small Scandinavian concentration in Ballard, but that’s pretty much it. Although there were a few particular bars best avoided, I’ve never felt that there was any particular part of the city where it was unsafe to drive or go to a restaurant.
Times are changing now, though. In some areas, a certain critical mass seems to have been achieved, and ethnic groups—mostly Hispanic—are becoming more and more prevalent in some of the small towns on Seattle’s outskirts. Supermarkets, bars, and restaurants are being recast in Latino flavors. Advertising signs are strictly in Spanish. By itself, this doesn’t bother me. Most of these new folks are hard-working family people chasing the American dream. More power to 'em. Don't get me wrong—I kind of miss the character of the old towns I grew up around—but then again, times change and places change. You roll with it.
The problem is, in some of these areas, half the new residents don’t have jobs. A sizable number have incomes below the poverty line. I suppose it should come as no surprise that crime is escalating. Instead of seeing quaint, historic small towns like I used to when I drive through, now I see tagged overpasses and the angry stares of bored young men and women hanging around on street corners. Some of these areas are just dripping with a big-city, twenty-first-century, in-your-face attitude. Gang activity is increasing rapidly. Nothing like Los Angeles yet, but clearly, violence is on the rise. In south King County, there’s probably a gang-related homicide every other week now.
The area just south of the town of Kent is one of these areas. Here, on a side street off Highway 167 is a little garden oasis called Ramon’s Cantina. In a previous incarnation, the cantina had a well-deserved reputation as a dangerous place. All the action started inside but eventually got settled in the parking lot. Drug deal? Make the deal inside; make the exchange in the parking lot. Disagreement among patrons? Don’t bleed on the floor—settle it in the parking lot. Romantic encounter? Get a room. Or go to the parking lot if you can’t wait. Eventually, the local authorities got tired of the parking-lot murders and assaults and drug deals, so they yanked the owner’s liquor license, closing the place down. It stayed boarded up for several years. When the area converted to a Latino population base, new owners reopened the bar as Ramon’s. Unfortunately, they didn’t change the place’s character any. In my humble opinion, it looked like the only differences from the old joint were the sign and the paint color. Let’s just say I’m pretty certain that they weren’t holding church bingos at Ramon’s.
We pulled into the parking lot at about seven. The sign featured a neon-green saguaro cactus. To its left the words Ramon’s Cantina were spelled out in neon except that the ina on the word Cantina wasn’t lit. The lit part of the sign flashed Ramon’s Cant on and off. Fortunately for Ramon’s, at 7:00 p.m. in the summertime it was still broad daylight outside and the malfunction was hardly noticeable. I’m not sure any of the patrons would have cared anyway.
The lot was nearly full, but I found a space in back behind the building. From the outside, the place looked like a cross between a biker bar and a low-rider convention. Loud music burst out into the parking lot anytime the doors swung open and someone entered or exited. A bottle broke somewhere on the other side of the lot. From somewhere nearby, I heard sounds coming from one of the cars that suggested an act of intense romance was under way. Hooah.
“Do you think we should disarm?” Toni asked, looking concerned. We both have concealed weapons permits valid anywhere in the state of Washington. Anywhere, that is, except government buildings and bars. I can understand no guns in government buildings. I suppose this provision of the law was included because the legislature perceived a need for self-preservation. And, at first glance, I can understand the prohibition against carrying guns in bars. The good legislators figured that there was no need for the drunks to be armed. So they wrote the law such that if we, as duly permitted concealed weapon carriers, got caught with said concealed weapons in a bar—even if we were stone-cold sober—we ran the very real risk of being charged with a felony.
Unfortunately, this law overlooks the fact that bars and the areas immediately surrounding them are precisely the type of places where a firearm might come in handy. If we went into Ramon’s Cantina and started asking potentially provocative questions without the ability to defend ourselves, they might end up carrying us out feet first. We’d definitely be guilty of terminal stupidity. Go figure. Bottom line: you can take a gun to church where you’re not likely to need it, but you can’t take one with you to a bar, where you might need it very badly. This created something of a dilemma for an otherwise law-abiding citizen such as me. For maybe a half second or so.
“Hell no, I’m not going to disarm. Are you nuts? For all we know, this Eddie character killed Gina. Just a guess, but he might not be all warm and fuzzy if we get to talk to him. And he might have friends. I’ll take my chances on getting busted. At least we’ll be alive.”
“I was just asking about you,” Toni said. “No way I go near this shithole unarmed.”
Before we’d left, we stopped by the office and picked up copies of the photograph Toni had e-mailed to Kenny. The lens on the iPhone used to take the picture was tiny, but the resolution was surprisingly high. After Kenny downloaded and Photoshopped the file to clarify and enhance it, he was able to print us out a five-by-seven group photo, plus, with a little skillful cropping, individual blow-ups of each of the four parties. The photos were quite clear. They’d certainly work for our purposes.
We walked around to the front of the building and entered the bar. Inside, it was dark and loud. It took a second for my eyes to adjust. When I could see clearly, I realized that we’d somehow been beamed to downtown Ensenada. A large Mexican flag—maybe eight feet high and twenty feet wide—was pinned on the wall across from the entry. Even at 7:00 p.m., the place was busy. Not surprisingly, most of the patrons were Mexican—the “he’s” outnumbering the “she’s” by two to one or so. Most of the booths were full. All of the pool tables were in use. There was no band playing, but the PA music was cranked up loud. There were eight flat-screen televisions on the walls, all tuned to soccer games and music videos with the sound muted. The PA music made the bar patrons have to yell at each other to be heard. All of the yelling was in Spanish. Washington State had recently passed a law that made smoking illegal in bars, but apparently, this law hadn’t made its way to Ramon’s yet. A haze of smoke loitered near the ceiling. I saw two empty barstools and pointed to them.
“Over there,” I said, loudly, to Toni.
Dressed as she was in dark jeans and boots, and with her dark hair, and tats on conspicuous display, Toni fit in much better than I. From behind, anyway, she could even pass for Latino. My Hawaiian shirt, on the other hand, was probably not the best choice if one wanted to be incognito at Ramon’s Cantina. People looked at Toni as we passed, most in appreciation. They looked at me, and most seemed pissed. Wonderful.
The female bartender on our side was pretty and had a nice figure. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and a black vest. She wore heavy silver-blue eye makeup and bright red lipstick. Her long dark hair was pulled straight back. “What c
an I bring you, amigos,” she said, nearly yelling to be heard over the music.
“Do you have Mac & Jack’s?” I asked.
She didn’t even answer—she just made this little grimace thing with her mouth and stared at me like I’d just asked for a glass of chocolate milk. I guess she thought the question was so stupid it didn’t warrant an answer.
“Bohemia for me,” Toni said.
“Same for me,” I said.
“Dos Bohemias,” the bartender replied, with a bit of condescension in her voice.
She brought us our beers.
“Eight dollars,” she said.
I thanked her and put a twenty-dollar bill out. I noticed she had a tattoo of a butterfly just above her left wrist, barely visible beneath her sleeve.
I nodded at it. “I like your butterfly,” I said. “Mariposa, right?”
“Sí,” she answered, her voice sharp.
“What’s your name?” I asked. I needed to soften her up.
“Rita,” she answered. “You can call me Rita.”
“Good to meet you, Rita,” I said. “I’m Danny. This is Toni. It’s loud in here!”
She nodded but didn’t say anything. She didn’t smile, either. So much for softening her up.
“I wonder if you might be able to help us out with a couple of questions.” May as well get down to business. I put the group photo on the bar in front of her.
“You know any of these people?” I asked.
Rita looked at the photo for a second; then she looked back at me.
“You guys cops?” she asked.
“Now, Rita,” I said, “do we look like cops?” I looked at her with my most non-cop-like smile. I shook my head. “We’re not cops.”
She wasn’t impressed. “Good,” she said. She looked back at the photo, then back at me. “In that case, since you’re not cops, maybe you’d better get your gringo asses the fuck out of here.”
That was surprising. “Rita, that’s pretty rude. We just got here,” I said, a little condescension in my own voice. “What about our beers?”
Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) Page 8
