by G. M. Ford
The door at the opposite end of the cell slid open on greased wheels. A guard came in carrying a tray, which he set down on the bunk. “Here’s what you wanted, Walter Lee. Two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and a couple of Cokes.” He gave Himes a grin.
“Enjoy,” he said.
The cell door closed behind him with a click. “Clear.”
Himes stood still for a moment after the cuffs had been removed. Waiting for the sound of the footsteps to fade before ambling over and sitting next to the tray.
Forty yards away, in the red-zone security area, a pair of corrections officers stared at a grainy black-and-white picture. “Watch him,” one said. “He’ll touch everything on the plate, then check the room before he eats.”
As if on cue, Himes used his right forefinger to probe the items on the tray. Seemingly satisfied, he got to his feet again and took a leisurely lap of the cell, moving from corner to corner, peering here and poking there, finally checking inside the toilet before returning to the bunk.
“Like there’s somebody hiding in there with him,” the other said.
“Old Walter always acts like somebody’s gonna run up and take his grub from him. Just hates anybody watching him eat.”
“Ain’t gonna have that problem much longer, is he?”
Himes reached over and delicately slid a single french fry from its white paper wrapping. He put the end in between his lips and sucked it in like spaghetti, then grabbed the nearest burger and bit it in half. His jaw muscles worked like pile drivers as his mangled mouth mashed the burger. As he was about to swallow, Himes cast his eyes upward at the camera, and, mouth still full, opened his mouth. Wide.
“Jesus,” said one of the guards. “That’s disgusting.”
“I count myself as a decent Christian, but I can’t say I’m gonna be too sorry to see him go,” said the other.
9:40 P.M. Day 6 of 6
On the opposite shore of Lake Union, the defunct ferry Kalakala lay beached in the gloom, like some festering carcass run aground by the tide. Once the pride of the Puget Sound ferry fleet, the old Art Deco vessel now lay derelict, listing hard to starboard, her hundred-car deck yawning out at the lake like an invalid bird waiting to be fed.
Corso got the waiter’s attention. Pointed at his cup. The front door burst open and Dougherty came striding in. She swiveled her head, caught sight of Corso sitting in a booth overlooking the lake. She slid in opposite Corso. He showed the waiter two fingers. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“I had no idea there were so many security companies in one city,” Dougherty said. “I stopped counting at forty.”
“The paranoia business is booming,” Corso said.
“Or how many people just flat wouldn’t discuss it with me.”
“Let me guess…for security reasons.”
“Amazing, huh?”
“Or how many businesses don’t have any type of security at all.”
She nodded. “I must have had a dozen people tell me that since the rest of the strip mall was paying for security, they figured they’d just ride along on the other tenants’ coattails.” She threw a dozen or so pages of notes onto the table.
Corso read from his notes. “Lockworks, First Response, ADT, Homeguard, Proline, Washington Emergency Services, Entrance Controls, Security Link.”
Dougherty retrieved a page of her notes and took over. “Intelligent Controls, Silver Shield, Protection Technology, Allied, Northwest, Lock Ranger. It goes on and on. How in hell are we going to sort all this out?”
“What we need to know is whether any of the companies appear on all ten lists.” He tore the first page of notes from his notebook and slid them over the table toward Dougherty. “Here’s the one we did together this morning. Now we’ve each got five.”
The waiter set a mug of coffee in front of Dougherty and refilled Corso’s. “Get you anything else?” he asked. Dougherty shook her head. Corso told him no, then took another sip from the cup and started working on his notes. Alphabetizing each site. Making it easier to compare notes. Then going back looking for matches.
Corso finished first. Ten minutes later, Dougherty made a couple of final scribbles and looked up.
“So? How many did you get?” he asked.
“Three.”
“Me too.”
She covered her paper with her hand. “You go first.”
“No. You go.”
“You first,” she insisted.
“Indian poker,” he said. “Together.”
Dougherty laughed out loud. “You’re getting silly on me, Corso.”
“Ready?”
“Okay…on three.”
“One…two…three…”
They each held their lists up over their heads. Dougherty’s read: Reliable, Metro, Silver Shield. Same as Corso’s. “Bingo,” she said.
“‘Let’s see what our studio audience has to say,’” Corso intoned.
He crossed the room to the pay phone and jimmied the directory from its metal moorings. Rasta Boy behind the counter opened his mouth to protest, but Corso waved him off. “I’ll put it back in a minute,” Corso said.
Corso slapped the book onto the tabletop. Turned to the beginning of the yellow pages. Worked his way back to H. Hotels. The Ambassador. The Atrium. The Aviator. Six-eight-two, four-five, eight-five. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Mr. Davis,” he said. “This is Frank Corso. I spoke to you yesterday.” Corso listened. “Yeah, the guy from the roof. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Again he listened intently. “Just wanted to run a quick question by you, sir. Yes…thank you. The other day you said that the only other key to that gate was in the hands of your security company. Yes, sir. Yes. What company is that?” Corso winked at Dougherty. “Yes, sir. I sure will. Thanks again.”
“Well?”
“Survey says…Silver Shield,” Corso said.
“I’ll be damned.”
Corso fingered his way deeper into the yellow pages. Security. Flipped two pages. Moved his finger down the page: “Silver Shield Security, See our add on page 1,438.” Corso thumbed back one page. Half-page ad. Red border. “Nationwide—America’s first choice for security. Over three hundred offices across America. For instant response, call…”
Corso dialed.
“Silver Shield. This is Kramer. Your address, please.”
“This isn’t a security matter,” Corso said quickly.
Kramer sounded disappointed. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for some information on a Silver Shield employee.”
“You’d hafta call the people in personnel. On Monday. The number is—”
“I can’t wait that long,” Corso said.
“Then you’re out of luck with me, buddy. Nobody but personnel—or maybe Mr. Gabriel himself—could tell you anything personal like that.”
Corso mustered a hearty laugh. “Gabriel,” he intoned enthusiastically. “Why, I had no idea Sam Gabriel owned Silver Shield. Thanks a lot, Mr. Kramer. I’ll give Sam a call at home.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Kramer said. “I don’t know who this Sam guy you know is, but before you get going off half-cocked, it’s Vincent Gabriel who’s the owner here.”
“Jeez. Thanks for stopping me. I could have made a real fool of myself there.” He hung up.
Dougherty raised an immaculate eyebrow. “It’s scary how well you lie.”
“Owner’s a guy named Vincent Gabriel.”
“What good does that do us?”
Corso pulled up the phone book and worked his way back to the G’s. Two Vincent Gabriels. One down by Southcenter with a Military Road address. A strip mall wonderland. Strictly red necks, white socks, and blue-ribbon beer. The other was hard by the lake in Madison Park. Big-time, old-time, high-rent district. He remembered the yellow page ad, “Nationwide—America’s first choice for security.”
Chapter 25
Saturday, September 22
9:40 P.M. Day 6 of 6
Dorothy S
heridan was keeping her mouth shut. She had no doubt about it. She was there to take the fall. She wasn’t sure exactly when or how they were going to shift the blame her way, or, for that matter, what blame there was to shift. She was, however, certain it was going to happen.
Kesey tugged at his collar. “The governor is adamant. No smoking gun…no stay.”
“He’s right,” the mayor said. “Even if, god forbid, Himes turned out to be innocent, the backlash would be less than if he stopped the execution without cause.”
“I’ve gotta go,” the DA said. “I’ve got a flight at ten-fifteen.”
“You better take Sheridan here with you,” the chief said. “She’s been the survivor liaison the whole time. You handle the press, and she’ll handle the survivors for you.”
It took everything Dorothy had not to groan out loud. Prison. An execution. Where in her job description, she wondered, did it say anything about maximum-security prisons and lethal injections?
Hizhonor scowled. “What survivors?”
“The victims’ families,” the chief said. “We’ve got…” As usual, he looked to Dorothy for a number.
“Eight,” she said.
“We’ve got eight family members scheduled to witness the execution,” he finished.
“Shit,” said the mayor. “I suppose that Butler asshole is one of them.”
“You can count on it,” said Kesey.
“Himes’s mother is there too,” Dorothy said. The mayor looked horrified. “To watch?”
“No, sir,” she said. “To say good-bye…you know, last respects and all.”
10:00 P.M. Day 6 of 6
“Ain’t neva give none of you-all a hard time. Not all the years I been here.”
“We got procedures, Walter.”
“Ain’t neva asked none of you-all for nothin’.”
“No…you haven’t,” said the new one they called Smitty.
“Wanna see my mama like a man. Not chained up like some cur dog.”
Smitty looked up at the sergeant, who pursed his thin lips and shook his bullet head. “Gotta chain you up, Walter. It’s the rules,” Smitty said.
“Ain’t right,” Himes said. “You gonna let them freak people come in here and watch me die, but you won’t let me see my mama like a man.”
Smitty reached to slide the waist chain around Himes’s middle.
“Wait,” the sergeant said.
Smitty stopped, genuflected, with the chain dangling from his hand.
“Clear,” the sergeant said suddenly.
The cell door rolled open. “Come on, Walter,” he said, stepping aside. “Let’s go down the hall and see your mama.” Himes looked down at his ankles as he shuffled out of the cell, at first short-stepping out of habit, then lengthening his stride as he left his cell without ankle chains for the first time in about three years.
Himes had nearly mastered his unencumbered gait when he stopped outside the second door on the right. Smitty pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Pulled it open. Himes stepped inside. Smitty shut the door behind him. Snapped the lock. The sergeant gave Smitty a bored look that said, What the hell?
Loretta Himes had her face buried in a wad of tissues as Walter slipped into the worn wooden seat. He leaned close to the screen. “Mama,” he said gently.
She looked up. Her eye makeup lay in pools on her cheeks.
“Doan neva let ’em see you cry,” he said.
10:10 P.M. Day 6 of 6
Scared, Dorothy knew. For fourteen years, she’d watched denying defendants as their facades had finally flickered. Seen them in that moment right after sentencing when the bailiff takes them by the arm. When they peer at their lawyers like furtive children begging to be held tightly and assured it was all a bad dream.
Yeah. She knew the look all right, and the pilot had it.
“A little foggier than we usually fly in. But…I understand it’s an emergency, so we’ll just take our time getting out of here. Weather’s supposed to be clear on the other side of the mountains.” He’d said it hopefully, but without conviction, before he’d disappeared inside the cockpit.
Across the aisle, she saw Marvin Hale peer out the tiny window into the gloaming. These days it didn’t actually get dark; it merely segued to deeper shades of gray. She’d called home. Left a message for Brandy. She’d stopped just short of telling her how much she loved her. Afraid something in her voice would give away her terror.
Classic no-win situation. Either she was going to be forced to watch an execution or…What should she call it? What was the proper euphemism for something like this? Should she call it…a change in plans? Technical difficulties? A glitch? What?
The pilot revved the port engine, spun the plane on its axis, and started toward the invisible runways. For the first time in a week, her head was comfortably numb.
10:21 P.M. Day 6 of 6
The circular driveway ran slightly uphill, curving steadily left beneath arches of ancient oaks as it wound its way toward the shimmering lights a hundred yards ahead. Corso brought the Chevy to a halt in front of a three-story French Colonial mansion, whose elegant stone facade and slate-roofed turrets spoke eloquently of another age.
Dougherty whistled softly. “Aren’t we just swell,” she said.
A tall blond kid wearing a green Silver Cloud Valet Service jacket skipped down the front stairs and pulled open the driver’s door before Corso got his seat belt unfastened.
“Evening, sir,” he said.
Corso left the car running as he eased himself from behind the wheel and stepped out onto the driveway. Somewhere in the castle, a door opened and closed, allowing a slice of music and laughter to escape momentarily into the night. Along the front, the light from a dozen tall, transomed windows cast a golden glow down upon the entryway.
The sight of Dougherty stepping out onto the bricks seemed to startle the kid. His head swiveled from Corso, to Dougherty, to the house, and then back to Corso.
“Excuse me, sir. Don’t mind me asking, but are you guys sure you’ve got the right place?”
“This the Gabriel residence?” Corso asked.
“Yes, sir…it is.” His voice was tentative.
“You happen to know what Mr. Gabriel does for a living?” Corso asked.
“Some kind of security thing.”
“Then we’re in the right place.”
The kid looked embarrassed. “You-all came for the reception, then?”
“What reception?”
“The wedding. Mr. Gabriel’s daughter.”
Corso handed the kid a ten-dollar bill. “Keep it handy,” he said. “We’re not going to be long.” He turned to Dougherty. “You bring your gown?”
“As if…,” she huffed and headed for the door, where she grabbed the brass knocker and gave it three sharp raps. Inside the house, what sounded like a four-piece combo was playing Horace Silver’s “Song for My Father.”
Out in the driveway, the kid had made no move to park the car. He stood, slack-jawed, resting his forearms on the Chevy’s roof. The front door opened.
Blond Margaret Thatcher hair. Her taut face suggested thirty-five, but the guile in her green eyes said fifty. She wore an ankle-length silver sheath. Silk. Understated and elegant. Highlighted by a double string of perfectly matched pearls. The minute she blinked them into focus, she swallowed the toothy welcome smile. Took her time looking them over, as if she couldn’t decide whether she should call the cops or an exterminator.
“Yes?” she said icily.
“Very sorry to intrude,” Corso said.
“How can I help you?” Her tone suggested she would have liked to add the words “off my front steps” but was far too well-bred.
“I need to speak to Vincent Gabriel.”
She folded her arms against the chill. “I’m Mrs. Gabriel.”
Corso handed her his press credential. She scanned it and handed it back.
“Whatever it is will have to wait until Monday.” She st
epped back and began to close the door.
“It could be a matter of life and death,” Corso said quickly.
She searched his eyes for irony. Took in Dougherty again. Frowned.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid I am.”
“If this is about one of his security clients, you should—”
“It’s not,” Corso interrupted.
“My daughter…,” she began. Then stopped and heaved a sigh. “Life and death,” she said again. Corso confirmed this.
She rubbed her upper arms as she stepped out onto the top step. “Go around that way…that side of the house,” she said, pointing. “The solarium door is open. Wait in there. I’ll get my husband.”
Corso and Dougherty followed a flagstone path around the north end of the house. As they reached the corner and turned right again, Lake Washington came into view. Across the lake, the high-rises of Bellevue flickered like candles in the night, their fractured reflections dancing piecemeal across the rough surface.
The solarium ran perpendicular to the house. All glass. Round on top like a Quonset hut. Corso pulled open the door, stepped aside, and allowed Dougherty to enter first. In the center of the space, a palm tree nearly brushed the twenty-foot ceiling. A forest of exotic potted plants were scattered around, giving the impression that someone had strewn lawn furniture about the jungle. Overhead, a pair of brass ceiling fans twirled languorously.
Dougherty turned in a circle, taking it all in. “Great room,” she said.
Before Corso could agree, Vincent Gabriel stepped into the room. A powerful-looking man in a tux he sure as hell hadn’t rented. What used to be called swarthy. Six-two, maybe two-ten or so, with a thick mustache and a head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair he was never going to lose. His bearing and stride gave off an air of tightly controlled aggression. He crossed the room to Corso and Dougherty with a champagne glass in his hand and a scowl on his face.
