Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

  The central focus of the shop was a glass display case loaded with ordered rows of confections. Next to it was the cash register and a counter that seated six. This is what heaven must smell like, thought Boldt. He ordered a weird-looking thing with cherry filling in the cracks, and a decaffeinated, with light cream. Gaynes ordered coffee, black, and a chocolate chip cookie with white frosting, telling him she shouldn’t do this. He told her she didn’t appear the kind of woman who had to worry about such things, assuming it was what she wanted to hear, and, judging by her reaction, decided it was. He stared at a wall that held a list of signs hooked in place, which presumably changed daily depending on what was fresh. A basket of day-old bread—1 Bag, $1, the handwritten note said—sat to the left of the cash register, two baguettes aimed at Boldt like the unwelcome end of a double-barrel shotgun. He glanced at them occasionally, annoyed by their intrusion.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said.

  “No problem. I want to be kept up to speed on this. You know that.”

  “You told me to call.”

  “Listen, Bobbie, no problem. Really. What’s up?”

  “I’ve located three possible candidates for Jane Doe,” she began. “That’s out of two dozen missing-person reports. I.D. didn’t get squat. The ME says she was about five-ten and one thirty to one thirty-five. Three water-accident victims matched those stats. If a report wasn’t water-related, I didn’t bother with it.”

  “Good.”

  “No sense in making this more difficult than it has to be.”

  Keep this up, Boldt thought, and we’ll get along just fine.

  “The three are Lidestri, Norvak, and Banduci. I think we can scratch Lidestri off the list, though. I spoke to her mother. She was sailing with some friends and went overboard in a squall. She was wearing white pants, sneakers, and a mackinaw. Couldn’t swim.” She paused, clearly uncomfortable with the thought. The waitress, a tireless woman with a face like the Wicked Witch of the West, absentmindedly refilled Boldt’s cup with real coffee and he slid it aside.

  “Tell her,” Bobbie demanded, noticing the mistake.

  “Nah…”

  “Excuse me,” Bobbie said, rising off her stool.

  Boldt reached out and pulled her back down.

  The waitress turned.

  Bobbie told her, “You poured real coffee into his cup. He’s drinking decaf.”

  The waitress puckered her lips, then asked Boldt, “Is that right?”

  “Decaf,” Boldt said. This woman’s annoyed expression made him feel awkward about being right. Shades of Kramer.

  “He’d like a new cup,” Bobbie informed the woman.

  The waitress was not happy.

  “Please,” Bobbie said artificially.

  Boldt began to object, but Bobbie squeezed his forearm to stop him. She had a lot of strength for her size.

  The waitress brought a fresh cup of decaf. “Sorry about that,” she apologized.

  “No problem,” said Boldt.

  When the waitress was out of earshot, Bobbie explained, “I waitressed in college. There’s no excuse for that.” She nibbled on her cookie.

  Boldt sipped the piping-hot decaf. Yes, you’ve got spunk, he thought.

  She said, “Betsy Norvak was reported missing by her boyfriend last Wednesday. Her van and windsurfing stuff are gone. She was a ‘fitness fanatic and sailboarding freak’—his words—and her physical characteristics are the closest match we have.

  “Our last bet is Karla Banduci,” she added. “Struck by a boat while waterskiing, her husband at the wheel. I called his work number. They suggested I try his favorite watering hole, which is a bar across the street from here. He hasn’t been to work for ten days and likes vodka. I know you’ve got better things to do, but regs recommend a partner on this kind of thing, and I guess we’re partners. I could have gone it alone but—”

  “No problem. Have you established he’s in there?”

  “Yes. I phoned before we spoke. Bartender says he’s there but in no shape to talk to the cops. I told him to keep our conversation private and he said he would. So I guess I should say he was in there.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Boldt wiped his chin, slurped down his decaf, and left a fifty-five-cent tip.

  Bobbie snatched up a quarter and handed it back to him at the door. “Don’t encourage that kind of service,” she scolded, and opened the door for him. “Besides, yours wasn’t fresh.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  She tapped her temple. “Power of observation.”

  “Oh.” He motioned for her to go first, and she obliged.

  Good, he thought. At least she’s willing to yield now and then.

  ***

  Joe Banduci was on a barstool at The Salt & Wind. He and the bartender and two others were watching TV with the sound off. The jukebox pounded out a Z. Z. Top song.

  Lou Boldt introduced himself and Detective Gaynes to Banduci and asked if they might sit away from the bar where it was more quiet. Banduci had coloring much like John LaMoia—black hair, persistent beard, and brown eyes—but his beer belly gave away his hobby, as did the dazed look in his glassy eyes. “Sure,” Banduci said, having no trouble with balance as he led them to the far corner by the silent jukebox. “This about Karla?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Gaynes. Boldt nodded to her, signaling her to continue. He sat back and listened.

  “We’re here to ask you some questions,” she told him.

  “Surprise,” Banduci said.

  “You filed a missing-person report—”

  “No. I notified the Coast Guard that I lost my wife waterskiing. She was down, you know. All I was doing was going back to pick her up. It was my turn next…” he trailed off, engulfed in a drunken sadness. “Next thing I know… Jesus.”

  “You signed a missing-person report.”

  “I filled out all sorts of forms. Big deal. It didn’t bring her back, did it?”

  “You reported your wife as five-foot-eight-and-a-half-inches tall, about one hundred and thirty pounds.”

  He wasn’t listening clearly. “I turned away. I cut it hard to starboard and kicked it into neutral.” He closed his eyes. “I heard it, you know. I heard it hit her. And I felt it in my legs…” He opened his bloodshot, jaundiced eyes. “What do you want?” he asked, as if seeing her for the first time. “You a cop?”

  “That’s right,” she said, looking over at Boldt, who simply nodded back at her.

  “You’re fucking gorgeous,” Banduci slobbered. “You’re a cop?” he asked incredulously.

  Her tone grew more aggressive. “Wasn’t it a little cold to be waterskiing, Mr. Banduci?”

  He shook his head. “We were out on Lake Union,” he said. “Fucking beautiful afternoon. Hot September day.”

  “In the report it said she was wearing a wetsuit. Would you tell us please what your wife was wearing at the time of the accident.”

  “That day?”

  “Just at the time of the accident, please.”

  He closed his eyes and rocked to one side. “The accident?”

  “That’s right. What was she wearing?”

  “Wearing?” He opened his eyes and swayed some more. “Wetsuit top and her bathing suit, same as always.”

  “What make of wetsuit?”

  “Make? Oneil, same as mine. I bought us both vests for Christmas, last… no, year before last.”

  Bobbie shook her head at Boldt, indicating they didn’t have a match. “And her swimsuit? What kind of suit was it?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Blue I think. Tiny little thing. You know, like everybody else wears.”

  “Was it a one-piece or—”

  “Hell, no. A bikini, you know. A blue bikini. Nothing to it, really. Tiny little thing. She saw it in my Sports Illi. Lots of leg and cheeks, you know.”

  “A blue bikini,” she repeated, writing it down on a small pad. “And how was it cut? Was it cut high or low? French-cut or brief?”


  “You know,” he said, drawing a line on himself. “Like this here. Like everybody else wears. She saw it in my Sports Illi.”

  “It doesn’t check out,” she told Boldt.

  He nodded and asked, reading from the report she had handed him, “Mr. Banduci. Can you describe any wounds you might have spotted?”

  Banduci nodded but didn’t say anything. He began to weep and then dragged his forearm across his eyes.

  “You did, or did not, see her after the accident?” Boldt repeated.

  “She must have tried to dive when she saw me coming. Her head and neck were a mess,” he said. “If I thought we were going to have any trouble, I would have had her wear the belt. You know, the belt that keeps you up. She was floating for a second. I saw her floating. I thought the wetsuit would keep her up. Maybe she came out of it, I don’t know. I should have been able to find her. But she wasn’t anywhere.”

  Bobbie said, “Mr. Banduci, a lot of women who wear high-cut swimsuits have to shave more than their legs, if you follow me. The suits are cut pretty narrow in the crotch. Did your wife trim herself? Her pubic hair?”

  He looked at her puzzled. Then over to Boldt.

  “Answer the question, please,” Boldt suggested, not having thought of it himself.

  “Whatever you say, lady. How ’bout you? You shave your pussy?”

  She blushed.

  “Watch your mouth…” Boldt warned.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “…and answer the question.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she did. I suppose she did. You say she did, then she did. How ’bout a drink?”

  Boldt looked over at Bobbie Gaynes and cocked his head, indicating they should leave. She nodded, and a moment later they were back out on the street, squinting as their eyes adjusted.

  She didn’t look at Boldt but she said, “Well, Jane Doe’s not Karla Banduci. The woman we found was wearing a Body Glove wetsuit and a Speedo one-piece.”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “Betsy Norvak. The windsurfer.”

  19

  Betsy Norvak’s property, five minutes northeast of Carkeek Park, bordered the south shore of Haller Lake. The house was red brick with white trim. The trees caught the wind, leaves rustling noisily overhead. Further to the east droned the incessant insectlike traffic on I-5.

  “It’s quiet,” Bobbie said, her ears accustomed to such noises.

  The house was well hidden by dense landscaping, and removed from the nearest neighbor by a good fifty yards. A wooden picket gate leading to the backyard banged intermittently against a white painted post. A calico cat dashed from a hedge toward the woods, across Boldt’s path. He was thankful it wasn’t black. “I’ll check the back,” he told her as he walked through the gate and latched it shut behind himself.

  He passed a propane barbecue cooker as he rounded the corner onto a brick patio. The barbecue was partially protected from the elements by the overhead deck, which was supported by roughhewn columns. A wheeled wooden cart sat next to the barbecue, a pair of long tongs resting atop it, and a garden hose hung from the wall. Across from him, on the other side of the house, was the continuation of the driveway leading to a small brick garage, its doors open. He peered through a downstairs window into a room occupied by a Ping-Pong table, a dart board, and two stereo speakers. The next room over appeared to be a narrow laundry room, housing a washer and dryer and a long curtain rod filled with empty hangers. Boldt’s curiosity got the better of him, and he felt tempted to break in and have a look around. The last room on this lower level had the curtains drawn.

  Using his handkerchief as a glove, he opened the first of three trash cans. Several flies flew out immediately, and the smell of garbage caught his attention. He wondered why all garbage smelled the same. Resting on the top of the bulging black plastic trash bags were two paper plates, folded in half. He left the lid off and opened the next can, and then the next. More black plastic bags.

  He tried to feel fear. He wanted to experience a victim’s fear, but he could not. He didn’t feel anything. So much for psychic power, he thought, for he had already decided something was amiss here, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  The redwood stairs from the deck turned at a single landing and ended at two oversized posts that supported big pots of flowers. As he climbed toward the deck, he looked out on the backyard and grew envious of the landscaping. Boldt had once been a weekend gardener, and Norvak’s place was a showcase. The grounds were immaculately kept. Two kidney-shaped flower gardens opposed each other with a circular garden/birdbath between their far ends. Of the fifteen fully mature trees he could see, no two were of similar species. If there was one thing Seattle was good for it was gardening, and Norvak had taken full advantage of the variety of flora that thrive in the climate. Beyond the birdbath was a manicured stretch of lawn dotted with trees, and slightly behind the garage he saw a vegetable garden plot—square-foot method—that appeared to have been pampered for years. The berries had been in at least ten years by the size of the patch, and the entire plot was bordered with tall mint that introduced itself in the breeze. He could smell it from where he stood. She had a lovely view of Haller Lake. He could imagine Betsy Norvak strolling out onto her deck, a cup of hot coffee in hand.

  A dart of pain needled him, for he suddenly understood that this was what Elizabeth had wanted. This was the house and the lawn, the privacy and the prestige. It made his rental look like a tract house—which thirty years ago it probably had been. He stood there trying to forgive Elizabeth and found it difficult if not impossible, and this failure hurt him greatly for he knew forgiveness was a virtue. He wondered now if he had compromised and agreed to a new home if he would have been happily married at this moment. Had his own ego prevented the marriage from working? Was it his fault, not hers? He looked back out to the yard feeling as dazed as if someone had struck him. Could the marriage be saved?

  There was no way one person handled grounds like this alone, so Norvak obviously had help. The lawn had been mowed within the last two days. Boldt made a note of that.

  “Sergeant,” Bobbie called out from the garage, standing beneath a rusted basketball hoop and faded backboard, “you might want to look at this.”

  The plate-glass doors behind him revealed a magnificent kitchen. He stared through the glass in awe for a moment, thinking again about Elizabeth. He could almost see the two of them working together in the kitchen like that, he prepping vegetables, she orchestrating the actual cooking—their routine a long time ago.

  “Sergeant?” she repeated.

  “Coming,” he acknowledged.

  When he caught up to her he was facing the interior of the garage. Norvak used the far wall for gardening and lawn tools. A door had been added to access these from the back. A short sailboard was fastened to the right wall with padded black right-angle brackets, two sails stored below it. An area for another board was empty, and its sails missing. Judging by the twin tracks of mud and pebbles, her car had been parked to the left. A ten-speed bike leaned against the left wall, and some beach chairs and odds-and-ends were hung up there as well. She pointed to the void on the wall and said that the car and the windsurfer were missing, thus confirming the missing-person report. She was about to step inside when Boldt blocked her with his forearm.

  On the dusty cement of the garage floor, amid countless faint impressions left by meandering shoes, he spotted the outline of a large shoe and two words stenciled in the dust: Vibram; Rockport. “Call I.D.,” he said. “Talk to Chuck Abrams. Tell him we’ve got another Rockport print. He’ll know what you mean. He’ll need a search warrant. Have him meet us as soon as he can.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Now,” he barked, immediately regretting his tone of voice.

  He studied the scene carefully. The shoe print was aimed toward an empty section of wall where a sailboard had hung. He knelt to try and catch the light differently to see more of the floor. It
seemed to him that a set of rounded toes made a line from the wall back toward where the car had been parked.

  When Bobbie returned, he left her as a sentry and decided to circle the garage once, looking for other prints. But a brick path led to the back, removing the possibility of finding any. As he approached the garden he glanced at the building. To the left of the door he noticed a burn barrel, and he went over to it. The rusty fifty-five-gallon drum was riddled with drill holes to aid combustion. On top of the pile lay the charred remains of several thick paper sacks. Boldt couldn’t locate a stick—the place was too damn clean. He resorted to pulling up a small wooden stake from the garden and, after banging the mud from it, used it to leaf through the ashes. Beneath the layer of charred paper he discovered a pile of incinerated fabric, well stirred.

  His heart beating rapidly, he withdrew the stake carefully, preserving the evidence as best he could for I.D. He knew it might be nothing more than a pile of rags. But then again…

  On the far side of the garage were two more fifty-five-gallon drums, tall fenceposts packed into them. On closer inspection he found they were soaking in a reddish chemical that smelled horrible. Several of the treated posts were stacked alongside the wall. The leaves had been scraped up here. He studied the area for several minutes. Then the others arrived.

  Chuck Abrams, the best I.D. technician Boldt knew, was a short, balding black man in his mid-forties with a wide forehead, big ears, and sparse graying hair. He caught up with Boldt outside the garage, and set down the two heavy bags he had brought with him. He handed Boldt a folded piece of paper. “You haven’t gone inside there, I hope?” Abrams was a stickler for detail. It was what made him such a good I.D. tech, but his adherence to regs could be frustrating to a detective. Boldt and he were good friends, but on the job that didn’t count.

  “Waited for you,” Boldt explained.

  “Can’t get inside the house. The warrant permits me, and me alone, to go inside the garage in order to shoot the shoe impressions. But that’s as far as it goes. The door was open, I take it?”

  Boldt nodded.

  “Lou?” Abrams looked at him skeptically.