Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

by G. M. Ford

  WHO IN HELL IS WANDA FUCA?

  G.M. FORD

  A Leo Waterman Mystery

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 1

  "Leave me alone, will you?" he pleaded. "Please just leave me alone." I inched closer along the windowsill, hoping he wouldn't notice. He noticed. "Stay where you are. You come any closer, I'm gonna jump, you hear me?"

  "I hear you," I said. "My feet hurt. I was just sitting down."

  Thomas Greer was standing on an eighteen-inch concrete ledge, fourteen stories above the Third Avenue, his arms extended, palms flat against the surface, fingers searching for any purchase among the breaks and cracks, his back trying to press its way through the blond brick facing of the building. All he needed to do was cross his feet.

  He didn't want to talk anymore. On the other hand, he didn't look to me like he wanted to take a dive either, but I couldn't be sure. I kept my distance and waited for the professionals to arrive. They were taking their time. We live in a society where pizza will get to you quicker than the police.

  The hotel manager stood half in, half out of the doorway, watching the scene in the window and keeping an eye on the hall leading to the elevators, he head swiveling out of control as if he were watching a tennis match in fast-forward. In spite of the weather, he had sweat all the way through his gray silk suit in several places. I turned my attention back to the jumper. I leaned out a little and spoke to him soothingly.

  "Come on, Greer, you don't want to do this. . . " Before it was out of my mouth, I knew I'd made a mistake. He instantly picked up on it.

  "How do you know my name?" he asked without ever moving his eyes from the street below. "How do you know my name?"

  "Just a lucky guess," I said.

  "Just a lucky guess," I said. It was weak.

  "You found us, didn't you? You're the one. She hired you, didn't she?"

  "Come on in here, Mr. Greer. You don't want to do this. There's nothing to be gained from this." He wasn't listening.

  "That bitch. That fucking bitch. She hired you, didn't she?" He looked at me for the first time. My assessment of the chances of him jumping instantly changed. I knew that look. Something in him had shaken loose. There was only the here and now. I kept talking.

  "Whatever problems you think you've got," I said, "this isn't going to help. This is only going to make things worse. You don't want your son to remember you this way for a boy to remember his dad. Come on in here." I held out my hand. He sidestepped two feet farther away, stopped, and sidestepped back, reaching for my hand. His eyes showed a distinct lack of future.

  I pulled my hand back inside and braced myself against the sill with both hands.

  "Come on," he screamed. "Come with me." He bent and extended his hand toward me. "Come on, earn your blood money."

  I shook my head. He stood back up and pressed himself to the building.

  "Come on back inside, Mr. Greer. You're not doing anybody any good out there. Look, I'm sure things look pretty bad to you right now. I'm sure - "

  My babbling was interrupted by the arrival of the Seattle Police Department. A uniformed officer swept the manager out into the hall and cleared the way for two detectives and a woman.

  The larger of the two detectives I'd seen somewhere before. Big features, too much loose, florid skin, a pair of wide, distended nostrils that seemed to be constantly testing the air. This was not a face to forget. Everything about him was thick and wrinkled, as if he'd been thrown in a corner and allowed to dry. He was fifty or so with brush-cut hair and a quarter-inch gap between his front teeth. His deep-set eyes showed minimal interest as they swept the room. Trask. Bill Trask, maybe. I tried to dredge up where we'd met, but at the moment I was too scattered to recall.

  His partner and the woman were strangers. She wasn't a cop. They stayed just inside the doorway and beckoned me over. I spoke to Thomas Greer.

  "I'll be right back, Mr. Greer. Just hang in there. Okay? Just hang in there. I'll be right back."

  "Go on, get outta here, you bloodsucker," he spat at me.

  I slid slowly from the sill and walked over to the cops. The woman was removing her full-length blue wool coat. She folded the coat neatly and laid it on the nearest unmade bed. About thirty-five, a natural redhead, small features dwarfed by oversize glasses, wearing a bright blue two-piece suit, she looked like a grammar school teacher. Except for the eyes. An array of fine lines radiated from the corners of her eyes and worked their way through the freckles toward her high cheekbones.

  The big detective got things rolling. Apparently, his memory was better than mine.

  "One of your creditors finally had enough, Waterman?" Failing to get so much as a grimace, he moved on to the introductions.

  "Leo Waterman." He turned to me. "It is Leo, isn't it? I said it was. "This is Saasha Kennedy. She's a volunteer with Community Services."

  It didn't take an expert to read his tone of voice. Like most cops, he hated social workers.

  "Ms. Kennedy, this is Leo Waterman. As I remember, he p[asses himself off as a private investigator."

  "What," she asked me, "have we got here?"

  "I think he's serious," I replied.

  "They're all serious, Mr. Waterman. You have to be serious to get out on a ledge like that. Are you just a bystander, Mr. Waterman, or are you part of the problem?" she asked.

  The big cops couldn't resist. "P.I.'s are never just bystanders. They're always part of the problem."

  "I'll handle this, Sergeant Trask," she snapped. "Why don't you and your partner keep the hall clear and check on the team on the roof."

  As the detectives reluctantly shuffled off, she turned her attention back to me. "What have we got here?" she repeated.

  "Custody battle."

  "I take it he's the loser."

  "He seems to think so."

  "Tell me about it."

  "His name's Thomas Greer. He picked up his son Jason ten days ago in Spokane for his weekend visitation and neglected to bring the boy back. The mother hired me to find them. She wasn't getting a whole lot of help from the local authorities. I traced them to the hotel here last night. This morning, on their way out to breakfast, I managed to get them separated. The boy's with hotel security. Mr. Greer here" - I gestured toward the window - "was quicker than he looked. He got back into the room and got the door locked before I could get a hold on him. The rest, as they say, is history."

  "Where's the boy now?"

  "He's downstairs with Jack Moody in the security office."

  "Does your client know you've found the boy?"

  "I called her last night. She's probably in town by now."

  "We'd better get her down here."

  "I don't think so," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "Mr. Greer seems to blame all of this on his ex-wife. Having met this particular woman, I think he may have a point. If the object of the exercise is to get
him down off that ledge, she's not going to be much of a help."

  "Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Waterman."

  "No," I said. Her eyes opened wide. I got the impression that it had been some time since anyone had dared utter that awful syllable in her august presence.

  "No? Did you say no? Perhaps you don't understand the situation here, Mr. Waterman - "

  "I understand the situation just fine, Ms. Kennedy. I've spent the last twenty-five minutes talking to the guy. I'll tell you what we've got here. We've got a guy here who makes good money but lives in this ratty little apartment in Ballard because the poor bastard wanted to do the right thing and because his ex-wife had a better lawyer. We've got a guy here whose ex-wife, without so much as a by-your-leave, picks up and drags his son clear over to the other side of the state. We've got a guy here who, every time he tries to call his son on the phone, gets to talk to some new boyfriend. A new one every time. His life's in the dumper. He feels like he needs to do something. This is it. The right audience is all he needs for his big recital. She's it. Trust me."

  "You have a degree in psychology, Mr. Waterman?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I didn't think so. I have a master's in clinical psychology, and - "

  "I'm sure your credentials are quite impressive, Ms. Kennedy, but I do have a degree in irresponsibility with a minor in feeling sorry for myself. You give this guy the right audience and he's going to take the Nestea plunge, believe me."

  "We'll see," she said and headed over toward the window.

  She sat on the windowsill, leaned out, and said something to Greer. I couldn't catch the words. She leaned out farther, exposing a length of freckled thigh, still taking. A commotion in the hall diverted my attention from the window.

  Two more uniforms and a pair of paramedics slid silently into the room. Without ever taking her attention from the ledge, Saasha Kennedy held up a hand for silence. Everyone stood still. I could vaguely hear Greer now.

  "I want to see her. Get her down her" - something I couldn't catch - "She's the one."

  After a series of reassuring hand gestures, Kennedy disengaged herself from her perch and backed into the center of the room. She turned to me.

  "You have a number for the wife?"

  "She's staying with her brother in Magnolia, but I don't think - "

  "Don't think, Mr. Waterman, just get me the number."

  I pulled my notebook from my jacket pocket. I was about to read her the number when she snatched the whole notebook and handed it to the nearest uniform.

  "Find an empty room; call her and get her down here," she said. He scurried off. She tuned to the remaining patrolman.

  "Mr. Waterman will be waiting in the hall." He started to take my elbow, but I pulled free and turned to face him. He was young, blond, thick in the neck. Probably only had to shave every other day. He reached for me. I stiff-armed him back three steps. His hand crept toward the service revolver at his side and hovered there. A voice from the doorway interrupted the standoff.

  "Easy, Eagan." It was Trask. "You have any idea how many forms you're going to have to fill out if you pull that thing?" Eagan blinked. He relaxed his hand and took a step my way, but the big detective stopped him midstride.

  "I said easy." Trask sauntered over close to the young cop. "First of all, there's the forms for drawing your weapon. Endless, son, I assure you. Endless. Waterman here's" - he jabbed a thumb in my direction - "definitely not worth the trouble." He turned to me.

  "Get your ass out in the hall." Reluctantly, I complied. I put my feet in the hall but left the rest of me in the doorway.

  When his little joke failed to lighten Eagan up, Trask stepped in the still closer and got serious. "Besides that, use a little judgment, kid. We've got enough problems here already. Don't you think? This guy look to you like he's going quietly, huh? Look at him." Eagan eyed me up and down. He shook his head.

  "All the way in the hall, Waterman." Trask made a grand gesture down the hall toward the elevators. I took my time, keeping my eyes on Eagan. Trask followed me two steps down the hall.

  "Unlike you, Waterman, he's just a kid. Also unlike you, he doesn't know any better. At least he's got an excuse."

  "He stays as jumpy as he is now," I said, "he's never going to get a chance to get educated." Trask shrugged.

  The hall was filling up. The other uniform pinballed his way through the throng and skidded to a halt in front of the door.

  Trask stepped aside and let him into the room. I stepped around him so I could see back into the room.

  The uniform stood just inside the door and whispered to Eagan, who kept glancing ominously my way, then quickly trotted over toward the window.

  "She's downstairs with the boy," the kid blurted. "She saw in on TV."

  Saasha Kennedy never got a chance to register her shock and disapproval. Greer heard it all.

  I could hear Thomas Greer from the hall.

  "I want to see her," he screamed. "Get her up here. Where is she! Goddammit, is she here/ I want to see her."

  Kennedy left her perch on the window and hurried back to the center of the room, pushing the two uniforms before her.

  "Great. Just great." She turned on Trask. "Get these two morons out of here. Now." Trask quickly herded the two patrolmen past me into the hall. She shook her head in disbelief. I wandered back in.

  "Sure am glad I waited for the professionals," I said.

  "Fuck you, Waterman."

  "You learn that in grad school?" I asked.

  She ignored me and went after Trask again.

  "Get the woman up here. We don't have any choice now. He's very unstable." Before he could leave, she stopped him. "How's the team on the roof? Are they almost ready?"

  Trask shook his head. "There's a cornice around the top of the building. By the time they rappel down here, they figure they'll be six feet out from the wall. I don't think we're going to get much help from above, but they're standing by."

  "Get the woman." Trask hurried off. Ms. Kennedy headed back for Thomas Greer and the window.

  Trask's partner appeared at my elbow. A little guy with an overbite. His laminated ID card read "Henderson, Earl D."

  "What do you think?" he asked, peering over my shoulder.

  "I think the way this is being handled, somebody better call sanitation. Where the hell is the regular negotiation unit anyway?"

  "They're all down in Rainier Valley. We've had a hostage situation going on down there all night long." He leaned in. "I've never seen her before. I think this is her first one."

  "I think so too," I said. She kept whispering out onto the ledge. I strained to hear, but could only catch bits and pieces. Henderson broke my concentration.

  "You think he's going to jump, huh?"

  "It's a distinct possibility," I said.

  "We stood silently and watched Saasha Kennedy talk soothingly to Greer. I still couldn't hear her end, but I sure could hear Greer's. It never varied. No matter what Kennedy said to him, he screamed for the woman.

  He got his wish. Trask stepped away from the elevator door and let my client precede him down the crowded hallway.

  She was short, sturdily built little woman carrying a poodlelike mass of dark, curly hair that bounced as she walked. Pretty in a grossly over-made-up sort of way. One more layer of foundation on her face and she'd be Madam Tussaud material. Eyebrows plucked into pencil-thin question marks. Lipstick too red for a woman her age. Halloween on Hollywood Boulevard.

  She was wearing a red one-piece jumpsuit, the full-length gold zipper alarmingly low, the elastic cinching her wasp waist further accentuating her remarkably prominent prow, which she pushed aggressively before her like twin battering rams.

  "Where is he?" she demanded of no one in particular. I stepped into the doorway and blocked her path.

  "How's the boy?" I asked. The question momentarily slowed her.

  She blinked and focused in on me.

  "He's fine," she said. "Where's Tom?"


  "He's inside. But listen, before you go in there - "

  I never got a chance to finish. Eagan shouldered his way through me, dragging Mrs. Greer along. She clung to his arm as if it were a life preserver.

  I started into the room. Trask dug a hand into my shoulder.

  "Butt out, Waterman."

  "This is going to get ugly, Trask. I can feel it. I'm telling you."

  "Even better reason to stay butted out," he said. Henderson grunted in agreement.

  Saasha Kennedy had disengaged herself once again and was whispering into Monica Greer's ear. Thomas Greer was screaming something unintelligible. Monica Greer listened distractedly. She had other things on her mind.

  Even as Kennedy spoke, Mrs. Greer's attention was riveted on the brawny Officer Eagan, whose elbow she was now rhythmically polishing with her breasts. The hunter had become the hunted. Eagan was beginning to sweat. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder. Another few minutes and Monica Greer was going to be locked onto his kneecap like a terrier.

  Kennedy was oblivious. She droned on. When she finished, she looked to the other woman for agreement. Feedback was not forthcoming. Monica's total attention was focused on making a meticulous estimate of young Officer Eagan's inseam.

  Undaunted, Saasha Kennedy pried Monica Greer from her quarry and led her slowly toward the window. From the hall, I could hear Eagan's sigh of relief. Kennedy leaned out and spoke briefly. Greer said something. Kennedy spoke again. More yelling. With Kennedy's attention focused on the ledge, Monica Greer turned back toward Eagan, clasped her hands below waist level, and used her upper arms to squeeze her breasts nearly up and out of the jumpsuit. Eagan resumed sweating.

  "Looks like she's got two baldheaded midgets under that jumpsuit," Trask whispered from behind me.

  "Not at all beyond the realm of possibility," I said through my teeth.

  Eagan tugged at his collar, looking for backup.

  Kennedy stepped back and beckoned Monica Greer forward. Monica wasn't looking. Kenney had to walk over and take her by the shoulder.

  Slowly, one foot carefully in front of the other, Monica Greer allowed her stiletto heels to propel her across the carpet. Her obviously unencumbered derriere rolled and thrashed inside the jumpsuit. She snuck a coy glance over her shoulder to make sure she was having the desired effect, pushed Kennedy aside with a sweep of her arm, and leaned out the window.