by Kim Fielding
“Maybe you’re thinking too hard about it. You don’t need a steady partner to be a complete person, kiddo. You’re valuable in your own right.”
He groaned again, mostly because he’d heard this speech before. Then he thought of a way to change the subject. He lifted his head and blinked at her with faux innocence. “Any interesting new customers lately, Mom?”
She blushed this time, and that was astounding. He’d never seen her do that before. In fact, he would have sworn she was nearly incapable of embarrassment. One day when he was in seventh grade and she was home with a cold, Parker got sent to the principal’s office for throwing an apple at another kid. The office called her, and Rhoda showed up at school wearing flannel rubber-ducky-print pajamas, a fuzzy lavender bathrobe, and a dorky knitted pompom cap, and yelled at the principal for ignoring the fact that the apple victim had been bullying and taunting Parker for months. Parker had wanted to both melt under a desk and give her an enormous, thankful hug.
“You instigated this,” she said now, pointing a finger.
Parker fluttered his eyelashes and clapped a hand to his chest. “Moi?”
“You didn’t even tell Bob you’re my son.”
“True, but he figured it out, didn’t he?” He raised his eyebrows. “He’s another cop, isn’t he?”
“Prosecutor. Retired.”
That made him snort. “Better yet. Anyway, he seemed nice.”
“Nice.”
“You’re valuable in your own right, Mom, but that doesn’t mean you have to stay single. You can at least give him a whirl.”
She flapped a hand at him. “I’m too busy to date.”
“Bull. You can take an hour off and have lunch with him.” Then Parker had a thought. “Does he have Thanksgiving plans? He’s new in town, you know. Probably spending tomorrow alone. Eating a TV dinner.” Did they still have TV dinners? Maybe they should be called internet dinners now.
“I don’t have any way to contact him.”
“You know his name and that he lives within a few blocks of P-Town. Give Nevin that much info and I’ll bet he could track Bob down in less than an hour.”
She flapped her hand again and gave him a dismissive pfft, but he recognized that glint in her eyes. He’d planted an idea. And once Rhoda got an idea, she rarely let it go.
He swallowed his water in one long chug, stood, and carried the glass to the dishwasher. “Night, Mom.”
“Sweet dreams, honey.”
Parker curled up in bed and was nearly asleep when his phone buzzed. He almost ignored it, but when it buzzed again, he looked blearily at the screen. His heart sped when he saw it was from Wes, but the message puzzled him:
Where was Logan getting his tattoo?
Chapter Fourteen
AFTER DROPPING Parker off at P-Town, Wes stopped at a gas station. He leaned against the van as the tank filled and tried to think about his next project. He hadn’t quite completed the nautical table because he’d constructed Rhoda’s gift instead, but another day or so of work would finish the piece. Since his bank account was getting a little low, he was thinking of making something very expensive next. Something a well-heeled Portlander could use and enjoy. A desk, maybe. Not overly large, but with lots of cubbies and interesting visual details. And incorporating something really unique as drawer pulls. Maybe those vintage cufflinks he found in a thrift shop several months earlier? He’d gleefully picked up an entire box of them for a few dollars.
He climbed into Morrison and headed toward the freeway. But as hard as he tried to steer his thoughts toward that desk, they kept veering in a different direction altogether. To Parker, of course. Who’d somehow managed to pierce a heart Wes long ago judged impregnable.
Wes couldn’t even put a finger on what drew him so hard to Parker. Sure, Parker was handsome, but Wes had fucked prettier men and then walked away without a second thought. Parker was also interesting and vibrant, a splash of bright color in Wes’s drab life. Even more important, though, he seemed to look at Wes and see someone of value. Someone worth his time.
Snorting at his own ridiculousness, Wes neared the freeway. But when he got there, he impulsively took the northbound on-ramp instead of the south.
The traffic hadn’t improved since the previous day’s trip to Seattle. Most people were probably heading up to meet with family for Thanksgiving. Wes felt a sharp pang, imagining what it would be like to spend the holiday with Parker, surrounded by good food and laughter and companionship. But that kind of thing was for friends, not outsiders. As an adult he’d never spent his solitary holidays mooning around. In fact, the peace and solitude were big improvements over his childhood, when stepparents and half-siblings squabbled around him, somehow reminding him with every word that he didn’t belong in their house.
No, Wes would complete this little errand, and if nothing came of it, he’d return to his bus and his tools. In the unlikely event he did discover something, he’d send a text to Parker. And then he’d go home to his bus.
Barkin’ Lot was crowded with dogs of all imaginable kinds. Maybe the place was always busy, but he suspected Thanksgiving was also a contributor. Parker had mentioned that his former employer boarded dogs as well as entertaining them during the day. Most likely a lot of people had dropped off their pets and left the city for the long holiday weekend. Wes waited just inside the doorway while a fortyish woman provided information and then said goodbye to a German shepherd named Courtney. When the young woman behind the counter finished getting Courtney checked in and settled with another employee, Wes stepped forward.
“Hi. Do you have a couple of minutes to answer a few questions?”
The woman—her tag read Ophelia—blinked at him. “Are you doing a poll? The election’s over, thank God.”
“No, nothing like that.” Wes took a deep breath and metaphorically donned his best bullshitting shoes. He hadn’t worn them in years. “I’m a private investigator. I’m inquiring about a former employee.”
A sensible person would have asked to see some form of ID or even his license. But as he’d hoped, Ophelia’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Clearly she was caught up in the unexpected appearance of something more exciting than dog shit. “Is somebody wanted by the law?” she asked.
“No. It’s Logan Miller.”
He hadn’t known whether she’d even be aware of Logan’s death, but sorrow descended on her face. “Oh, poor Logan,” she said with a sniff. “He killed himself, right? That’s what I heard.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to share details.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Did you know him very well?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Um, sort of. We worked together for about a year, I guess, and we talked. But we didn’t hang out or anything.”
“I understand. Do you know who he did hang out with?”
“Parker mostly. He used to work here too, and they were dating. Nobody was officially supposed to know, but we all totally did. I don’t know what Parker—” She shut her mouth quickly.
Wes cocked his head. “What?”
Ophelia looked around as if she was afraid someone might be listening. Then she spoke in a voice not much above a whisper. “Parker’s super sweet, but Logan is—Logan was kind of a jerk. I know you’re not supposed to say bad things about the dead, but he was. He was fantastic with dogs. But he didn’t treat people very well. And he owed me a hundred bucks.”
Although Wes was saddened to hear Parker’s ex hadn’t been worthy of him, that wasn’t the point at the moment. “Why did he borrow money from you?”
“He said his little brother was sick and didn’t have enough money to buy medicine. That was, like, a month ago. Logan was supposed to pay me back when he got paid next, but he didn’t. And now he can’t.”
“I’m sorry. Did he owe money to other people too?”
“Yeah. A couple people chipped in ’cause everyone thought his brother really needed it.”
Interesting.
“Okay. So aside from Parker, did he have any particular friends?”
“Not here. Parker only worked here a couple months. Before that, Logan mostly kept to himself.”
Wes asked a few other questions, but she didn’t seem to know anything else useful. When a father and young son entered the building with something small and yappy in a carrier, Wes thanked Ophelia and left.
His next stop was Parker and Logan’s old place, an apartment complex that had seen better days. A helpful sign designated the manager’s unit, and Wes rang the bell.
A tiny woman in her fifties answered, peering at him dubiously. “Yes?”
Wes repeated his private investigator story. The manager bought it as easily as Ophelia had, but with no apparent sympathy for Logan. “He owed three months’ rent,” she said, leaning in the doorway with arms crossed. “They can afford to hire you, but they can’t pay what he owes?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do—”
“I know, I know. What do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to learn more about his death. Can you tell me anything?”
She seemed to consider for a moment before giving a quick nod. “All right. Come inside.”
It was a small apartment crammed with too much big furniture and a lot of knickknacks, most of them frog themed. Photos of, he assumed, her children and grandchildren crowded the walls. She led Wes into the kitchen, which smelled faintly of fish and onions and where dirty dishes rested in the sink. He sat at the table and accepted a mug of instant coffee. He was surprised anyone still drank the stuff, at least in the Land of Starbucks.
Now that she’d allowed him inside, she seemed inclined to small talk. Her name was Cathy, and Wes sipped his coffee as he politely listened to her complain about tenants who made too much noise, trashed their units, or parked in the visitor parking spots.
“Did Logan do those things?” he finally asked.
“No, he was pretty good until he stopped paying. I thought things would improve when that boy with the colorful hair moved in—nice boy—but they didn’t. Now that boy’s gone, and Logan’s dead.” She moved her fingers as if she were used to having something in them. A cigarette, Wes guessed. He wondered how long ago she’d quit.
“I’m sure you already spoke with the police—”
“I’m the one who called ’em! I found him.” She made a shuddery motion.
“Can you tell me about that?”
“Well, I went to see about the rent. Again. But the door was open a crack. I knocked, and nobody answered, and I thought maybe he’d just skipped out. It happens. Anyway, I pushed the door a little so I could see inside—I wasn’t going to step in without permission; I know the rules—and there he was, right in the middle of the floor. I called 911.”
Would someone with suicidal intent OD in the center of the room rather than somewhere more comfortable, like on a couch or the bed? It was possible Logan started out someplace comfy and then staggered away before collapsing. But that didn’t explain the door being ajar.
“It must have been traumatic for you,” Wes said.
“I’ve found bodies before. It happens. I was surprised with this one, though.”
“Why?”
Now she rubbed her palms together, making a dry, papery sound. “He just didn’t seem like the type. He lived here almost two years, and until lately he was a good tenant. Paid on time, never had loud friends over. He smelled like pot sometimes, but they’re all doing that nowadays. I didn’t think he was a druggie. When I saw him, he’d talk about how he wanted to start his own business someday.”
“What kind of business?”
“Dogs. Like the place where he worked. But he hadn’t mentioned that in a while. Actually I hadn’t seen him. He was probably avoiding me because of the rent.”
Wes asked more questions about Logan’s past and his habits, but he learned very little. Before Parker moved in, Logan occasionally had a male friend over, sometimes for the night. But not often. And once Parker was there, never. “Except for the one with the tattoos,” she said. “He came over a few weeks ago.”
Wes had been starting to slump in his chair, but now he sat up straight. “Tattoos?”
“Everywhere.” She ran a hand over her arms and neck. “Everywhere I could see except his face.”
“Do you know who he is? Or anything else about him?”
“He’d parked his car in one of the resident spots, and I went out to ask him to move. He said he was there to visit Logan. I asked why. He didn’t look reputable, and not just because of the tattoos. He said he was there to consult about a tattoo with Logan. That’s the word he used: consult. I told him they couldn’t do that in the apartment—I don’t want blood and ink stains—and he just laughed and walked away.”
Cathy described the man’s car without much detail. An older gray Ford, she thought. And that was all the information she had about him.
Wes’s stomach had begun to grumble. He hadn’t eaten anything since a bowl of oatmeal at the hotel restaurant that morning, and it was clear Cathy had told him everything she could. He thanked her for her time and the coffee, then left.
Not too far away, he found a modest little sandwich-and-burger place. He ate slowly, thinking about what he’d learned from Ophelia and Cathy. Not much, but he’d unearthed a few nuggets that might prove valuable. When he tried to puzzle them out, though, his mind strayed to a related matter. Why had Parker become close with Logan in the first place? It didn’t sound as if Logan had many endearing qualities. Surely Parker couldn’t have simply been desperate for a place to live. He always had Rhoda to fall back on for that, and even his mother’s house would seem a better option that shacking up with an asshole. No, it must have been more than a need for housing.
What about a need for affection? Maybe. But Parker could have found someone better than Logan. Unless Parker thought he didn’t deserve better. He seemed to overlook his own value, which was ironic given his gift for seeing the strengths of others.
The burger gone, Wes lingered over mediocre coffee. He wasn’t thinking about Logan at all now, but rather about himself—and Parker. Somehow Wes had never pictured himself having an evening like last night. A nice dinner with a fascinating companion, a walk through the city, a small water journey. Those things seemed too special for a guy who made furniture and lived in a bus. But he’d had them, at least for one night, and they’d fit him surprisingly well.
Could he possibly have a future with somebody else? Not just anybody else. Parker Levin. God, he found himself turning toward that concept like a plant leaning toward the sun. But just because he wanted it didn’t mean he could have it. He didn’t know whether he was capable of a relationship, assuming Parker was willing to give it a try.
Why couldn’t people be like furniture? You found the raw material, you cut pieces to fit, and you put everything together. With care, that table or bookshelf could last for decades. Centuries, even. But humans came in all sorts of weird shapes and never seemed to mesh with each other very well, and even if you did your best, they almost inevitably fell apart. They abandoned you or died, and then you were left with great gaping holes where they used to attach to you.
The waiter came by for the third time to see if Wes needed anything else. Taking the hint, Wes paid the bill and wandered out to Morrison. He drove around the city for what might have been two hours but could have been longer. Not really thinking of anything and with no destination in mind. Just going in large random circles.
He finally found a modest, quiet residential neighborhood and parked Morrison at the curb, out of the glare of the streetlights. No hotel for him tonight; he’d sleep in the back. He’d last used some of the old blankets to protect Rhoda’s gift, and now as he wrapped himself inside them, he imagined them as his connection to Parker.
Maybe he should give up this stupid thing he was doing in Seattle. Maybe he should drive to Portland in the morning and spend Thanksgiving with Parker and Rhoda and a cast of thousands. Maybe h
e should drive to Wyoming. Or maybe he should just drive home and start on that desk.
After endless tossing and turning, he reached at least one decision. He pulled out his phone, which was low on charge, and sent a text.
Where was Logan getting his tattoo?
Parker didn’t answer for a long time, which could have been because he was angry at Wes or because he was asleep. Finally he sent a single word: Why?
Wes didn’t want to explain, mostly because he didn’t want Parker to get his hopes up when Wes would likely not receive any answers. So after gathering his courage, he made a promise instead. I’ll explain over turkey tomorrow.
Good. I want you here, Wes. I miss you.
Me too.
Funny how admitting that truth was harder than spending the afternoon lying to people. But it felt good once it was out.
I think the name of the place was Anza something.
Thanks. Good night, Parker.
Parker replied with a heart emoji, which made Wes laugh.
ANZA RISING was located in a two-story triangular-shaped building in a neighborhood that might be on the edge of gentrifying but hadn’t gotten there yet. The upper floor was probably an apartment; the windows there were curtained and dark. But those on the ground floor remained brightly lit, even though it was past midnight. Maybe people had sudden urges to get inked in the wee hours before Thanksgiving, perhaps in hopes of impressing or appalling their relatives.
There were no spaces big enough for Morrison in front of the building, so Wes parked on a side street two blocks away. Even though his shoes had rubber soles, his footsteps seemed loud in the empty night.
When he got near, he saw an old Ford parked nearby. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but it could have been gray. He paused in a shadow to look through the building’s windows. The studio itself looked more upscale than he expected, with plush furniture and potted palms in the waiting area, tasteful framed drawings of fantasy animals on the wall, and good lighting overhead. A woman with long straight hair the color of champagne sat on a tall stool behind a counter, looking at her phone. Behind her, a heavily tattooed man in his early thirties looked as if he was just finishing some work on a bearded man’s arm. While Wes watched, the artist wiped the other man’s bicep clean and put a large bandage over it. But the customer, who didn’t seem inclined to leave yet, remained in the chair, chatting with the artist.
