Flesh Wounds

by Stephen Greenleaf

  I was irritated by her reaction, all the more so because of the little arrowhead that was smoldering in my trouser pocket. Most people who demand secrecy are guilty of something or know someone who is, which made me wonder what Peggy was hiding. Then I wondered why I didn’t pack my bags and go home and leave the lovebirds to enjoy this particular premarital adventure on their own.

  “I didn’t tell them about you, Peggy,” I said, more harshly than I planned to. “I didn’t give them any names, not yours or Ted’s or Nina’s. But I had to give them something—there’s no privilege for PIs, not unless attorney work product is involved, which it isn’t in this case. You know all this from when you worked for me. Going to jail for contempt didn’t seem the best way to go in this situation.”

  I looked at her until she looked back. She fumbled with her napkin and used it to dab her eyes. “I’m sorry, Marsh. I didn’t mean you hadn’t been … I didn’t mean you should have gone to jail for me. It’s just that Ted will be upset when he hears about this.”

  “You keep saying that, so I guess it must be true. But maybe being upset is something he’ll have to live with.”

  She shook her head. “If he finds out you’ve gotten us involved in a murder case, I don’t know what he—”

  “Come on, Peggy,” I interrupted roughly. “Cut me some slack here. I didn’t get you involved in this; Nina got you involved in this.”

  Peggy folded her hands and bowed her head with contrition. “I know. I know. I’m sorry, I just—”

  “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The cops will get to Ted without my help—lots of people know Nina was modeling for Richter, plus her prints will be all over his apartment since that’s where he did his work. If she was like everyone else I’ve talked to, she didn’t like the guy much. There’s enough motive around for getting rid of Gary Richter to keep the cops busy for months unless they come up with some physical evidence. Sooner or later, they’ll work their way to Nina, and when they can’t find her they’ll come to Ted.”

  “Maybe they will find her. Maybe they’ll take care of the problem for us.”

  “Maybe,’ I said. “And maybe the problem will get worse, the way it does in most murder cases.”

  “How?” she asked abstractedly, then leaned forward again. “You don’t think Nina was involved in this, surely. I mean, she’s high-strung, and willful, but she’s not crazy. Or violent. She has no need to be—she handles men quite easily in my observation. If she wanted something from this Richter person, she could have gotten it without resorting to murder.”

  I backed away from her gaze. “I broke into Richter’s apartment. His place had been searched. I can’t be sure, but it looked to me like one of the reasons for the search was to remove all traces of Nina—pictures, contracts, letters, whatever. There’s all kinds of stuff about his other models there, but not a scrap about Nina.”

  Peggy looked like a bird poised to fly around its cage till it found an exit, or die from exhaustion if it didn’t. “There are all kinds of explanations for that. It doesn’t mean Nina went there and … oh my God.”

  She was so distraught I was afraid she was going to swoon. “Surely he wouldn’t …”

  “What? Talk to me, Peggy.”

  In response to my question she leaned over and picked her purse off the adjacent chair and set it on the table in front of her. The purse was the size of a suitcase. She opened it slowly, then put her hand inside, as though fishing for a clog in a drain. After a moment of fumbling, she extracted a manila envelope and put it on the table in front of her. Her face was a stew of emotion—fear, bravado, shame, and candor.

  “What’s this?”

  She took a breath and let it out. “I didn’t tell the truth before. About not knowing what Nina did for a living.” She paused and closed her eyes. “I feel like I did when we were in that park and I was trying to lure that awful man out of the bushes so you could—”

  “Don’t think about it,” I interrupted harsly. “That’s over. He’s long gone. It has nothing to do with this.”

  “It has something to do with me, Marsh. With what kind of person I am. With not being able to keep myself from getting involved with men who …”

  She lost the strength to continue and the pending indictment evaporated. “Men who what?” I didn’t like myself for asking the question.

  Her eyes were damp and fractured. “I haven’t known Ted very long,” she said, her voice scratchy and unstable. “I only moved in with him last Christmas. It’s been … difficult, in some ways. I haven’t lived with a man for twenty years. I haven’t had to decide whether I want to marry someone for even longer. I mean, you and I never got to that point before … well, let’s just say that what with Nina’s disappearance, and with seeing you again, I got anxious and confused and I did something I’m not proud of.”

  “What?”

  “I got nosy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I decided I needed to know Ted better. To see if he had any secrets; to learn if he was hiding anything from me.”

  “To see if anything weird was going on between him and his daughter.”

  She blinked and sighed. “All right. Maybe that was part of it. So yesterday I started poking around. It’s a big house. We have a maid. There are places I’ve hardly been in yet. Like the guest room. Like his study.”

  “So you decided to explore.” I tried to take the edge off. “It’s not a felony, I don’t think. Maybe a misdemeanor.”

  “It’s worse than that. It’s betrayal.”

  “Nonsense, you were just cleaning house. What kind of treasure did you find?”

  She gestured toward the envelope, then touched it with the tip of her finger and slid it toward me. “I found those.”

  I debated what to do without wanting to do anything. “Does this have anything to do with why I’m here? Because if it doesn’t, I don’t think I—”

  She shoved the envelope another inch. I picked it up and extracted its contents.

  “Shit.”

  I took a second look, turned them over to see if anything was on the back, then put them back in the envelope.

  They were photographs, of course, formal nudes of Nina Evans posed not in the studied exploitation of the shots at Erospace but in artful explorations of the expressive potential of the female form. They were, I guessed, something that Nina was proud of.

  “Where did you get these?” I asked.

  “Ted’s file cabinet. Bottom drawer. Underneath some business stuff.”

  “Where did they come from, do you know?”

  Peggy shook her head. I looked at the envelope for evidence of mailing, but it was blank. “Richter’s name is stamped on the back of the pictures,” I said.

  “I know.” Peggy bowed in despair. “What do they mean, Marsh?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  I didn’t know, but I had a hunch. It was possible that Nina had sent the pictures to her father, as evidence of her life and work, but a more likely explanation was less benign—that Ted had learned of his daughter’s work with Richter and had gone to his studio, demanded that he surrender the prints and negatives of Nina, and killed Richter in a rage when he refused to hand them over, then removed the pictures from the scene to eliminate her as a suspect. The best proof of the theory was the piece of pointed stone in my pocket.

  “How would Ted have reacted to these?” I asked.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On where they came from. If Nina gave them to him, he would have been overjoyed. But if he came on them himself, in a gallery or a magazine of some sort, he’d be incensed.”

  “Why? They’re clearly art under most definitions of the term.”

  “Ted wouldn’t see it that way. He’d see them as smut unless Nina told him they weren’t.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “Because he idolizes her. He wants to protect her from the evil in the world. He wouldn’t see Richter as
an artist, he’d see him as a pimp taking advantage of his daughter. Plus, he’d see her behavior as casting aspersions on him as a father, as proof that he hadn’t done a good job. Ted doesn’t like to be criticized. He doesn’t like being considered a failure.”

  When I considered the eventualities, none of them were pleasant. “These pictures could be evidence, Peggy.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d better keep them.” I put them in my briefcase, knowing how foolish I was being but unable to be otherwise. “If the cops ever ask you about them, deny you saw them. If it comes down to it, I can claim I searched your house and found them myself.”

  “But how can you claim you—?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes. I need to talk to Ted.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. The pictures suggest he might have been the one who tossed Richter’s place. If he did, he probably left traces. He could be in big trouble.”

  Her cheeks flamed red and her hands made fists. “I worked for you for nine years. Don’t you think I know that? I knew that the minute you told me that this Richter person was dead.”

  At that moment, a woman swept to the table from out of nowhere and grabbed Peggy by the arm. “Peggy, darling. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Clarissa.”

  “You don’t look fine, you look exhausted. First thing to do after you and Ted get married is quit that silly job. It’s not as if you’ll need the money, after all.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thank you for your concern.”

  Clarissa was not so easily dismissed. “Missed you at the club Tuesday night. Marsha was saying the two of you had been to the most divine new restaurant in Madrona. I can’t wait to go. Maybe you and Ted could join us this weekend?”

  “Maybe. I’ll have to check.”

  At this point, the woman looked at me, wriggled her nose, then paused to make room for an introduction. When one wasn’t forthcoming, she frowned, then patted Peggy on the arm, then gave her a second chance to make amends, then bid her a brisk goodbye and swept across the room to rejoin her luncheon companion. When I looked back at Peggy, she was crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know what’s wrong. I have to go back to work and pretend that nothing’s happened, then go home and make a cocktail for a man who might be a murderer instead of the thoughtful and generous man I’m planning to marry in a month.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Keep looking for Nina, I guess. But promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That you won’t leave Seattle until this is cleared up. That you won’t make me wonder if—”

  I grabbed her hand. “All the planes that Boeing’s ever built couldn’t fly me away.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She lifted my hand and kissed it, somewhere near the ring finger.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Nina?”

  “Huh? Who’s this?”

  “This is Chris. Congratulations.”

  “Huh? What time is it?”

  “Nine A.M.”

  “It better not be. Congratulations for what?”

  “You won.”

  “Won what?”

  “You’re the one we selected.”

  “Is this some sort of game show? Have I died and come back as Vanna White?”

  “This is Chris Wellington. What’s the matter? You sound drugged or something.”

  “I’m not drugged, I’m tired. This was my night of the week to sleep and you fucked me up in the middle of it. The video guy, right?”

  “Right. I’m calling to tell you that you’ve been selected as the primary model for the DigiArt project.”

  “I feel more like I’m part of a sleep-deprivation experiment. So I won, huh? What’d I win?”

  “A place in our digital art program. You’ll be part of a historic advance in the visual arts.” He pauses for breath. “We need to talk about it. In the meantime, you go on payroll as of eight o’clock this morning.”

  “You better not be jacking me around about this.”

  “I’m not. Can we get together this afternoon?”

  “My place or yours?”

  “Mine. The DigiArt offices. Three o’clock. In the meantime, I suggest you start packing.”

  “What?”

  “Pack your stuff. We’re going to move you to a condo in Madison Park. We want you installed in your new quarters by tomorrow night.”

  “Oh. Right. The new pad. This is still top secret, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Does DigiArt have anything to do with Gary Richter?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “You’ll be ready to move tomorrow?”

  “Ready and willing. I just have to drop off some stuff with a friend of mine first.”

  The offices of Salmon Says occupied an unremarkable brick building on Northlake Avenue opposite something called Ivar’s Salmon House and Fish Bar, just west of the I-5 overpass. The door to the office said ENTER.

  Three desks; two tables; four computers; six file cabinets. Alternative cartoons on the walls, grunge guitars in the air, psychedelic lighting overhead thanks to multicolored strips of neon stuck haphazardly to the ceiling in a pattern reminiscent of pickup sticks. Stacks of old newspapers; piles of empty Coke cases; jumbles of books and magazines with names like The Stranger and The Rocket. And no people. Not a single soul as far as I could tell, even though the door stood wide open.

  I knocked on the only unoccupied surface I could find. Still no people. I looked in the Day-Glo yellow john. Still none. If I hadn’t been an honest man, I could have made off with five thousand bucks’ worth of electronics.

  I was starting to think something in the nature of a neutron bomb had occurred in the past hour when a young man came through the door in a hurry. He wore cutoff khakis, black high-top tennis shoes sans socks, and a T-shirt that read Seattle Rain Festival—October through June. His hair was gathered in a ponytail; his left nostril sported a silver loop; his wrist was wrapped with a black leather band and a watch the size of a silver dollar.

  He looked at me and I looked at him. “I don’t suppose you’re Jeff Evans,” I said.

  “Sorry.” He looked around. “You the only one here?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Please tell me you broke in.”

  I looked at the open door. “Sorry.”

  “Jesus.” He looked at his watch. “Latte time. We’re lucky we still have the furniture. I’m Brian Lux, by the way.”

  “Marsh Tanner.”

  “What do you want with Jeff?”

  “Just talk.”

  “You a friend?”

  “Of the family.”

  He thought about it, then shrugged. “Good luck.”

  “When I called, someone said they thought he’d be in around ten.”

  “That’s as good a number as any.”

  He went to a desk and sat down. I asked if he was a reporter.

  “The masthead says I’m the publisher.”

  “Does that mean you own the paper?”

  “The bank and some rich guy own most of it. I own just enough to give myself a job.”

  “What kind of guy is Jeff?”

  Lux flipped on a monitor and typed several strokes. What they brought out of memory didn’t seem to please him. “I’m not the one to ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jeff and I have some problems.”

  “Personal?”

  “Philosophical.”

  “You mean like ontology and cosmology?”

  “I mean like the nature of editorial responsibility.”

  “What’s Jeff irresponsible about?”

  “Human behavior.”

  “Is that all?”

  He matched my grin. “Jeff’s mission in life is to convince people that sex without pain is like cake without ice crea
m.”

  “You mean one makes the other lots better.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds sadistic.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Two weeks ago he claimed the most exquisite form of foreplay is for lovers to pierce each other’s body with needles prior to sex. The week before that he was recommending branding.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “What it is is recklessness. And I won’t stand for it. Jeff takes a pledge to clear his stuff with me or I take him off the masthead.”

  The door opened at my back. “Speak of the devil,” Brian Lux said as he looked over my shoulder.

  The young man in the doorway was sour and impatient. “Devil, my ass,” he spat. “Where’s Crowell?”

  “Latte land, apparently.”

  Jeff Evans hurled himself into a chair, put his unlaced black boots on the corner of a desk, and leaned back. His hair was short and blond and bristly, his eyes blue and hyperkinetic, his cheeks hollow to the point of emaciation. He was either addicted to drugs or his natural energies consumed flesh faster than his metabolism could generate it. My guess was the latter.

  The boots were thick-soled and high-topped and scuffed to the quick at the toe. Weathered Levi’s and a plaid flannel shirt and wide red suspenders completed the impression that he’d just come down from the woods after clear-cutting a few thousand acres.

  “Crowell’s been hacking my stuff again,” he declared heavily, the words aimed at Lux but the look aimed at me.

  Lux wasn’t fazed. “That must be why we call him an editor.”

  “He’s making it soft. Making it beige. Making it dumb. Is that what you pay editors to do?”

  Lux remained unflappable. “If that’s what needs to be done.”

  “Well, I don’t have to take it.”

  Their eyes met for the first time, about two feet in front of my chest. “No, you don’t.”

  “You mean you’ll call him off?”

  “I mean you’re not an indentured servant.”

  “That’s for damned sure. The Weekly’s been after me for months.”

  “The Weekly has editors, too. A lot more than we do.”

  “They say they’ll leave me alone.”