The line at the Starbucks on Madison was long, but almost every order was to go. I found a seat near the window and waited with my latte, betting that Kyle wouldn’t show. But he appeared right on time, clean and shaved and in clothes that didn’t stink, almost looking like a different person.
“Hey,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
I bought him a double shot and a refill for myself. Kyle seemed more alert, eyes sharp and focused. His face was a shade too worn to be handsome, but he probably made a few women look twice.
“You knew James Clark? Jimmy Clark?” I asked.
“It was always James,” he told me, “he never used Jim or Jimmy. That’s what he liked.” That chimed with what everyone else had called him. He sipped the coffee. “Yeah, we were buds. We’d have a drink when he was down here.”
“How often was that?”
He shrugged. “Whenever he had something to do in Seattle. It’s not like he had a schedule for being here.” He pulled a pack of Winstons from his pocket and lit one.
“What kind of work did James do?” I was curious to see if he gave a similar answer to Rick Deal.
“This and that. He dealt a little, you know.” He paused to see if I understood what he meant. I nodded.
“What else?”
“Things.” The tentative way he said it made me smile.
“You’re safe,” I told him. “I’m not a cop.”
“I know that, honey. I can tell one of them a mile away.” The way he called me honey made my hackles rise a little. It didn’t matter who said it; it never sounded good. I waited a moment and calmed myself.
“So what was James like?” It was a good enough question to lead to others.
“A good guy,” he said after a moment. “Pretty laid-back. Liked to laugh. An eye for women.” From the way his eyes darted around, resting on the nurses and receptionists who passed through, James wasn’t the only one who liked women.
“Did you ever meet his wife or son?”
Kyle shook his head. “I knew he had a wife. They were divorced, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“And he really never mentioned the kid. But that’s not why we got together, way back. We had a good time. There was him and me and this other guy.”
“Rick,” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered, looking surprised I knew the name. “You’ve seen him?”
“Yesterday. I’ve known Rick for years, around the clubs and when he was in bands.”
“He told me about all that,” Kyle said, and started laughing. “He really was in bands?”
“Yeah, quite a few of them.” I tried to count and managed six. “Must be about ten years ago, now.”
“Damn. I always figured he was bullshitting me. He never seemed like the band type.”
“He was. Big time. He said James had started playing, too.”
“Yeah… Wow, I’d forgotten about that. He mentioned it a couple times. I never really paid attention. He always had something going on, and mostly it never came to anything.”
“He played a few gigs, I heard.”
Kyle shrugged. James had probably told Rick about that, since the two of them had similar pipe dreams. Out of curiosity I asked, “What do you do, Kyle? For work.”
He gave another eloquent shrug. The conversation was starting to go downhill. I needed to find out a few more things before he lost interest altogether.
“What happened the night James died?”
“The police already asked me all this.” Kyle said.
“I’m sure they did. But they never caught whoever did it,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” he agreed with a slow nod. “How come James’s dad is using a chick to ask questions?”
I gave him a sweet smile and bit back what I really wanted to say. “Because he wanted someone who could find answers. I’m good at asking questions and putting the pieces together.” He could make whatever he wanted out of that. “So, what happened? Were you out with him that night?”
“Early on,” he replied after a moment. “We were down at the Mirror, by the market. Him and me and Rick. Then Rick had to head off to work and I decided to come on home. That was about nine. I don’t know what happened after that.”
It was probably exactly what he’d told the police four years before. It fitted with everything Rick had told me, but that didn’t mean it was all true. It sounded too easy; it let everyone off the hook. I stared hard at him but he didn’t blink. It was obviously pointless. Kyle wasn’t going to suddenly break down and tell me more.
“Anything else you can remember?”
“Nope,” he replied, and I still couldn’t be sure whether he was telling the truth or not.
“Thanks.” I stood up. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“That everything?”
“Pretty much.”
It took almost forty minutes to reach Beach Drive. Each time, the trip from downtown seemed to take longer, the roads always busier and busier. The Seattle I’d grown up with, where traffic flowed free and easy, was nothing more than a faint memory. Now it was all out of state license plates and people who needed to be somewhere now. I parked behind Carson’s El Camino, then got out and smelled the fresh air. After all the exhaust fumes it felt like freedom.
Carson was sitting out on the porch, his wounded leg extended, the guitar propped beside him.
“Been playing?” I asked
“It passes the time,” he said with a shrug. “Things move pretty slow when you can’t move around too well. Besides, I figured I’d better have a new song or two for this gig.”
“You’re still going ahead with that?” I’d hoped he would, but after the shooting I wasn’t sure.
“Why not? The leg doesn’t stop me playing.” After some enforced time at home, his features had relaxed, the lines around his eyes and mouth no longer quite so sharp.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“It hurts like a bitch,” he replied with a laugh. “But as soon as I get ready to cuss it, I think about my son. That shuts me up pretty fast. And the drugs help.”
“Kyle didn’t have too much to add.”
Carson had been gazing out at the Sound, watching it lap peacefully against the shore. He turned his head slowly to look at me. “Nothing at all?”
“Honestly, no. But it seems as if he didn’t know James had any real musical ambitions. That seemed to be just between him and Rick Deal.”
He kept staring into the distance. “I wish I could have heard him.”
“I doubt he recorded anything.”
“Yeah, but you know what it’s like.” He gave an empty smile. “You always want what you can’t have.”
“We’ve taken it as far as we can, Carson.”
“No other names?”
“No. And I’m not going to Everett. Don’t even ask.”
“That makes two of us,” he agreed, chuckling and then shaking his head. “I guess that’s it.”
“It is.”
“Those guys, were either of them around when James died?”
“They said they left him earlier in the evening.”
“Do you believe them?” Carson asked.
I considered Rick and Kyle. “I don’t know. They have their stories set. And there’s been a lot of time since then for it to seem real to them. After so long, it probably doesn’t even matter.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “It always matters.”
“Just let it go, Carson. You’re never going to know.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You know I am.” I leaned against a post and took one of his cigarettes. The taste of it was sharp and sent a buzz through my brain. “There’s nowhere else to look. We’re done.”
“I know. I just don’t want to admit it.”
“You need to. We’ve given it a good shot.”
“You have,” he corrected me. “I’m grateful to you, Laura.”
“You know that Higher Power thing
?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Give it up to that. You’re not going to bring him back. You’re not going to know him. Even if you did, you probably wouldn’t like him.”
“He’s my flesh and blood.”
“He’s never been yours, Carson. That girlfriend of yours made sure of that. You’ve got your grandson now, so something good’s come out of it. Maybe better than having your son, even. Jim seems like a good kid.”
“Better than a small-time crook?”
“Pretty much.” I hadn’t wanted to say it that bluntly, and it was better coming from him. “Look, you’re never going to find whatever it is that you want to uncover. Not without maybe getting killed yourself - or me. The cops didn’t manage it, so you might do better to just let history float out on the tide. You can’t change it.”
“I know. It rips me up, that’s all.”
I reached across and put my hand on his arm. He seemed like someone who’d spent so long alone that he needed a little human contact.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find more,” I told him
“He lived, he died.” He gave a weak smile. “And you’re right, I’m getting to know Jim, so maybe I ended up with the best end of the deal. Let me know how much I owe you, please.”
“I’ll figure it out and give you a call. And I’ll come see you at the Tractor.”
Dinner was waiting when I arrived home. Ian was strapped into the high chair, with something green that looked like it could have been pureed peas smeared across his face and bib, while Dustin took pictures of him. Both of them were laughing as if they thought it was hilarious. I stood at the entrance to the dining room and waited until they stopped and turned toward me.
“Cute,” I said and pulled a wipe from my purse. Apparently I’d turned into the perfect mom, prepared for everything. Ian squirmed as I cleaned him up.
“How was it?” Dustin asked.
“Depressing. I’ll tell you later. Just look at these hands,” I said to Ian, my eyes mock-wide at the mess. “What were you doing, scooping it out with your fingers?” He didn’t understand, but it was enough to start him laughing again. But underneath all the joking I felt strangely deflated and on edge. Maybe I’d really believed I could wrap it all up with a few interviews. That I could do what the cops hadn’t managed, and deliver all the answers on a plate. Or maybe I was just angry at myself for getting so involved. Whatever it was, that niggling feeling wouldn’t go away. I picked at my pasta and sauce and chewed a few slices of garlic bread. But I wasn’t hungry. Dustin kept glancing at me but didn’t ask. I went and brewed a fresh pot of coffee and drank two cups straight down.
Ian stayed in this happy mood all through his bath and until bedtime. By the time I’d read him a Peter Rabbit story and turned off the light, I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. Drained. Dustin had opened a couple of Rainiers and put them on the coffee table. I look a long sip.
“You came home with a face like thunder,” he finally remarked. “So what did these guys have to say?” he continued as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder.
“Nothing I really wanted to hear,” I answered bleakly, as he cuddled me. The bottle was damp and I started to peel off the label as I talked. “Just kind of a sad life. And I still don’t really know more about why James Clark died.”
“James?” He frowned. It had been ‘Jimmy’ before.
“That’s what he liked to be called, they told me. He had big dreams of being a country singer.”
“Just like his daddy, huh?” His fingers kneaded the flesh on my neck. It felt good.
“I guess so. Who knows? Maybe it really was all in the genes. And like his son; he’s a musician, too. Runs in the family.” I took another swallow, letting the liquid flow down my throat. “It all seems like a waste.”
“How did Carson take it?”
“Quietly. I told him that I’m not likely to find anything more, and that he needs to let it go.”
“He doesn’t want you searching up in Everett?”
“I’d already told him I wouldn’t do that.”
“So that’s it?”
“Yep. As long as he doesn’t go back up there himself.” I shook my head. “And I don’t think he’s that dumb. These days, he has people interested in his music for the first time in years, so I hope he doesn’t blow it.”
We said nothing for a while. I finally worked the label loose from the bottle, turned it upside down and replaced it on the glass. This was a stupid game I’d played for years. Five points for managing it without tearing the paper, lose one point for each tear, however small. This time I managed only three. Not bad.
“Come on,” I said finally, “let’s go to bed.”
Eight
I was listening to KUOW, the local NPR station, as I made coffee. Everyone else was still asleep, the whole house hushed and I had the volume low. I had my morning routine – first KUOW to catch the news, then switch to KCMU for the music.
It was shortly after dawn. I’d woken up thinking about James Clark, and knew I wouldn’t manage to sleep again. The newsreader was providing little more than background noise when a name caught my attention and I reached for the volume knob.
“…and police say that at this stage they have no suspects in the murder of Kyle Adams.”
I held tight to the kitchen counter. Fuck. Damn. I didn’t believe in coincidences. It had to be the same guy I’d talked to yesterday. I wiped the start of tears away from my eyes, then poured coffee. I groped to the back of a drawer, pushing my way through the clean dish towels until I found the pack of cigarettes and lighter.
I’d quit smoking as soon as I discovered I was pregnant and hadn’t touched one until Ian was born. Now they were kept just for emergencies. When something hit me hard, or I felt stressed, I would have one. That was what I told myself, anyway. Right now I believed it. Outside on the deck, I lit up and drew in the smoke, letting the buzz hit my brain. Kyle was dead just a few hours after talking to me about James Clark. Carson had been shot while asking questions. Something was going on and it scared the hell out of me.
I scanned through the channels on TV, looking for local news. When I found nothing, I went across the dial on the radio until I found something more, listening carefully.
There wasn’t much, just a short item. He’d been shot downtown, in an alley between First and Second Avenues at around 11:00 pm. No witnesses.
By eight o’clock I was still a bag of nerves. Even giving Ian his morning breast feed hadn’t calmed me; instead my nipples felt sore and awkward. I caught another full news bulletin, but it didn’t reveal much more. As the clock clicked onto the hour, I picked up the phone and called Carson. It rang five times before he answered with a sleepy hello.
“It’s Laura.”
“Hey.” He sounded groggy. “What is it?”
“That guy I talked to yesterday was murdered last night.”
“Oh, man.” He was suddenly alert.
“Someone shot him. He wasn’t a bad guy, just…” A little lost, perhaps. He’d spent a life too close to the edge, and finally someone had pushed him over. “I’m going to the cops. I’ve got to. And that means I have to tell them about working for you.”
“That’s fine,” he agreed, his voice deep and slow with sorrow. “If they come down here, I’ll tell them what I know.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry. I never thought there’d be anything like this. I didn’t want anyone else to die.”
“I know that,” I told him gently.
“I shouldn’t have dragged you into all this.”
“You didn’t,” I reminded him. “I’m the one who decided to do it, remember?” Maybe it wasn’t completely true; he’d worked on me, persuaded me. But the final choice had been mine. I’d walked in with my eyes wide open. “But this has got to be the end of it, Carson. Not just for me but for you, too.”
“Yeah,” he agreed with a sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
; An hour later I parked on Pine, a couple of blocks from East Precinct. I felt bad at leaving Ian with Dustin again, but I had to do this. Not just for Kyle but for myself. Anything I could do that might help solve the murder took me some way out of its shadow.
I waited in the lobby for fifteen minutes. The area smelled of old vomit and fear, with hard plastic seats, old notices on the walls, the windows looking out toward the street and freedom. Finally a detective came to escort me upstairs. Detective Andersen seemed too young for the job, his suit too big, the haircut too new. He barely looked old enough to shave every day. My mind slipped back, hearing my father say you knew you were getting old when the cops and the doctors were younger than you. Had I gotten old without even noticing?
Sitting by his desk, I laid it all out for him, watching his pen rush across the paper as he took notes. As I finished, he looked up at me.
“You think this is all connected with--” he flipped back through his scribbles he’d made “--Carson Mack looking for his son?”
“I think it might be.” I chose my words carefully. I desperately wanted to convince him but I didn’t want to sound like a lunatic or an obsessive. “Carson was up in Everett for a while, trying to find out about his son. A few nights ago someone up there shot him in the leg.”
Andersen exhaled slowly. The collar of his shirt was definitely too big for his neck, the knot awkward on his tie. I wanted to reach across and straighten it for him.
“They haven’t caught anyone?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I can check that out,” he said with a brief nod. “He’s okay?”
“Yeah, but you’ll have to go to him if you want to interview him.” He noted down the address. “He can’t move too well at the moment.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll go down there myself.” I warmed to him a little. He was young and gawky, but he seemed efficient and eager. More than that, he seemed to care.
“Four years ago, Carson’s son was killed. James Clark was his name. On Pike Street. Someone shot him, too.”
“Go on,” Andersen said.
“Kyle Adams was the last person to see him alive. They’d been out together. There was someone else with them, too. A guy called Rick Deal.”
West Seattle Blues Page 9
