“What are you writing down?” Grant asked.
“Keep in mind I haven’t adjusted for wherever you eat on the weekends, but so far this year, I have seventy-nine documented visits to Subway.”
“That’s the best detective work I’ve ever seen you do, Benington.”
“Got a few more numbers for you.”
Grant surrendered, setting his work aside.
“Fine. Let’s hear them.”
“Forty. Three hundred sixteen. And, oh my God, one thousand five hundred eighty.”
“Never mind, I don’t want to know this.”
“Forty is the approximate time in minutes you’ve waited while they toasted your sandwich, three hundred sixteen is the number of cheese slices you’ve eaten this year, and finally, one thousand five hundred eighty little round meat shapes have given their lives during the spicy Italian genocide of twenty-eleven.”
“Where did you get those numbers?”
“Google and basic math. Does Subway sponsor you?”
“It’s a solid restaurant,” Grant said, turning back to his computer.
“It’s not a restaurant.”
On the far side of the room, he could hear the sergeant chewing someone’s ass through the telephone. Otherwise, the cluster of desks and cubes stood mostly empty. The only other detective on the floor was Art Dobbs, the man on a much quieter, more civilized phone call.
Grant studied his search results which had returned a hundred thousand hits.
“Damn,” he said.
“What?”
“Getting no love on my search. Guy was pretty quiet for a big spender.”
Grant appended the word attorney to the string and tried again.
Just twenty-eight hundred hits this time, the first page dominated by Seymour’s firm’s website and numerous legal search engine results.
“Was?” Sophie said. “That’s kind of cold.”
“He’s been missing …” Grant glanced at his watch “… forty-nine hours.”
“Still possible he just left town and didn’t feel like telling the world.”
“No, I spoke with a few of his partners this morning. They described him as a man who played hard but worked even harder. He had a trial scheduled to begin this morning and I was assured that Seymour never let his extracurriculars interfere with work. He’s one of Seattle’s preeminent trial lawyers.”
“I never heard of him.”
“That’s ‘cause he does civil litigation.”
“Still say he went off on a bender. Probably licking his wounds as we speak in some swank hotel.”
“Well, I find it interesting,” Grant said.
“What?”
“That your missing guy—what’s his name again?”
“Talbert.”
“That Talbert has such a similar work hard/play hard profile. Real estate developer. High net worth. Mr. Life-of-the-Party. How long’s he been AWOL?”
“Three days.”
“And you think he’s just off having some ‘me time’ too?”
Sophie shook her head. “He missed meetings. Important ones. We sure these guys didn’t know each other? Decide to run off to Vegas?”
Grant shook his head. “Nothing points that way, but I’m wondering if there’s a connection we’ve missed.”
The roasted earthiness of brewing coffee wafted in from the break room.
The copy machine began to chug in a distant corner.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“This is just a stab in the dark, but what sort of trouble might two wealthy, workaholic playboys such as these get themselves into?”
“Drugs.”
“Sure, but I didn’t get the sense that Seymour was into anything harder than a lot of high-end booze and a little weed. It’s not exactly a life-and-death proposition scoring in this city.”
“Women.”
“Yep.”
Sophie smiled, a beautiful thing.
She said, “So you’re theorizing our boys were murdered by a serial killer prostitute?”
“Not ready to go that far yet. Just saying let’s explore this direction.”
“And this hunch is based on …”
“Nothing at all.”
“Glad to see you don’t let your training get in the way of your job.”
“Can’t train instinct, Sophie. You’re on Facebook, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you call it when you ask someone to be your friend? Other than pathetic.”
She rolled her eyes. “A friend request.”
“Send one to Talbert and Seymour. I’ll call my contact at Seymour’s office and see if they can log into his account and accept your request. You do the same with Talbert’s people.”
“You want me to go through and compare their lists of friends.”
“Maybe we get lucky and they share some female acquaintances. Facebook is the new street corner.” Grant glanced at his watch. “I gotta get outta here.”
He stood, grabbed his jacket.
“You’re just gonna leave all this to me?”
“Sorry, but I have to drive out to Kirkland. Haven’t been in six weeks.”
Sophie’s eyes softened.
“No problem. I’ll get on this.”
Chapter 2
Construction paper ornaments hung in chains along the walls of the empty visiting room where Grant sat. Every season, the patients of the acute psychiatric unit who could handle a pair of scissors without hurting themselves or someone else made Christmas decorations for the less stable residents to paint. The results were all over the map. Some were nebulous shapes with smears of color. Others possessed the compulsive detail of a Franciscan altarpiece.
Grant closed the magazine. He’d lost track of how many times he’d perused it in the last year. Judging by the dates on the stack of National Geographic in front of him, the tradition was safe for the foreseeable future.
“That article on Russian warplanes must get better and better.”
Grant looked up to find an attractive nurse about his age wheeling a man through the doorway.
“A good waiting room magazine ages like fine wine,” he said, returning it to the pile. “How is he, Angela?”
“He’s been a perfect gentleman.”
The man in the wheelchair looked older and gaunter—or maybe Grant just imagined that. His tufts of gray hair could stand a trimming. Grant noticed a bandage peeking out from beneath the nurse’s sleeve.
Asked, “He didn’t do that, did he?”
“No, we keep his fingernails trimmed now. This is from a patient who had an episode last night.”
She parked the wheelchair in front of Grant.
The man’s eyes struggled to focus on him, but they had all the control of a pair of marbles.
“Hi, Dad.”
Angela smiled apologetically. “He’s a little more sedated than usual.”
Protocol was to let them know he was coming ahead of time so they could medicate his father. Without the cocktail of depressants, antipsychotics, and muscle relaxers, his father’s outbursts were vicious. Even now as his head lolled, padded restraints kept his wrists secured to the wheelchair.
“It’s dinnertime,” Angela said. “I can bring his tray in and feed him while you visit.”
“Is it four o’clock already?”
“Early bird special. Boston clam chowder. They like their routine around here.”
“Just bring the food. I’ll feed him. Thanks, Angela.”
She smiled and left.
Grant pulled his father’s chair closer and inspected him. Decades of violent tremors had ruined his physique, the joints and angles of his body gradually becoming more dramatic, muscles ropier, until finally the fifty-nine-year-old man looked like he might have just been unearthed from a tomb.
Grant’s greatest fear had once been that he’d never get his father back. But that hope didn’t survive the first few years following the crash. Now he feared
that contorted body. That his father’s mind might be a lucid prisoner inside it.
Angela returned with a rolling tray, and Grant waited until she was gone before examining the food. It was corn chowder. Not clam. And definitely not Boston.
“Well, she was right about the chowder part. Let’s see what we have here.”
Grant tasted it.
“Not bad. Your turn.”
His father’s eyes followed the spoon down to the bowl. Grant submerged it and brought it up carefully.
“It’s pretty hot.”
His father leaned forward slightly to meet it.
“What do you think?”
A dribble escaped. Grant wiped his chin with the napkin.
“They doped you up pretty good this time, huh?”
His father’s eyes were vacant and heavy.
It went on like this. The son feeding his father slow spoonfuls. When the bowl was empty, he pushed the tray aside. Through the barred windows of the visiting room, the sky was darkening fast. Grant could scarcely make out the stand of evergreen trees on the southern perimeter of the grounds.
He talked about the weather. How it hadn’t flurried yet. About the downtown Christmas traffic which he knew would be waiting for him on the drive home. He talked about work. About Sophie. A movie he’d seen last month. The World Series had come and gone since his last visit, and Grant gave a blow-by-blow of how the St. Louis Cardinals made a record-breaking comeback against the Braves in the Wild Card standings, culminating with their victory over the Rangers in game seven.
“You would’ve cried,” he said.
All the while his father watched him quietly through a glassy-eyed daze that could have been mistaken for listening.
Grant finally stood. Inevitably, in these moments of departure, the stab of loss would run through Grant like a sword. He knew it was coming—every time—but there was no bracing against it. His father had been a great man—kind and brave and a pillar of comfort to his children even through the loss of Grant’s mother, his wife, even in the face of his own private hell. Grant couldn’t help but to wonder what his life might have become if his father could’ve looked him in the eyes and spoken his mind, his wisdom? And still the question persisted that had haunted Grant since the night of the accident, that the seven-year-old boy inside of him would never let go—does something in the shell of you still love me?
He kissed his old man on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Pop.”
Ten minutes later, he was one of thousands on the congested 520 bridge, slowly making his way home in the early December dark.
Chapter 3
The Space Needle and the cone of Christmas lights at the top made fleeting appearances between the buildings as Grant inched his way home through downtown holiday traffic. First Avenue was a parking lot. As would be the Aurora Bridge that separated him from the kitchen where an expensive bottle of scotch waited—a gift from his Secret Santa at the precinct.
Grant turned the radio off and let his head rest against the window.
Should have cut out of work earlier.
Always ended up staying late at the hospital.
As the traffic crept over Pine, he caught a glimpse of the Macy’s star, white-lit and forty feet high. Further up, the Westlake Center Christmas tree stood surrounded by glum shoppers who had been at it for too long—beat down by the eternal drizzle, Christmas Muzak, traffic noise, Salvation Army bells, and pleas for spare change.
Home was Fremont. For Grant it couldn’t be anywhere else. In a few minutes he’d be over the Aurora suicide bridge with its high iron fences and winding down the hill into that bright artsy neighborhood on the banks of the Lake Union canal. The rest of the city was a Frankenstein of retro and contemporary architecture. Charming in a schizophrenic way. But Fremont had somehow braced itself against the last thirty years of sprawl. Something timeless about it he just couldn’t get enough of.
He found a decent parking spot a block away from his building and jogged through the rain up to the front steps.
His apartment was one of ten units inside a remodeled 1920’s townhome. Like so many old houses in the city, it had been endlessly expanded over the last century, and its bloat pressed up against the property lines making narrow alleys of the space between the buildings on either side.
It looks like you’re squatting in your own apartment.
Sophie’s words on one of her few visits to his Spartan one-bedroom home.
You live like a monk.
And it was true. If he didn’t need it, he didn’t own it. There was a loveseat that had come with the place. A floor lamp in the corner. A rug—chic and clearly overqualified for the space—which had been a gift from Sophie in an effort to ease her offended maternal instinct. The only other piece of furniture was the oversized table situated between the kitchen and the dining area. He ate there, worked there, and on rain-soaked Seattle nights like this, he hung his dripping North Face coat on the back of one of its chairs on the way to the kitchen to fix a drink.
Despite his affinity for hoagies and cheap Chinese food, Grant could actually cook and often spent his evenings preparing a meal while he waited for the whiskey-glow to settle in. But he didn’t feel particularly culinary tonight. Visits with his father had that effect on him. Instead, he selected a frozen block of lasagna for the microwave, poured the last two fingers from the bottle of scotch he’d gone through in—Jesus, had it only been three days?—and sat down at the table in front of his laptop.
Dinner rotated in the irradiated light behind him.
Seven new e-mails.
All but one were spam.
The legit message was from Sophie.
Subject: Our New Facebook Friends
Guess what? Talbert and Seymour share five “lady friends.” Two of them appear to be upstanding members of the community in overlapping social circles. The other three strike me as a bit more mysterious—racy profile pics, aggressive privacy settings which keep their pages suspiciously void of detailed personal info. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I think our next step is to gain direct access to the Talbert and Seymour Facebook accounts and see if we can find anything more concrete like direct messages to these women. Hope your afternoon was OK.
Sophie
Grant clicked on one of three links that followed Sophie’s e-mail and scanned the first profile. She was right. Not much to go on. There were no posts showing and most of the privacy settings had been enabled, limiting the given data to a name (undoubtedly fake), sex, city, and a lascivious profile pic no more scandalous than what a rowdy college girl might upload after a big weekend.
The next profile lacked the same personal details, and the sole method of contact would be a friend request. Grant felt the familiar exhaustion coming on that preempts a dead-end lead.
He took a larger sip of scotch and opened the last of Sophie’s links.
Adrenaline clobbered the beginnings of the evening’s buzz.
The profile pic was only a pair of eyes—big and dark and with accentuated lashes so long they seemed almost alien—but the sickening heart-lurch of recognition was unmistakable.
He clicked on the photo album, and with each image, felt the world reorienting itself around this new knowledge.
Grant reached for his jacket on the other side of the table and dug through the pockets until he found his phone. He made a mad swipe across the screen of his contact list. Names ascending in a blur.
He hadn’t used the number in almost a year.
Worried he might have deleted it.
Should have deleted it.
There it was.
He dialed.
It rang five times and defaulted to an automated voice mail message he’d heard many times before.
“Hey, Eric, it’s Grant. I need to speak with you asap. You can reach me at the number I’m calling from.”
He let the phone clatter to the table.
Outside, the rain intensified. It wasn’t just misting anymore.
<
br /> Grant downed the last of the scotch and slid the glass away as the phone illuminated with a new text.
On shift until midnight.
His coat hadn’t even begun to dry.
Chapter 4
Grant pulled his black Crown Vic past two idling cabs and parked at the entrance to the Four Seasons.
A bellhop with bad acne scars said, “You leave your car there, it’ll be towed.”
Grant was already reaching for his wallet. He held it up as he passed the kid, let it fall open, his shield refracting glints of overhead light.
The bellhop called after him, “Sorry about that, sir. It’s cool.”
Grant shouldered through the revolving doors into the lobby—sleek, modern, and minimally decorated for Christmas with only a handful of evergreen wreaths hanging from the walls. There was stone and wood everywhere, a dynamite contemporary art collection, and a long fireplace near the entrance to the adjoining restaurant and lounge flooding the place with heat.
Grant spotted Eric at the concierge desk. From a distance, he didn’t cut the figure of a guy who could stumble you into any type of recreational substance or activity in the city. Looked more like a law student—twenty-four or twenty-five, clean-shaven, hair cropped and pushed forward like classic George Clooney. Tonight, he wore a black single-breasted coat over a Carolina-blue vest and matching tie. Grant waited while Eric patiently gave an older couple directions to the Space Needle, and as they shuffled off, the concierge glanced up from his brochure-laden desk. Rising, he came around to Grant, fishing a pack of Marlboro Reds out of an inner pocket of his coat.
• • •
They stood just inside the entrance overhang, protected from the weather, watching traffic crawl down Union Street.
It was cold.
Rain collected in pools along the sidewalk and streams of it sluiced down the curb toward Elliott Bay.
Eric fired a cigarette.
Grant took out his phone—already had her Facebook profile pic pulled up on the browser, her eyes dark and popping, filling the screen.
He showed it to Eric.
EERIE Page 2
