Cast in Stone (16 page)

The
phone interrupted my imaginary breakfast.

"Jew
wann guess who'z at Jazz Alley tonight?"

"Fidel
and the Modal Marxists?"

"Not
fonny, Leo. Jew shouldn't joke like dat. De man is a tyrant. What he
has done to my country ees—"

"You
got any coffee, Hector?" "Chewer. Go on, guess."
"Milk?"

"No
till you guess."

"Gene
Harris Quartet."

"Dey
left Thursday. Jew know dat."

"You
got sugar too?"

"Why
don' I yost dreek it for you. Save jew de walk." "Who's
playing?" "Benny Carter." Now he had my attention.
"Let's go." "Second show?" "For sure."

"Jew
tink we chould call?" "Second show. No way."

"Coffee,
milk, and sugar. Dat's it? No eggs? No toast?" "I'll be
right up."

"Don'
sweat. I got some groceries for old Mees Bandon. I drorj eet bv."

"What
a guy." "Jew focking right."

He
hung up. I returned to the Sonics. After a slow start, Shrempf seemed
to be settling into his niche with the team. Averaging nearly ten
boards a game for the past week and a half. Ricky was in a slump,
though. Couldn't throw it in the ocean. Shooting less than 40 percent
for the past five games. Must be injured and keeping it to himself.
Bad news. Above all else, we needed a healthy Ricky Pierce.

The
doorbell interrupted my research. Hector dangled three small
plastic bags out from under a huge cardboard box of groceries. I
plucked them from his fingers.

"Thanks."

"I
come by nine-fifteen or so." "I'll be ready."

Between
the Sunday paper and the coffee, I was able to stretch my morning
into early afternoon. The front section. Arts and Leisure. The
Classifieds. Weekender. The weekly TV guide. Travel. I attacked
the paper one section at a time, careful to keep several sections
always restraining the recalcitrant green bag. It was nearly one
o'clock when I finally reached for and then discarded the fashion
section. Much to my chagrin, I was forced to face the realization
that, Sunday or no, I was going to have to at least try to accomplish
something.

An
hour later, freshly scrubbed and showered, I grudgingly guided the
Fiat east on Northlake, along the ship canal, sliding up to Pacific,
crossing over the Montlake Bridge on my way down through the
deserted Arboretum. I babied the car along the narrow lanes,
radio off, listening to the intermittent hissing and cracking as the
undercarriage caught, dragged and discarded an unending series of
small windblown branches while the narrow tires popped legions of
fallen pine cones.

From
under the arch of trees at the south end of the park, I briefly
emerged into the light, darted across Madison, and slalomed my way
down through the high-rent district to Lake Washington Boulevard,
where the heavy south wind whipped the green surface of the lake
into a humped and hollowed froth of small rolling whitecaps, rioting
simultaneously in all directions, driven by the wind to lurch in a
self-destructive chaos of foam and frenzy. I turned on the wipers.

Although
the rain had stopped, the airborne mist created by the disintegrating
waves showered down on the little car and veiled the distant arcs of
both of the floating bridges as I wheeled into the waterfront parking
lot. A large U-Haul truck was backed in against the far curb, its
mouth open, tongue-like ramp licking the golden, leaf-covered ground.

In
one sinuous motion, I stepped from the car into a puddle that nearly
reached the top of my sock. Before I could recover, icy water filled
my left shoe, running down between my toes and under my foot. A real
day killer. I swore, briefly considered turning around and going
home, and then swore again for good measure.

Using
the car for leverage, I vaulted my way onto a small island of
pavement. I realized now that the even yellow carpet of leaves was a
cruel ruse. The storm had turned the lot into a single large puddle,
then used the-wind-blown leaves to hide its dirty work.

Intent
on avoiding further puddles, I kept my eyes glued to my feet as I
squooshed across the lot. Walking blind, I was nearly bowled over by
a gray-shrouded desk being wheeled along the sidewalk on a dolly. The
double doors to the real estate offices had been propped open by a
couple of chrome folding chairs. Another desk on a dolly fell into
line behind the first. I stepped aside and let it pass. It followed
along in the exact wet tracks of its predecessor, like a trailing
circus elephant, joined trunk to tail. Windlass Real Estate was on
the move.

"Don't
just stand there like a bump on a log. Take that box of files."

Like
many well-maintained women, her age was hard to guess. Somewhere
between forty and fifty-five. Wasp-waisted, well-fed, a natural blond
about five-eight. Big blue eyes, pretty face. Her manual-labor
ensemble consisted of a purple hooded U-Dub sweatshirt, a crisp
pair of new 501s, a pair of Nike Airs, and a clipboard. Matching
purple earrings, of course.

"Time's
a wastin', my friend," she chided.

When
I failed to move, she looked up at me for the first time.

"I'm
sorry," she said after perusing me from head to toe. "You
must be here about the phones. I should have known. You're obviously
not one of the movers. My apologies. This whole move has just got me
dizzy."

She
used the clipboard to point toward a morass of phones, wires, and
connectors heaped in the front corner of the office, nearly covering
a flattened patch of sienna carpet where some heavy piece of
furniture had rested until quite recently.

"We
need at least the main line to be up and running by tomorrow."

She
watched with mounting disbelief as I shook my head.

"I
was assured by the company—" I redoubled my head-shaking
efforts. It worked. "You're not here about the phones either,
are you?" "I'm afraid not."

She
placed the heel of her free hand against her creamy forehead. "Sorry
again." "No problem." "What can I help you with?"
"Allison Stark."

"I've
already . . I'm sorry . . . Are you with the police?"

"I'm
a private investigator, working for the Sundstrom family."

We
were interrupted by one of the movers, a dark, heavyset guy with a
thick Stalin moustache and a five-day growth.

"We're
gonna take this load over and be right back."

"How
many more loads do you figure?" she asked.

He
scanned the single large room. Half a dozen metal desks, twenty
assorted chairs, the pictures and posters on the walls, and a bank of
file cabinets were all that remained.

"Next
load be the last, easy."

"Okay."

She
watched as the workman, unhurried by the inclement weather, ambled
back toward the truck.

"This
should have already been over," she said to his broad back.
"First they're two hours late. When they finally get here, they
move like they're on Thorazine. I've never seen—"

She
sighed deeply.

"Please
excuse me, Mr.—"

"Leo
Waterman."

I
pulled a business card from my jacket pocket and handed it over. She
studied the card, checked the other side.

"May
I keep this?" she asked.

"Please
do."

She
slipped the edge of the card under the metal retainer on the
clipboard and then stuck out her hand. I took it in mine. We shook.
She held on to both my gaze and my hand.

"Nancy
Davies," she said. "I'm the broker here. This . . . er"—she
disengaged our hands and swept her free arm over the interior—"this
mess is more or less mine."

"My
pleasure," I said.

"I'll
tell you the same thing I told the police, Mr. Waterman. Naturally, I
was shocked to hear of her accident. The death of anyone so young
always comes as a shock, but there's no point in pretending to a lot
of grief. That's not my style. I barely knew the woman. Other than
the day I hired her, I probably saw her a total of three times. She
was one of my junior sales associates for a little over a month. She
came and went as she pleased, which in her case was mostly went. She
graced us with her presence maybe a couple of days a week. Two
residential sales. A new listing or two. Several other offers.
Playing at real estate rather than being a real player, if you know
what I mean?"

"I'm
not sure I do."

"We
get a lot of day trippers in this business, Leo. You don't mind if I
call you Leo, do you?" "Not at all."

"How
nice. Anyhow, real estate has a certain ease of entry, Leo. You pass
a little test, they give you a little license. We get a lot of people
new to the workforce who have no idea what a tough racket this is.
People who think they can take weekends off, who think listings are
going to fall from heaven, people who have no idea what they're
getting into, how hard you have to hustle to make a living. Sometimes
they're just trying to show hubby that they can make money too or
maybe pay for that car or cruise that hubby won't spring for. They
come; they go. They show up at my doorstep with a license—if I've
got desk space and they feel right to me, I'll give them a try.
There's very little expense to me. Associates pay their own phone
bills."

"Then
Allison Stark felt right to you?"

She
paused to consider.

"Depends
on what you mean by felt right. I wouldn't want to give the
impression she was cuddly or anything. Nothing like that. Allison
Stark was not a person who was going to bring out the maternal
instinct in anybody. She seemed competent. That was enough."

She
stepped in closer. The musky aroma of a bit too much Obsession hung
in the surrounding air.

"You
ask more probing questions than the police."

"Thanks,"
I said tentatively.

"I
say that because, when I think about it, I'm usually pretty right-on
with my first impressions. Not always, but most of the time. I had
her figured for a real shark."

"And
you were wrong?"

"Yes
and no."

She
folded her arms across her chest and measured her words.

"I
had this feeling that there was more to Allison Stark than met the
eye. There was some quality about her ... a lack of vulnerability
maybe."

"Can
you be more specific?"

She
thought about it.

"I
guess it was just the size of the discrepancy between how she looked
and the feeling she gave off." I waited.

"She
was a cute little thing, but—I don't know— hard is maybe the
closest word. You only had to look in her eyes. There was nothing
soft about Allison Stark. Always immaculately groomed. Expensive
clothes. Nothing but the best shoes and accessories. Everything
perfect. A very pretty package, but very remote. Self-contained.
Almost like she was manufactured. Very skilled at keeping her
distance. Now that I think about it, that's why news of her accident
seemed so unreal."

"Why's
that?"

"Well
... I guess it's because she just didn't seem at all like a victim to
me. She seemed like someone who happened to things rather than
someone who had things happen to them, if you know what I mean."

"A
predator rather than prey." "Exactly," Nancy Davies
agreed. "That's it precisely."

"So
I guess she never talked about her background?"

"Never.
Absolutely nothing personal. Just how she'd been selling condos over
in the eastern part of the state. I figured anybody who could make a
living in that racket would surely survive in residential real
estate."

"But
she didn't?"

"Yes
and no again."

She
sensed my frustration.

"I
hate to keep answering like that, Leo, but, like the man says, that's
the way it is. Considering how little she worked at it, her two sales
were quite remarkable. She just didn't work at it."

"Any
idea why?"