Fury (17 page)

“Like what?”

“Like how they givin’ kids a year inside for taggin’.”

“A year?”

“No shit. I know three kids serving serious jail time for nothin’ but taggin’. No dope. No resisting. No nothing but tagging.”

Dougherty wasn’t surprised. Seattle was as fat and full of itself as it’d been for a hundred years. Anything shabby had to go. You could walk around downtown and point at buildings and say, “That won’t be there in a year.” From Dougherty’s Capital Hill apartment, the skyline bristled with construction cranes, almost as if the city were under siege. Turned out, affluence was the fifth column.

“What can I do?”

“Get us some space. So we can tell ’em.”

“Tell them what?”

“That…that no matter how much they tear down, nothin’ gonna change. People still gonna be shootin’ dope and beatin’ their old ladies. Guys gonna lose it behind whiskey and shoot some motherfucker for somethin’ that don’t make no sense to nobody but him. Ain’t gonna be perfect…no matter how hard they try, how many poor people they lock up. City just ain’t gonna be perfect.”

“I can ask around the alternatives and see if anybody’s interested.”

“Somebody got to tell the story,” he said. He pulled out a pack of Merit cigarettes, offered her one, took it himself when she refused. Fired it up.

“What you needin’ from me?” he asked.

“The kid who tags ‘fury.’”

“What about him?”

“What’s his real name?”

“Bobby Boyd.”

“I need to find him.”

Torpedo bumped himself off the wall. “He doan come down here much. Doan like painting where it’s allowed. Kid’s a taggin’ animal,” he said with obvious admiration.

“You know anybody who’d know where I could find him?”

“Sure,” he said. “His two main homeboys are Tommy and Jared.” He pointed in the direction of the invisible basketball game. “Them two little shits shootin’ hoops right over there.”

Friday, September 21
7:25
P.M.
Day 5 of 6

Hear the car door. Figure it be that fat Korean she work for. King, Kin, Kim, whatever the hell it is. Stop by sometime to bring her little presents and shit. But there’s three voices. Hope like hell it ain’t the cops. Can’t hear shit through the door. A woman’s deep voice say “fury.” His mama sayin’ how he ain’t been out the house at all. They go back and forth, real quick like, but he can’t make out the words.

“Robert.” The voice. Maybe if he don’t say nothin’…

“Robert, you come down here, right now.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Must be the damn cops. His stomach contracts and the tears start from his eyes. That bitch judge told him. Gonna get a year inside like Manny, if they catch him at it again. Gonna admit nothin’. Not one goddamn thing. That’s where everybody blow it. Listen to that cop crap about how they’ll feel better if they tell the truth. End up down in county lockup givin’ it up to stay alive. Don’t tell ’em nothin’.

He checks himself in the mirror on back the door. Lookin’ nappy as hell. He pats at his hair. Just look worse. Shit.

“Robert.” Real loud this time.

“Comin’,” he calls.

He steps over the hole in the stairs. Take his time. Gettin’ his shit together on the way down. No way they gonna see him sweat. All you got to do is just be cool, fool. Just be cool.

Two of ’em. Standin’ there in the front room. Ain’t no cops neither. Big mean-lookin dude with a ponytail and one of them Capital Hill sun-hater chicks with the black all-over shit. Maybe seen her before somewhere. Hard to tell. All them Addams family hos look the same. “Yeah?”

She’s standin’ there with her arms folded across her chest, big-time pissy look on her face. “These people here from the newspaper. Want to talk to you.”

“You remember me?” the chick ask.

He don’t say nothin’.

“I took pictures of your artwork, last year sometime. Remember?”

“Oh yeah,” he say. “You come wid Torpedo.”

Before she can say somethin’, Pissy Face start flappin’ her lip. Right up in Goth Girl’s face too. “Don’t be talking about no ‘art’ here, lady.” She turn her head and lay the brow on him. Almost as bad as the voice. “What we talkin’ about here is vandalism. ’Bout defacin’ people’s property. ’Bout the kind of choices this young man is making wid his life. Choices if he ain’t careful gonna follow him around for the rest of his days. So doan be talking bout no spray can ‘art.’ Not here in my house, you ain’t.”

“We’re not here to make any trouble,” the big guy say.

“Good, ’cause Robert doan need no help wid trouble.”

“Why don’t you tell us about the yard behind the Aviator Hotel, Robert?” Ponytail say. Felt like all the blood drained down to his feet. Musta looked that way too. Next thing he knows everybody lookin’ at him like he hurled or somethin’. She unfold her arms and put a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, Robert? What’s this man here talking about? Aviator yard or something.”

He’s feeling shaky but sacs up. “What about it?”

“About the guy in the black van,” Goth Girl say. And now he feels cold all over. Got goose bumps up and down his arms. He don’t say nothin’.

She’s sweepin’ her head around like a searchlight. “What’s this van?” she want to know. “This guy?” The big guy ask her if she been watchin’ the thing wid that Himes guy on the tube all week. She say “yeah” ’bout what a shame they got to let him go and all. How the likes of that Himes fella ought to be either dead or in the jailhouse.

Big guy say, “We think maybe Robert got a look at the real killer,” and all of a sudden, it sound like somebody pulled the plug. Real quiet like. Then she say, “You know what this man’s talkin’ about, Robert? You see somethin’ like that?” He don’t say nothin’. Just tryin’ not to piss his pants. She gives him the brow.

“You know what he’s talkin’ about, doan you?”

“This had nothing to do with tagging,” Ponytail say.

Goth Girl tell him, “The tag’s already painted over.”

“Wasn’t no tag. Just some damn letters.”

“’Cause you got interrupted,” the guy say.

“You know all this shit, why you down here talkin’ to me?”

She reach over, slap him in the ear. “You watch your mouth,” she say. When he don’t say nothin’, she get all up in his face. Grab him by the chin, make him look in her eyes. “You know somethin’ about this, doan you?”

Ain’t no point in tryin’ to lie. He nods. She puts the voice on him. “You better tell these people what you seen.” She lets go of his face. “Maybe all you stayin’ out all night finally do some good for a change. Go on…tell them.”

“I seen him,” he say, “after he put somethin’ in wid the trash, he come around the front and I seen what he looked like.”

All of a sudden, they the ones not sayin’ shit.

Friday, September 21
8:23
P.M.
Day 5 of 6

“Skinny little white guy. Weird eyes. Somewhere around thirty-five or forty. Wearing some kind of blue or black uniform. Driving a primer-gray van with quarter-moon bubble windows in back.”

“Maybe a cop. Maybe not. Depending on which kids you believe.”

Corso nodded as he forked the last piece of hot turkey sandwich into his mouth. They were ensconced in a booth in Andy’s Diner, a landmark greasy spoon consisting of an interconnected maze of converted railway cars. Dougherty had long since inhaled an order of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, followed by a humongous piece of cherry pie à la mode. She sat leaning against the wall, squeaking her thumb along the rim of her water glass.

Corso washed the turkey down with a healthy swig of milk, then gestured toward Dougherty with his fork. “You remember what Buster Davis told us about the gate?”

“He said somebody must have climbed over.”

“But all three kids say no.”

“So?”

“So…he also said that there were only two keys. Said he had one and his security company had the other.”

“So you’re thinking what?”

“Security guard,” Corso said. “It fits with the guy wearing a uniform, and it’s consistent with the FBI profile. Not only is it a perfect job for a loner, but it explains how somebody could be familiar with all the different locales where the bodies have been found.”

“What do we do?” she asked.

Corso thought it over. “We call the cops. Like the god-fearing citizens we are.”

Behind the counter, a short-order cook in a stained white T-shirt was flipping eggs and hash browns. The place was deserted.

“I hate giving that Densmore asshole anything,” Dougherty groused.

“No argument there,” Corso said. “If Himes wasn’t sitting on death row and I wasn’t sure this guy was going to kill again real soon, I’d be inclined to let them figure it out for themselves.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “We can’t take the chance. I couldn’t live with myself if it turned out to be this guy and he killed again.”

Corso dabbed at his lips with a white paper napkin. Pulled his phone from his pocket and pushed a few buttons. Asked for the general number of the Seattle Police Department. Said thanks and dialed again. Asked for Lieutenant Andrew Densmore. Said it was an urgent matter of police business. Waited with the phone held an inch from his ear. Dougherty heard Densmore come on the line. “Densmore,” he barked.

“It’s Frank Corso.”

Silence for a moment, then a bitter laugh. “What is it, asshole?” the cop asked. “After tonight’s fiasco you still don’t think you’ve fucked things up enough yet?”

Corso wasn’t sure exactly what Densmore meant but said, “I think I’ve got something for you.”

“You haven’t been listening to me, have you, Corso?”

“I may have a line on the real killer.”

“I’m gonna tell you one more time, Corso. If you and circus girl so much as sniff at my investigation, I’m gonna ream the both of you.”

“Listen to me—” Corso began.

“No,” Densmore said quickly. “You got something to say, why don’t you say it to Tiffany Eyre or maybe to her parents.”

Corso felt a steel ball bearing roll down his spine. “Who’s—” he began.

“We found Tiffany this morning in a Dumpster on Union Street.” Corso had to force the phone against his ear.

“Why don’t you talk to her parents?” Densmore sneered. “If you think you’ve got something to say, say it to them. Tell ’em how you and that rag you work for muddied up an ongoing investigation. Tell ’em how we might have had the guy by now if you’d kept your goddamn nose out of it.” The line went dead.

Corso sat for a moment, staring at the phone.

“They’ve got another dead girl.”

Dougherty brought both hands to her mouth. “Oh…God…so soon.”

“Motherfucker,” Corso said.

The word had barely escaped his lips when he noticed the waitress scowling by the side of the table. Big red hands on half-acre hips. “Earlene,” the badge said.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” she wanted to know.

“Sorry,” Corso said. Across the table, Dougherty grimaced.

The waitress pulled the check from her pocket. “Anything else?” she asked. When they said no, she dropped the check onto the table and squeaked out of view.

“Well?” Dougherty said.

“He’s winding up. The killings are going to get closer together. He’s working his way into a murder frenzy.”

Suddenly Dougherty’s expression froze and she was pointing one of her black-tipped fingers out over Corso’s head. He looked back over his shoulder. The cook had come out from behind the counter. He was sitting on a stool, shoveling eggs and hash browns into his mouth, gazing up at the silent TV mounted against the ceiling in the corner of the room.

Split screen. Photo of Walter Leroy Himes. Another of the death chamber. Cut to CNN logo. Washington State Penitentiary, Cynthia Stone reporting…gold graphic “LIVE.” Cynthia behind her serious face. “We are now less than thirty hours from the event…” The screen went black. The cook dropped the remote, wiped his mouth. Spoke to Earlene.

“World’d be a better place without that Himes fella,” he said.

“Amen,” she said.

“We’ve got a problem,” Corso said.

“What did I tell you about using ‘we’?”

“A serious problem.”

Hawes scoffed. “Let me tell you about problems.” He waved his arm toward the newsroom. “I’ve got to be ready. I’ve got to pretend that Himes might get a stay. Which means I’ve got thirteen people I can’t send home on a Friday night. All of whom had plans and who now hate me, and all of whom I’ve gotta pay time and a half while they’re out there, cursing me under their collective breaths and wishing I was dead.”

“I think I’ve got a serious lead on the murderer.”

“So…call the cops.”

“I did. They don’t want to hear about it. Guess what?”

“I’ll bite.”

“They’ve got another dead woman. Number eleven.”

Hawes sat forward in a hurry. “Says who?”

His face darkened as Corso filled him in. “But the kid didn’t actually see a body,” he said when Corso had finished.

“No.”

“What was your impression of the kid?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was being straight with us.”

Hawes blew the air from his lungs. “Then we’ve definitely got to notify SPD.”

“I did,” Corso said again.

Hawes reached for the phone, stopped his hand in midair. “Maybe Mrs. Van Der Hoven ought to…,” he said after a moment.

“You ask me, our mutual popularity is at an all-time low.”

“Funny, but subscriptions are at an all-time high,” Hawes mused.

“You suppose there’s a connection there?”

“I prefer not to think about it.”

“We could go public. Save our asses by writing the story.”

Hawes rolled his eyes. “And if we’re wrong?”

“Then it’s like the Atlanta bombing all over again. The poor bastard in the van becomes the new Richard Jewell.”

“And if we’re right?”

“Then we just gave away one hell of a story.”

“At least our asses would be covered.”

“That’s the Pulitzer spirit,” Corso said.

“You got a better idea?”

“We’ve still got a full day. Maybe Dougherty and I can turn this guy.”

“And where is the indispensable Miss Dougherty?”

“I took her home. We’ve been at it since the news conference yesterday morning.”

“The news business is tough that way.”

“We’ve gotta do something.”

Hawes rocked in his chair as he thought it over. “You got a plan?” he asked finally. Corso told him what he had in mind.

Hawes winced and nodded simultaneously. He folded his stubby arms across his chest and leaned so far back in his chair his feet came off the ground. Corso watched his lips move in and out as he tried to square the idea with himself. “You know what it’s like to go to the American Society of Newspaper Editors conference every year as the managing editor of the
Seattle Sun
, Corso?” Corso said he didn’t. “I’m like”—he searched for a word—“plankton. The absolute bottom of the food chain. The bar conversation stops every time I slide onto a stool. The big-timers look at me with a combination of pity and something more like terror. As if my presence reminds them of how bad things could actually get.” He sat forward. “I stopped going a few years back. Got to the point where if one more of those guys gave me that patronizing little smile, I was going to pop him one.” He looked up at Corso. “This year’s event is in Denver, right after the Pulitzers in April. I was thinking this morning that I might just go. Maybe do a little smiling of my own.”

“Then we better hope like hell I’m not right and that he doesn’t kill again between now and tomorrow night.”

Hawes folded his arms even tighter. Full straight-jacket hug.

“Bite your tongue,” he said.