Fury (18 page)

Saturday, September 22
9:21
A.M.
Day 6 of 6

Yuppies love brunch. Especially on weekends, when, having survived yet another week in their cubicles, they come lurching out of their high-priced hovels to migrate purblind toward the bistro du jour, where, after an hour or so of waiting in the rain, they’re awarded a table at which they languish well into the shank of the afternoon, sipping oceans of latte and picking at divine goat cheese omelets.

Julia’s Bakery was packed to the rafters. Headline on the
Seattle Times
read “Judgment Day.” The
Post Intelligencer
blared: “And One to Go!” The clock on the wall read 9:21 before Corso and Dougherty squeezed inside, shuffled their way through the service line, and then, for want of a table, back out the side door into the parking lot.

Corso set his coffee atop a blue mailbox and zipped his coat. The fog had disappeared. Leaving acrylic-blue skies, marred only by occasional patches of fast-moving clouds. “You look remarkably status quo today,” he offered. Beneath her full-length black leather coat Dougherty wore a white blouse and a pair of blue jeans tucked into black cowboy boots. She’d changed her lip and nail colors from the usual black to fire-engine red. She looked like a bigger version of fifties pinup girl Betty Paige.

She glared at him and grunted.

He retrieved his coffee. Blew away the steam. She rolled her cup between her hands. “Where do we start?”

“Four crime scenes each.” He recited the list from memory.

“What about the other locations?”

“We’ll do this one together. Just to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“This one?”

“Yeah, remember? Susanne Tovar, the first victim, was found out back of here in the bakery’s Dumpster.”

“What about the hotel?”

“Buster Davis is our control group. Since he’s the one got us started on this thing, I want to call him last. That way, whatever we find out today won’t be tainted by what we already know.”

She stopped a strip of cinnamon roll just short of her mouth. “I don’t understand.”

“If we call Buster first and ask him what security company he uses, then we’ll have that company implanted in our heads while we’re out there knocking on doors. It’s better to do it blind. It’s just human nature to try to prove what you already know. When we’re all done, we’ll see how many duplicates we get, and then we’ll call Buster.”

He gestured with his cup. “Come on.”

They crossed Eastlake Avenue and stood on the sidewalk looking back at the bakery. Corso pointed north. “We’re going to have to do everything commercial within a square block of each dump site.”

Dougherty stuffed the last of the roll in her mouth. Held up a finger as she chewed and swallowed. She spread her arms. “Across the street like this too?”

“Yeah. If it’s a neighborhood like this, you know, mostly residential with its own little business district, try to do every storefront. We’ve got one woman found three blocks from the Northgate Mall. If it’s like that, wall-to-wall businesses for ten blocks all around, then we’re going to have to do the best we can.”

Together they walked to the far end of the block. Holiday Travel on one corner, Rory’s pub across the street. Corso opened the door to Holiday Travel and stepped aside, allowing Dougherty to enter first. A young woman. Thick, wheat-colored hair, held back from her face by a tortoiseshell clip. Tapping away at the computer. She swiveled a one-eighty in her chair. Found a big smile.

“I’ll bet you two want to get out of the rain,” she said hopefully.

“Sounds great to me,” Corso said. “But unfortunately, right at this moment, I don’t think time is going to allow.”

“I’ve got seven days, eight nights in Mazatlán…airfare, hotel, continental breakfast…four forty-nine ninety-five, double occupancy…plus tax, of course.”

He gestured toward Dougherty. “My friend and I were thinking about renting that vacant storefront up at the end of the block.”

“Oh,” the woman said. “I hadn’t noticed anything was empty.”

“Up past the Italian restaurant,” Dougherty said.

“We were wondering whether or not the building owners provide security or whether it was something we’d have to pay for out of our own pockets.”

“Oh no,” she said. “We can barely get the real estate corporation to fix the plumbing. Security comes out of the individual merchants’ pockets.”

“Who do you use?” Corso asked.

She pulled out a sliding shelf in her desk. A business card was taped to the wood.

“Reliable Security. In Shoreline. Same as everybody in the building. They supposedly give us a group discount.” She waved an unbelieving hand. “Supposedly gets us a discount from our insurance companies too. So, I guess it probably evens out in the end.”

Corso thanked her. She pulled a business card from a silver holder on her desk.

“Holiday for all your travel needs,” she said.

Corso thanked her again, stuffed the card in his jacket pocket, and followed Dougherty out onto the sidewalk. “At this point,” he said, “a week on a beach sounds pretty good.”

Dougherty’s laugh was anything but amused. “Yeah. I’ll break out my thong.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dougherty. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the very flower of American womanhood.”

“I’m the whole goddamn garden.”

“I’m serious,” he said.

“So am I,” she said. She bopped him on the arm. “But thanks for the thought, big fella. What now?”

Corso pointed across the street. “Let’s start over there.”

They split up. Corso did the florist, Dougherty the tavern. Corso the pizza joint, Dougherty the café. It took an hour and fifty-five minutes to work the neighborhood. Corso pulled the car keys from his pocket and held them out. “You take the car. I’ll cab it.” He checked his watch. “Where do you want to meet?”

“This is going to take forever,” she said.

Corso pointed north along Eastlake Avenue. “Half a mile up the road there’s a place on the left called Bridges.”

“I know it.”

“How late are the stores open?”

“On a Saturday night? Till nine probably.”

“Let’s meet at Bridges at nine-thirty.”

5:56
P.M.
Day 6 of 6

“Move to the front of the cell.” The voice clattered through the concrete and steel, like a dry stick drawn along a fence. Walter Leroy Himes rose from his bunk and shuffled toward the light. He remained expressionless as he leaned his back against the cell door and stuck his arms out through the bars. Practiced hands snapped a cuff around each wrist. “Clear,” a metallic voice called.

The door at the opposite end of the cell slid open on greased wheels. A guard came in carrying a tray, which he set down on the bunk. “Here’s what you wanted, Walter Lee. Two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and a couple of Cokes.” He gave Himes a grin.

“Enjoy,” he said.

The cell door closed behind him with a click. “Clear.”

Himes stood still for a moment after the cuffs had been removed. Waiting for the sound of the footsteps to fade before ambling over and sitting next to the tray.

Forty yards away, in the red-zone security area, a pair of corrections officers stared at a grainy black-and-white picture. “Watch him,” one said. “He’ll touch everything on the plate, then check the room before he eats.”

As if on cue, Himes used his right forefinger to probe the items on the tray. Seemingly satisfied, he got to his feet again and took a leisurely lap of the cell, moving from corner to corner, peering here and poking there, finally checking inside the toilet before returning to the bunk.

“Like there’s somebody hiding in there with him,” the other said.

“Old Walter always acts like somebody’s gonna run up and take his grub from him. Just hates anybody watching him eat.”

“Ain’t gonna have that problem much longer, is he?”

Himes reached over and delicately slid a single french fry from its white paper wrapping. He put the end in between his lips and sucked it in like spaghetti, then grabbed the nearest burger and bit it in half. His jaw muscles worked like pile drivers as his mangled mouth mashed the burger. As he was about to swallow, Himes cast his eyes upward at the camera, and, mouth still full, opened his mouth. Wide.

“Jesus,” said one of the guards. “That’s disgusting.”

“I count myself as a decent Christian, but I can’t say I’m gonna be too sorry to see him go,” said the other.

9:40
P.M.
Day 6 of 6

On the opposite shore of Lake Union, the defunct ferry
Kalakala
lay beached in the gloom, like some festering carcass run aground by the tide. Once the pride of the Puget Sound ferry fleet, the old Art Deco vessel now lay derelict, listing hard to starboard, her hundred-car deck yawning out at the lake like an invalid bird waiting to be fed.

Corso got the waiter’s attention. Pointed at his cup. The front door burst open and Dougherty came striding in. She swiveled her head, caught sight of Corso sitting in a booth overlooking the lake. She slid in opposite Corso. He showed the waiter two fingers. “How’d it go?” he asked.

“I had no idea there were so many security companies in one city,” Dougherty said. “I stopped counting at forty.”

“The paranoia business is booming,” Corso said.

“Or how many people just flat wouldn’t discuss it with me.”

“Let me guess…for security reasons.”

“Amazing, huh?”

“Or how many businesses don’t have any type of security at all.”

She nodded. “I must have had a dozen people tell me that since the rest of the strip mall was paying for security, they figured they’d just ride along on the other tenants’ coattails.” She threw a dozen or so pages of notes onto the table.

Corso read from his notes. “Lockworks, First Response, ADT, Homeguard, Proline, Washington Emergency Services, Entrance Controls, Security Link.”

Dougherty retrieved a page of her notes and took over. “Intelligent Controls, Silver Shield, Protection Technology, Allied, Northwest, Lock Ranger. It goes on and on. How in hell are we going to sort all this out?”

“What we need to know is whether any of the companies appear on all ten lists.” He tore the first page of notes from his notebook and slid them over the table toward Dougherty. “Here’s the one we did together this morning. Now we’ve each got five.”

The waiter set a mug of coffee in front of Dougherty and refilled Corso’s. “Get you anything else?” he asked. Dougherty shook her head. Corso told him no, then took another sip from the cup and started working on his notes. Alphabetizing each site. Making it easier to compare notes. Then going back looking for matches.

Corso finished first. Ten minutes later, Dougherty made a couple of final scribbles and looked up.

“So? How many did you get?” he asked.

“Three.”

“Me too.”

She covered her paper with her hand. “You go first.”

“No. You go.”

“You first,” she insisted.

“Indian poker,” he said. “Together.”

Dougherty laughed out loud. “You’re getting silly on me, Corso.”

“Ready?”

“Okay…on three.”

“One…two…three…”

They each held their lists up over their heads. Dougherty’s read: Reliable, Metro, Silver Shield. Same as Corso’s. “Bingo,” she said.

“‘Let’s see what our studio audience has to say,’” Corso intoned.

He crossed the room to the pay phone and jimmied the directory from its metal moorings. Rasta Boy behind the counter opened his mouth to protest, but Corso waved him off. “I’ll put it back in a minute,” Corso said.

Corso slapped the book onto the tabletop. Turned to the beginning of the yellow pages. Worked his way back to H. Hotels. The Ambassador. The Atrium. The Aviator. Six-eight-two, four-five, eight-five. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“Mr. Davis,” he said. “This is Frank Corso. I spoke to you yesterday.” Corso listened. “Yeah, the guy from the roof. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Again he listened intently. “Just wanted to run a quick question by you, sir. Yes…thank you. The other day you said that the only other key to that gate was in the hands of your security company. Yes, sir. Yes. What company is that?” Corso winked at Dougherty. “Yes, sir. I sure will. Thanks again.”

“Well?”

“Survey says…Silver Shield,” Corso said.

“I’ll be damned.”

Corso fingered his way deeper into the yellow pages. Security. Flipped two pages. Moved his finger down the page: “Silver Shield Security, See our add on page 1,438.” Corso thumbed back one page. Half-page ad. Red border. “Nationwide—America’s first choice for security. Over three hundred offices across America. For instant response, call…”

Corso dialed.

“Silver Shield. This is Kramer. Your address, please.”

“This isn’t a security matter,” Corso said quickly.

Kramer sounded disappointed. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for some information on a Silver Shield employee.”

“You’d hafta call the people in personnel. On Monday. The number is—”

“I can’t wait that long,” Corso said.

“Then you’re out of luck with me, buddy. Nobody but personnel—or maybe Mr. Gabriel himself—could tell you anything personal like that.”

Corso mustered a hearty laugh. “Gabriel,” he intoned enthusiastically. “Why, I had no idea Sam Gabriel owned Silver Shield. Thanks a lot, Mr. Kramer. I’ll give Sam a call at home.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Kramer said. “I don’t know who this Sam guy you know is, but before you get going off half-cocked, it’s Vincent Gabriel who’s the owner here.”

“Jeez. Thanks for stopping me. I could have made a real fool of myself there.” He hung up.

Dougherty raised an immaculate eyebrow. “It’s scary how well you lie.”

“Owner’s a guy named Vincent Gabriel.”

“What good does that do us?”

Corso pulled up the phone book and worked his way back to the
G
’s. Two Vincent Gabriels. One down by Southcenter with a Military Road address. A strip mall wonderland. Strictly red necks, white socks, and blue-ribbon beer. The other was hard by the lake in Madison Park. Big-time, old-time, high-rent district. He remembered the yellow page ad, “Nationwide—America’s first choice for security.”