Fury (26 page)

Tuesday, September 25
6:36
P.M.
Day 6 + 3

Maybe losing a friend to a monster permanently heightens the senses. Or maybe she was merely prudent by nature. Either way, Paula Ziller was an exceptionally careful young woman. She stopped the red Ford Taurus well back in the driveway, pushed the garage-door opener, and waited, allowing first the low and then the high beams to play over the empty interior of the garage before easing slowly forward.

Once parked inside, she took her time. Corso watched her eyes play over the rearview mirror as the garage door slid down behind her. A full minute passed before the side yard lit up like a ballpark. Only then did she scurry from the side door of the garage to the back steps, her purse clutched in one hand and her keys at the ready in the other. Little white Mace canister dangling from the key chain. In door. Out lights.

The radio in the rented Ford Explorer had already been tuned to the Portland NPR jazz station when Corso got it from the airport. He’d left it that way. Tuesday-night blues program. Hank Crawford and Jimmy McGriff jamming on “The Glory of Love.”

Corso groaned as he stretched. His back was tight. He thought of Dougherty. Remembered the taste of her mouth. And again felt the imaginary draft he’d felt all day on the back of his neck, as if he’d left a door ajar somewhere and the wind had suddenly found access.

Corso checked his watch: 7:40. Two hours since he’d knocked on the front door and then peeked in the side window of the garage and found it empty. He counted to a hundred. And then again. Enough time for a careful girl to get settled and maybe take a leak. Not enough to climb into bed.

1840 Harrison Street was a small, postwar starter home. One story, probably two bedrooms, with a detached garage. The kind of no-frills home once intended to shelter returning GIs and their expectant families.

Corso stepped up onto the front porch and knocked twice on the screen door. He heard the padding of feet and then suddenly the front porch lit up like a runway. He remembered the Mace and moved as far back from the door as possible without stepping off the porch. Held his press credential out in front of him. Winced.

He hadn’t noticed the intercom speaker mounted over the front door. The electronic “What do you want?” startled him.

“I’m Frank Corso, from the
Seattle Sun
. I got your name and address from Alice Doyle.” He waited, holding the card in front of him like a supplicant and squinting into the spotlights.

A series of snaps and pops and then the inside door opened on a security chain. She was short and had at least one brown eye. Maybe five foot three in her stocking feet. Red hair the color of an orangutan. “What do you want?” she said again.

“I’d like to talk to you about Kelly Doyle.”

“Put your ID up against the door so I can see it,” she said.

Corso stepped forward and pressed the card against the glass of the screen door.

“I’m going to call Mrs. Doyle,” she said and closed the door.

Corso could sense that she hadn’t walked away. A minute passed; the interior door opened. She reached out and flipped the lock on the screen door.

“If that didn’t send you scurrying off, you must be who you say you are. Come in,” she said. Corso stepped into the vestibule.

She was built like a gymnast. Not quite stocky, but hard all over. Big close-set ears, big brown eyes, little tiny nose. Maybe a little surgery, Corso figured.

She picked apologetically at her battered flannel nightgown. “Sorry about the frumpy,” she said. “I had a bad day at work. I was going to nuke something to eat and then get in bed and read.”

“It’s stunning,” he assured her.

She looked down at the orange sweat socks on her feet. “Especially the socks,” she said. “Very haute.”

“My thoughts precisely,” he said.

She looked him over. “Are you always this easy to please?” she asked with a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

“I’m a prince,” Corso said. “Ask anybody.”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “I’ll just bet you are. Come on.”

She led him down a central hall to the brightly lit kitchen at the back of the house. Yellow fifties dinette set. Bright blue dishes and glasses inside four-pane kitchen cabinets. New appliances and sink, old linoleum and light fixtures. Ethan Allen meets Ikea.

She gestured toward one of the chairs. Corso said he’d rather stand.

She leaned back against the counter. “You said you wanted to talk about Kelly.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“But…I saw on the news that…the police killed the guy.”

“They did.”

“Then what’s to talk about?”

“It’s pretty complicated…but to make a long story short, I’m not altogether sure I think Kelly was killed by the same person who killed the rest of the girls.”

Her dark eyes flashed. “They said there was no doubt about it.”

“Who said?”

“The Seattle police.”

“You spoke with them?”

“I sure did.”

“When was this?”

“Over three years ago. As soon as I heard Kelly was dead. I called to tell them what I knew, but they said they had evidence that made it certain Kelly was killed by the same person who’d killed all those other poor girls.”

Corso spread his hands. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“Neither was I,” she said. “That’s why I called and sent the letter.”

“What letter?”

“About Kelly’s mystery man.”

“Maybe you better start at the beginning.”

“Coffee?” she asked.

He said no.

She poured herself a cup, and again leaned back against the counter. “You have to understand Kelly, Mr. Corso.” Paula Ziller sighed. “Kelly had a knack for losers. I never understood why. She was beautiful and smart and vivacious and everything most girls wish they were and yet…if you put her in a room with a dozen men, she’d always pick the loser. The guy who hadn’t had a job in five years…the guy with five kids who claimed he wasn’t married. Every time.” She waved her coffee cup. “Like on some level or other she was looking for something she just couldn’t find.”

“Like a father, maybe,” Corso suggested.

She nodded. “I never thought of it that way. But…yeah…maybe,” she said.

“So anyway.”

“So…it was right at the time I was in the process of moving from Seattle down here to Portland. Kelly had this hot and heavy romance going on with some guy.” She made a wry face. “Very hush-hush. Her mother couldn’t know about it or anything. I figured the guy must be married. One of those ‘My wife doesn’t understand me, we’ll be divorcing soon’ types.”

“Mrs. Doyle says her daughter shared everything with her.”

“That was one of the weird things about the whole deal. Usually she did. Kelly dated African Americans. She was engaged to a Chinese guy for a while.” She made a face. “All of which was okay with her mom. But not this one. For some reason, this one was strictly off-limits to everybody…even me.”

“Then how come you know?”

“Because it started to get ugly.”

“Ugly how?”

“Ugly like all of a sudden, out of the blue, he says he’s going to marry somebody else. He says it was some sort of family obligation or something. Like he had no choice. Like he had to do it or else.”

“And?”

“Kelly was crazy about him. Desperate.”

“So?”

She raised her eyebrows. “She told him she was pregnant.”

“She wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve read the autopsy report.”

She looked away for a moment and then took a long sip from her cup.

“Then she told him she was going to his girlfriend. When she told him that, I guess he came unglued and threatened her. Said he wasn’t going to let her ruin his life. Said he’d put a stop to her if she tried.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. That’s all she said.”

“And you have no idea who this guy was?”

She shook her head. “A name…no…but I think I may have seen him once,” she said. “Right before I moved. I stopped in some little hole-in-the-wall deli in Wallingford. Inside that old school they renovated into a shopping center.”

Corso said he knew the place.

“She was sitting at a table with this guy I’d never seen before. A fox. They were arguing. You could feel it in the air. The other people in the place were embarrassed for them.” She let a hand drop noisily to her side. “I backed right out the door. I felt like I was intruding on something.”

“And you never mentioned it to her?”

Her eyes clouded over. “That was the last time I even saw her alive.” She turned and emptied the dregs of her cup down the drain. “I’ll tell you though, Mr.…”

“Corso,” he filled in.

“I’ve carried Kelly and what happened to her with me every day of my life since then.” She searched him with her eyes. “I’ve never quite felt safe since.”

Corso knew the feeling. The moment when the last remnants of childhood optimism finally disappear down the drain like tepid coffee.

“So when she turned up dead, you notified the police.”

“I called and sent a letter.”

“You have a copy of the letter?”

“Somewhere.”

Corso reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a handful of newspaper. Folded both the headlines and the captions over, so only the photographs remained visible.

“The guy in the deli. Was it any of these guys?” he asked, turning the first picture her way. She shook her head. He showed her another picture. Same result. Then the third. She nearly put her nose on the paper. Pointed.

“Second guy from the left,” she said.

Wednesday, September 26
11:11
A.M.
Day 6 + 4

Wald slipped onto the stool next to Corso. Ordered a cup of coffee and an English muffin from the gold-toothed counterman.

“What? There weren’t enough shit-hole eateries downtown? You had to drag me all the way out to hell and gone?”

“I figured you might not want to be seen with me.”

“At last,” Wald said, “an area of agreement.” He took in the place. Sighed. “Nice ambience. Kind of retro-industrial waste.”

Hector’s Lunch was nestled in the shadow of the West Seattle Highway. Catering to the longshoremen of pier eighteen, it opened at five and closed at two. At 11
A.M.
on a Wednesday, they were too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. Except for a bearded senior citizen snoring in a booth over by the men’s room, they had the place to themselves.

The counterman set Wald’s order on the counter and disappeared through the door to the kitchen. “So…you and your girlfriend decide you don’t want to go along with the program anymore?”

“Nope,” said Corso. “A deal’s a deal.”

Wald took a bite out of his English muffin. Washed it down with coffee.

Corso slid the picture across the counter at Wald. Crime-scene photo. Head shot.

“Kate Mitchell. Victim number two.”

Wald gave it a cursory glance. Bit off another piece of muffin. “So?”

“Notice the lovely ear tag.”

“The accessory no girl should be without.”

“Here’s the SPD list of what’s supposed to be in the bag: ‘one watch, Timex; one gold bracelet; one gold cross and chain; two toe rings; one plastic ear tag, ovine.’ Here’s Dougherty’s picture of what’s
actually
still in Kate Mitchell’s evidence file. Day before yesterday. Two toe rings. A gold cross and chain, and a gold bracelet, and a wristwatch.” He waited. “No ear tag.”

More muffin, more coffee. “She musta missed it,” the cop insisted.

Corso plopped two more pictures on top of the first. “Here’s two other angles. No ear tag. She didn’t miss it.”

This time Wald studied all three photos, then turned them upside down on the counter. “Anything could have happened. Maybe it got sent for testing and never got returned. Maybe it’s in somebody else’s file. Who the fuck knows?”

“Whoever took it out of the file knows.”

Wald’s posture stiffened. The implication was clear. The SPD property room wasn’t exactly the public library. “Now why would anybody want to do a thing like that?”

“So they could accessorize Kelly Doyle with it.”

Wald stopped mid-munch. “To what purpose?” he asked tentatively.

“To make damn sure she was listed as a Trashman victim.”

“Who says she wasn’t?”

“I do.”

He finished chewing. Finished the coffee. Looked Corso in the eye.

“You got somebody specific in mind? Or you just talking out your ass?”

“I’ll tell you a little story, and then you tell me.”

“Have at it.”

“I talked to a woman named Paula Ziller last night. She’s a securities analyst, lives down in Portland. Used to be Kelly Doyle’s best friend.” Wald stopped swirling the dregs of his coffee and locked his eyes on Corso, as if daring him to continue. Instead, Corso pulled two pieces of folded paper from his coat pocket. Held them between his middle and index fingers and offered them to the cop. Wald pulled his head back, as if Corso was trying to hand him a weasel. Then finally reached out and plucked the pages from Corso’s fingers. Flattened them on the counter and began to read. He read both pages once and then started at the beginning and went through them again.

“Sound like anybody we know?” Corso asked.

“Sounds like a whole lotta people.”

“That letter isn’t in Kelly Doyle’s file.”

“How—” he began.

“I’ve got a copy of the file, remember? You and I xeroxed it with our own little hands.”

Wald went silent.

“You know her father?” Corso asked.

“The Doyle girl?”

“Yeah.”

“He was just before my time. I hear he went sideways with his piece.”

“The Ziller woman says Kelly Doyle dated most of the known world and none of it was a problem for her mother. Both she and the mother claim they were real close. Shared everything.”

“I’m touched. I really am, but you got a point here, Corso?”

“Mama Doyle told me there was only one kind of man her daughter best never bring home.”

“What kind was that?”

“A cop.”

Wald shrugged and turned away. “Who can blame her? I’m bettin’ my wife feels the same way about our daughters.”

Wald winced when Corso pulled a newspaper photo from the same pocket.

“I showed the Ziller woman this.”

Wald looked like he wanted to close his eyes and put his fingers in his ears.

“She says the second guy on the left is the guy she saw Kelly Doyle arguing with, a week before she died.”

Wald shot the photo a quick glance and then pulled a napkin from the dispenser and dabbed at his lips.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he muttered.

“I want to see the property room log books for the two days between when Himes was arrested and Kelly Doyle was found.”

Wald blew a long whistle. Scratched the back of his neck.

“You realize what you’re asking me to do?”

“I’m asking you to put a murderer where he belongs.”

“Says you.”

“We can sure as hell find out, now can’t we?”

“There’s gotta be some other explanation.”

“I’m all ears, Wald. What you got in mind?”

He used his forefinger to pick at the sore on his lip. “Lotta people have access to the property room.”

“Do they all sign in?”

“As far as I know.”

“And they have to sign out for specific items. Just like you and I had to do the other day.”

“Far as I know.”

“Then why not have a look?” Before he could object, Corso went on. “If you’re right and you have a look and his name’s not there, then we can let this whole thing settle. If you find what I’m saying you’re going to find, then it’s a grounder, right? I mean…what are the chances? We’ve got a two-day time window from the day Himes was arrested till the day Kelly Doyle was found. How many people can have signed out for that particular piece of property, within that period of time?”

“And if it’s there?”

“Then have a look at the sign-outs for Kelly Doyle’s file. If we get a doubleheader, then it’s a slam dunk. We explain all the ten brides stuff. We explain the missing set of clothes. We explain the missing tag and the letter. Neat as can be. End of story. Our boy inherits Himes’s seat on the gurney.”

Wald wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

“This is bad juju, Corso,” he said. “In case you forgot, we got a funeral for a dead cop this afternoon.” He wagged a finger Corso’s way. “A cop who, at the time of his death, was my partner.” He paused to let it sink in. “We got a general public still wants to fry Walter Himes. A million people who don’t give a rat’s ass we took the real perp down. They still want Himes dead. Period.” He waved a thick hand. “Instead, they turn on the tube and there’s Himes sitting up in Harborview on their dime. Stuffin’ his face and talking to the press about what he’s gonna do with all the money he gets from the city.” He waved again. “Downtown is like a fucking circus. Kesey tried to fire a secretary for dripping coffee on his desk. Everybody is out of their minds. Scared shitless.” Wald looked away. “I’ve got eighteen years of my life into this. I’m thirty-six hours from being promoted to lieutenant when I really ought to get fired or sent back to foot patrol and, all of a sudden, the whole department looks like a joke. A sideshow. Like we’re the fucking Keystone Kops or something.”

“You know I’m right,” Corso said.

“Oh…you’re a mind reader now too. You know what I’m thinking.”

Wald’s face was blank, but the tips of his ears were bright red.

“Holy Mary mother of God,” he said. Checked his watch.

He threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. Pinned Corso with his glare.

“Shift changes at twelve-thirty. I’ll have a look then, but I’m telling you, man, I hope to God you’re wrong,” he said.

“Tell you the truth, Wald, I kinda hope so too. This story doesn’t need any more twists and turns.”

Wald jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets. “Gimme a number. I’ll call you after the funeral.”

Corso watched him leave. Pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed Dougherty’s number again. Same deal. Just rings forever. Unplugged.

The counterman reappeared; he pulled a gray plastic tub from beneath the counter and set Wald’s dishes inside. “How’s the chili?” Corso asked the kid.

“Canned,” the kid said with a glint.

“Gimme a bowl and a large glass of milk.”