Fury (6 page)

Monday, September 17
5:19
P.M.
Day 1 of 6

The mayor stopped in mid-sentence when Dorothy Sheridan reentered the room. She looked around the table and sighed. A tough crowd. One of those crowds you didn’t want to be telling anything they didn’t want to hear, which was, of course, precisely what she did for a living. She told eager reporters that the SPD wouldn’t be releasing information anytime soon. She told shocked survivors that the remains of their loved ones couldn’t be released until the lab guys were finished. She peered straight-faced into banks of cameras and claimed the department was developing leads when she knew damn well they weren’t. Still, this was a rough crowd. Messenger murderers all. Another sigh. “I’ve got a live one out there, folks. Guy named Corso from the
Sun
.”

“Where’s Hopkins?” Chief of Police Ben Kesey demanded. Kesey was fifty-three, with a great shock of white hair combed straight back. A master politician, given to wearing his dress blues as a way of maintaining contact with his officers in the streets, who whispered that he looked like a rear admiral and were so moved by his humility they’d given him a vote of no confidence at the last two union meetings.

“Looks to me like they’ve sent in the first team,” Sheridan said. “This guy Corso is that famous reporter Natalie Van Der Hoven hired after he got canned from the
New York Times
for fabricating a story. He writes books these days.”

“A reporter who writes fiction,” the mayor mused. “How redundant.”

Mayor Stanley Seifort had a scholarly look. Wide, expansive face and enough bare forehead to post bills on. Like his most recent predecessors in the mayor’s office, Seifort was, other than possessing a zealous desire to make Seattle into Perfect City, USA, totally devoid of politics.

Sheridan continued to stand behind her chair. “With all due respect, Your Honor, please take my word for it, fact or fiction, credibility or no credibility, this guy is going to be a pain in the butt.”

“Why’s that?” Seifort asked.

“Because he’s not housebroken. We could have asked Nathan Hopkins to hold off on the story and he would have kept it to himself for a day or two. Not this Corso character. He’s the type who’s never going to be paper-trained. I can tell.”

“Why do we have to tell him anything?” Chief Kesey asked. “Tell him to get the hell out of the building.”

Dorothy Sheridan worked to keep the impatience out of her voice. Although she was a civilian employee of the SPD, technically Kesey was still her boss. She pictured her daughter Brandy in her new braces. She’d had a migraine for a day and a half after finding out that eighty percent of the braces was going to come out of her own pocket. Had to lie on her bed with a cold rag pressed to her forehead, thinking positive thoughts, picturing her retirement, chanting “twelve down…eight to go.” She chose her words carefully. “Because the
Sun
is going to press in the morning with Leanne Samples’s new story. We have to tell him something. Either that or he prints that we had no comment.”

“So…tell him no goddamn comment,” the chief snapped.

“I’m not sure we want to do that,” Dorothy said.

“Why in hell not?” the chief demanded. “Has it gotten to the point where we can’t even issue a simple ‘No comment’?”

Dorothy was still trying to compose a sentence that did not contain the words “Walter Leroy Himes” when the cute little ADA started waving his arm. Thank God.

Sitting at the center of the long table, Timothy Beal raised his hand like he was in grammar school. “May I say something?” he asked.

Sheridan thought, Go for it, mullet head.

When nobody objected, Beal spoke. “We’ve been talking about this for an hour and I haven’t heard so much as a whisper of the name Walter Leroy Himes. The guy who’s scheduled to die by lethal injection less than a week from now. Why is that?”

Sheridan watched as Chucky Donald, who sat directly across from the ADA, winced, as if to say, “Wrong question, dweebus. Bite your tongue.” Donald was Kesey’s boy. Said to be in line to make captain. Maybe the youngest in history.

Thirty-eight hundred bucks for braces. She’d called her rotten ex. Asked him to pony up some of the cash, reminded him that Brandy was, after all, his kid too…. But, you know, the demands of a new family, two kids under three…besides which, his paying for braces wasn’t in the divorce contract—you’re the one who wanted sole custody—he’d have to discuss it with Sheila and you know how Sheila feels about…what was a guy gonna do? You understand.

The chief leaned forward, looked down the table at the young ADA. “Listen, Mr. Beal, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Walter Leroy Himes. What I care about is maintaining the credibility of my department and making damn sure that a highly sensitive, ongoing investigation is not going to be compromised by—”

A shout from the hall broke his train of thought. The conference room door opened. A tall man with a black ponytail stepped into the room, closing the door before turning to the assembled multitude. He showed his perfect teeth and spoke. “Oh, excuse me. I was looking for the men’s room,” he said.

Bennett Hawes had his notepad out. “Gimme those names again.”

Corso counted off on his fingers. “Hizhonor the mayor. Chief Kesey. Dorothy Sheridan and a couple of her assistants in public affairs. I don’t know their names. ADA Beal, who’s the one Leanne originally told her story to. A nasty cop named Densmore. Another cop named Donald. Charles Donald. A lieutenant from the East Precinct who just happens to be not only one of the arresting officers in the Himes case, but is also the officer to whom Himes supposedly confessed.”

“Spelled like the duck?” Hawes asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who else?”

“That bald guy who’s always standing behind the mayor in photographs.”

“Marvin Hale. He’s the district attorney,” Mrs. V. said.

“That it?” Hawes asked.

“That’s all of them,” Corso said.

“And you’re sure that Miss Samples was the subject of the conversation?”

“Positive.”

Hawes looked to Mrs. V. “We’ll run the meeting and the refusal to comment as a sidebar to the Samples story.”

“I like it,” she said.

Hawes snapped his notebook shut. He almost smiled. “So what happened after you claimed you were looking for the john?”

Dorothy Sheridan gestured toward Corso. “The aforementioned Mr. Corso,” she said. “Making the aforementioned pain in the butt of himself.”

The mayor rubbed his chin and whispered over his shoulder to the district attorney. A skinny guy in a blue suit jumped to his feet, sending his chair sliding back into the wall. He glared at Dorothy Sheridan. “What the hell is he doing here?”

She stammered. “He…I told him to wait…”

“It’s not her fault,” Corso said quickly. “She told me to wait by the elevators. I have a very limited attention span.”

Blue Suit blustered his way around the table until he was nose to nose with Corso. His skin was oily. His mean little eyes crawled over Corso like ants. “Turn around,” he bellowed. Corso stood still. “You’re under arrest for criminal trespass,” he said. “Now turn around, you son of a bitch.”

“Andy,” Kesey said. “Lighten up.”

“It’s not trespass,” Corso said. “I checked in downstairs.” He flicked the plastic badge clipped on his collar. “See—I’ve got a handy-dandy badge.”

The guy swung his hand, knocking the badge to the floor. Then poked Corso hard in the chest with his finger. “Didn’t I tell you to turn around?” He poked Corso again. Harder. “Densmore,” the chief said.

Corso kept his smile locked in place. “You poke me again, Andy, and you’re gonna need to wipe your ass with your other hand,” he said evenly.

Sharp intake of collective breath. Dead silence. Blue Suit fixed Corso with what he imagined to be his most baleful stare. Bobbed his narrow head up and down. Agreeing with himself. “I’ll remember you—you son of a bitch. Don’t you think I won’t.”

“It’s always nice to be remembered,” Corso said, still smiling.

Densmore balled one hand and used the other to grab Corso by the shirtfront.

“Andy,” cautioned the district attorney.

Reluctantly, he let go of Corso’s shirt and pointed to the guy in the gray suit. “Donald,” he growled, “get him out of here. I swear to God…Get him out of here before I…” He started back around the table, toward his chair.

Gray Suit got to his feet. Corso pulled out his notebook. “Should I take this to be a no comment, Chief?” he asked. Densmore turned on his heel and started back for Corso.

“Andy,” the district attorney said again. Louder this time. Dorothy Sheridan stepped between the cop and Corso. Her face was white. “Sergeant Densmore, please,” she said. He stopped one pace short of Sheridan. Stood there rocking on the balls of his feet. Donald grabbed Corso by the arm.

“Get him the hell out of here,” the chief shouted.

Corso let Donald steer him back out into the hall. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He had a deep, resonant voice reminiscent of a TV anchorman’s, and a first-class tan. Couldn’t have been much more than thirty. Young for a lieutenant, with one of those youthful faces that linger well past middle age. Thick, Hugh Grant hair. Very trendy. Hawes would have killed for the suit. Italian. Silk. At least a grand and a half, maybe two. Corso checked his feet. Three hundred bucks’ worth of Bally loafers. “Andy’s a bit testy today,” Corso commented.

“Lotta pressure,” the cop said. “Move. Let’s go.”

“You were the arresting officer on the Himes bust,” Corso tried.

“Come on,” Donald said, herding Corso down the hall and back toward the elevator. Luis and Carlotta were still yukking it up by the Coke machine.

“It’s a matter of public record,” Corso said. “What’s the big deal?”

Donald pushed the elevator button. “The big deal, Mr. Corso, is that you’re messing with something you don’t understand here.”

“What’s not to understand? The prime—the only—witness in the case against Walter Leroy Himes now says she lied. The guy’s six days from execution. All I want to know is what you guys are going to do about it.”

“She wasn’t the only witness,” Donald said a bit too quickly. Pushed the button again. Twice. Adjusted his tie. Pushed the button again.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Corso said. “You’re the one who supposedly heard Himes confess.” Donald didn’t answer. Just stood and watched the lighted indicator work its way up to eight. The door slid open. Corso stepped in first. Donald followed. Pushed one. “All you people care about is selling newspapers,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of what you print,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of what you print, as long as you sell papers.” Corso kept his mouth shut. He’d heard it a million times before. The truth was that as long as they got a check once a month, most reporters couldn’t care less about circulation. Reporters don’t write stories to sell papers, they write stories to get their name above the fold on the front page. If the paper has a fold, that is.

“What exactly did Himes say that day?” Corso asked. Donald snorted and shook his head. The elevator door opened. Donald walked him toward the front door. Over his shoulder, Corso caught a glimpse of the two desk cops. McCarty was beet red, whispering some very unsweet nothings in the younger man’s ear. Banging his knuckles on the desk to emphasize his point. The young guy was ashen-faced and looked frozen in place. Corso tried to slow down, but it was too late, Donald pushed him out the door into the cold, slanting rain. Corso pulled his collar around his ears and looked back through the glass door. McCarty was still red and still talking, except now he was pointing at Corso.

“What about Himes? Will he see me?”

Bennett Hawes looked like he was passing a kidney stone. “Day after tomorrow. Wednesday. One o’clock,” he said.

“A nice call, Mr. Corso,” said Mrs. V. “I understand he’s turned down everyone else in town.”

“Can we bring a photographer?”

“Yeah,” Hawes said. “I’ve got the freelancer you wanted.” He crossed the room, punched a button on Mrs. V.’s phone. “Send Miss Dougherty upstairs.” He turned back to Corso. “Her name is Meg Dougherty.” He said it like he was expecting Corso to recognize the name. “The tattoo girl,” he growled. “You remember—couple years back—girl wakes up and finds herself tattooed from head to foot.”

Corso remembered the story well. She’d been a successful young photo artist. Already had had a couple of very hot local shows and was beginning to attract national attention. Dating a trendy Seattle tattoo artist. Guy who kinda looked like Billy Idol. You’d see them all the time in the alternative press. Unfortunately, while she’s developing photos, he’s developing a cocaine habit. She tells him she wants to break it off. He seems to take it well. They agree to have a farewell dinner together. She drinks half a glass of wine and—bam—the lights go out. She wakes up thirty-six hours later in Providence Hospital. In shock. Nearly without vital signs. Tattooed from head to toe with what was rumored to be some pretty weird stuff. A Maori swirl design on her face. The boyfriend nowhere to be found. “They ever find the asshole who did it?” Corso asked.

“Not that I heard,” Hawes said.

They stood silently for a moment, as if mourning something lost. Mrs. V. broke the spell. “You’ll need to start early, Mr. Corso,” she said. “The budget won’t manage airplanes for something like this.”

“How far is it?” Corso asked.

“Two hundred forty miles,” Hawes said.

Mrs. V. said, “I’ve reserved you a company car.”

All heads turned toward the knock at the office door. Hawes started across the office. Didn’t get halfway there before she pulled open the door and stepped inside. Twenty-five or so. Six feet with an inch to spare. Pure Seattle Gothic. Black everything. Spider-lady dress down to her ankles and wrists. Doc Martens with soles as thick as bricks. Hair, eyebrows, lipstick. Everything black. She was heavy but nicely shaped. Rubenesque. Full-figured. Whatever you wanted to call it. The facial tattoos Corso remembered from the news photos were either gone or covered up.