West Seattle Blues (12 page)

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find more,” I told him

“He lived, he died.” He gave a weak smile. “And you’re right, I’m getting to know Jim, so maybe I ended up with the best end of the deal. Let me know how much I owe you, please.”

“I’ll figure it out and give you a call. And I’ll come see you at the Tractor.”

Dinner was waiting when I arrived home. Ian was strapped into the high chair, with something green that looked like it could have been pureed peas smeared across his face and bib, while Dustin took pictures of him. Both of them were laughing as if they thought it was hilarious. I stood at the entrance to the dining room and waited until they stopped and turned toward me.

“Cute,” I said and pulled a wipe from my purse. Apparently I’d turned into the perfect mom, prepared for everything. Ian squirmed as I cleaned him up.

“How was it?” Dustin asked.

“Depressing. I’ll tell you later. Just look at these hands,” I said to Ian, my eyes mock-wide at the mess. “What were you doing, scooping it out with your fingers?” He didn’t understand, but it was enough to start him laughing again. But underneath all the joking I felt strangely deflated and on edge. Maybe I’d really believed I could wrap it all up with a few interviews. That I could do what the cops hadn’t managed, and deliver all the answers on a plate. Or maybe I was just angry at myself for getting so involved. Whatever it was, that niggling feeling wouldn’t go away. I picked at my pasta and sauce and chewed a few slices of garlic bread. But I wasn’t hungry. Dustin kept glancing at me but didn’t ask. I went and brewed a fresh pot of coffee and drank two cups straight down.

Ian stayed in this happy mood all through his bath and until bedtime. By the time I’d read him a Peter Rabbit story and turned off the light, I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. Drained. Dustin had opened a couple of Rainiers and put them on the coffee table. I look a long sip.

“You came home with a face like thunder,” he finally remarked. “So what did these guys have to say?” he continued as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder.

“Nothing I really wanted to hear,” I answered bleakly, as he cuddled me. The bottle was damp and I started to peel off the label as I talked. “Just kind of a sad life. And I still don’t really know more about why James Clark died.”

“James?” He frowned. It had been ‘Jimmy’ before.

“That’s what he liked to be called, they told me. He had big dreams of being a country singer.”

“Just like his daddy, huh?” His fingers kneaded the flesh on my neck. It felt good.

“I guess so. Who knows? Maybe it really was all in the genes. And like his son; he’s a musician, too. Runs in the family.” I took another swallow, letting the liquid flow down my throat. “It all seems like a waste.”

“How did Carson take it?”

“Quietly. I told him that I’m not likely to find anything more, and that he needs to let it go.”

“He doesn’t want you searching up in Everett?”

“I’d already told him I wouldn’t do that.”

“So that’s it?”

“Yep. As long as he doesn’t go back up there himself.” I shook my head. “And I don’t think he’s that dumb. These days, he has people interested in his music for the first time in years, so I hope he doesn’t blow it.”

We said nothing for a while. I finally worked the label loose from the bottle, turned it upside down and replaced it on the glass. This was a stupid game I’d played for years. Five points for managing it without tearing the paper, lose one point for each tear, however small. This time I managed only three. Not bad.

“Come on,” I said finally, “let’s go to bed.”

Eight

I was listening to KUOW, the local NPR station, as I made coffee. Everyone else was still asleep, the whole house hushed and I had the volume low. I had my morning routine – first KUOW to catch the news, then switch to KCMU for the music.

It was shortly after dawn. I’d woken up thinking about James Clark, and knew I wouldn’t manage to sleep again. The newsreader was providing little more than background noise when a name caught my attention and I reached for the volume knob.

“…and police say that at this stage they have no suspects in the murder of Kyle Adams.”

I held tight to the kitchen counter. Fuck. Damn. I didn’t believe in coincidences. It had to be the same guy I’d talked to yesterday. I wiped the start of tears away from my eyes, then poured coffee. I groped to the back of a drawer, pushing my way through the clean dish towels until I found the pack of cigarettes and lighter.

I’d quit smoking as soon as I discovered I was pregnant and hadn’t touched one until Ian was born. Now they were kept just for emergencies. When something hit me hard, or I felt stressed, I would have one. That was what I told myself, anyway. Right now I believed it. Outside on the deck, I lit up and drew in the smoke, letting the buzz hit my brain. Kyle was dead just a few hours after talking to me about James Clark. Carson had been shot while asking questions. Something was going on and it scared the hell out of me.

I scanned through the channels on TV, looking for local news. When I found nothing, I went across the dial on the radio until I found something more, listening carefully.

There wasn’t much, just a short item. He’d been shot downtown, in an alley between First and Second Avenues at around 11:00 pm. No witnesses.

By eight o’clock I was still a bag of nerves. Even giving Ian his morning breast feed hadn’t calmed me; instead my nipples felt sore and awkward. I caught another full news bulletin, but it didn’t reveal much more. As the clock clicked onto the hour, I picked up the phone and called Carson. It rang five times before he answered with a sleepy hello.

“It’s Laura.”

“Hey.” He sounded groggy. “What is it?”

“That guy I talked to yesterday was murdered last night.”

“Oh, man.” He was suddenly alert.

“Someone shot him. He wasn’t a bad guy, just…” A little lost, perhaps. He’d spent a life too close to the edge, and finally someone had pushed him over. “I’m going to the cops. I’ve got to. And that means I have
to tell them about working for you.”

“That’s fine,” he agreed, his voice deep and slow with sorrow. “If they come down here, I’ll tell them what I know.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry. I never thought there’d be anything like this. I didn’t want anyone else to die.”

“I know that,” I told him gently.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into all this.”

“You didn’t,” I reminded him. “I’m the one who decided to do it, remember?” Maybe it wasn’t completely true; he’d worked on me, persuaded me. But the final choice had been mine. I’d walked in with my eyes wide open. “But this has got to be the end of it, Carson. Not just for me but for you, too.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a sigh. “I guess you’re right.”

An hour later I parked on Pine, a couple of blocks from East Precinct. I felt bad at leaving Ian with Dustin again, but I had to do this. Not just for Kyle but for myself. Anything I could do that might help solve the murder took me some way out of its shadow.

I waited in the lobby for fifteen minutes. The area smelled of old vomit and fear, with hard plastic seats, old notices on the walls, the windows looking out toward the street and freedom. Finally a detective came to escort me upstairs. Detective Andersen seemed too young for the job, his suit too big, the haircut too new. He barely looked old enough to shave every day. My mind slipped back, hearing my father say you knew you were getting old when the cops and the doctors were younger than you. Had I gotten old without even noticing?

Sitting by his desk, I laid it all out for him, watching his pen rush across the paper as he took notes. As I finished, he looked up at me.

“You think this is all connected with--” he flipped back through his scribbles he’d made “--Carson Mack looking for his son?”

“I think it might be.” I chose my words carefully. I desperately wanted to convince him but I didn’t want to sound like a lunatic or an obsessive. “Carson was up in Everett for a while, trying to find out about his son. A few nights ago someone up there shot him in the leg.”

Andersen exhaled slowly. The collar of his shirt was definitely too big for his neck, the knot awkward on his tie. I wanted to reach across and straighten it for him.

“They haven’t caught anyone?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I can check that out,” he said with a brief nod. “He’s okay?”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to go to him if you want to interview him.” He noted down the address. “He can’t move too well at the moment.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll go down there myself.” I warmed to him a little. He was young and gawky, but he seemed efficient and eager. More than that, he seemed to care.

“Four years ago, Carson’s son was killed. James Clark was his name. On Pike Street. Someone shot him, too.”

“Go on,” Andersen said.

“Kyle Adams was the last person to see him alive. They’d been out together. There was someone else with them, too. A guy called Rick Deal.”

“You think they might be connected?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s a line of investigation, don’t you?”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

The last time I’d been called that it was by a high school boy bagging groceries. I didn’t like it any better now than I did then. It made me feel old.

“I may be way off base here. I don’t know what Kyle Adams had been up to. But I have to say, he didn’t seem like the most upright citizen when I talked to him. Anyway, I don’t want to be involved in any of this.”

“I understand.”

“I think you need to look at Rick Deal, too.”

“Why? Do you think he might be the killer?”

“No,” I answered quickly; I hadn’t even considered that. “I don’t think so, anyway. I know he has a record, but these days he’s quit drinking. Also, he was at work when James Clark was killed. I guess your guys already checked that out?”

Andersen sat back and steepled his hands under his chin.

“I’ll talk to him and make sure. Do you mind if I give you some advice?” His eyes had taken on a dark, serious look.

“What’s that?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing in all this, stop now. For your own safety.”

“Why do you think I’m here, Detective? I really don’t want any part of this.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, and for a moment I thought he might be flirting with me. “I thought I knew your name, and it just clicked. There was something a few years ago, wasn’t there?”

“Craig Adler.” The name felt tight in my throat.

“Yeah, that’s it. I was a rookie back then.”

“That’s why I’m here.” I held up my left hand to show the wedding ring. “But I’m married now. I have a young child. You see what I mean?”

“Of course.” He reached out to shake my hand in a brisk, businesslike way, rising from his chair. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Benton. Believe me, we need more people like you in this city. I already have your details in case I need to reach you again.”

That was all, then I was back outside. It hadn’t taken long. He’d been good, better at his job than he looked, and I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Not even ten yet. I decided to wander around Capitol Hill for a while; Dustin wouldn’t mind if I took a little time for myself. He’d been as eager as me that I came here and told them everything I knew. Kyle’s murder had been too real, too close, for us both.

I walked down to Broadway and then up past the faceless brick of the community college, toward the stores. There was a time when I’d been a regular up here. Back then I knew every place to eat or find a drink. Now I didn’t even visit the area twice a year.

A few of the upscale restaurants had taken on different names and trendier menus. Fred Meyer was long gone. But up on Roy Street the small places looked as cute and kitsch as ever. The window display at Bailey/Coy Books was slick and eye-catching, while Orpheum Records was playing some roaring Husker Dü. Only the gas station and the down-at-heel frontage of Andy’s Diner was a reminder that Capitol Hill wasn’t all gays, lesbians and wannabe musicians up here. Not every waiter was really an actor or a bass player earning a dollar while they searched for a break. There were still quite a few ordinary working families who’d lived in the neighborhood for a generation or two, and probably hated the Broadway arcade just as much as everyone else.

Thirty minutes later, feeling a little depressed, I started the car and headed back to West Seattle. I could still remember the days when being up on the Hill excited me, when I knew I’d always see something different. It had seemed like the next step after hanging out in the U-District. More adult, more open. But too many years had passed since then. Whatever edge it had once possessed had vanished. Now everything seemed a variation on the theme of money and there was far too little laughter around. I’d try again in June for the Gay Pride march, and bring Ian with me. I might find more happiness there then.

“It’s over?” Dustin asked, as I sat down with a cup of coffee. I’d arrived home just before Ian’s nap, and found sweet relief in putting him down and watching his eyes close and the little silent mutterings of his mouth as he fell asleep.