Emerald City (9 page)

A few more yards and I'd have been going downhill. I'd have been lucky to get out alive.

I waited until I'd regained some control over my body and the shakes became occasional spasms. The incident had only lasted a few seconds but it felt like a year, every moment playing out in slow motion in my head. Then I remembered the voice saying I'd had my last warning. Jesus. He'd been serious. I opened the car door and tried to stand. My legs felt like Jell-O and I held on to the roof. For a short while I thought I was going to throw up.

After a while I thought I could walk without falling over. I wiped the sweat from my face and headed back to the store. I used the payphone to call AAA and bought a pack of cigarettes. I'd quit three years before, but I pulled the smoke into my lungs greedily and it tasted wonderful. I leaned against the brick wall of the store and finished the cigarette, letting the nicotine rush calm me.

The tow truck arrived quickly. The man tried the brake pedal, shook his head at my luck, and hauled the Pinto away to the garage. I began to walk with my grocery sacks as the rain started again. It dripped off my hair and
down my back.

In the apartment I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. The thoughts played constantly in my head, my foot pushing the brake pedal, then panic in my head.

Once I was warmed up and in dry clothes, the world looked a little better. I could hold a cup of coffee without slopping it all over the floor. Outside, the rain had eased back into a drizzle, light enough for people to throw back their hoods and walk without a care. I stepped out on to the balcony and lit another cigarette, relishing the taste.

It was almost five when the phone rang. I hesitated before picking it up, sure it would be him, gloating.

“Ms Benton?” It was a voice I didn't recognize.

“Yes.”

“This is Arnie from Blake's garage. About your Pinto.” He managed to fill the car's name with a world of disdain.

“What did you find?”

“It was the brake line.”

I took a deep breath. “Go on.”

“Look,” he said, sounding faintly embarrassed, “you mind if I'm honest here?”

“Sure.”

“I got to tell you, that car of yours is a piece of shit. It's a death trap. I don't know how long you've had it, but it hasn't been looked after.”

“Someone gave it to me,” I told him, as if that might absolve me. “What happened to the brake line?”

“It just gave way. Rusted away. Kaput. You were lucky, you'd been driving down that hill you'd have been toast.”

“So it was age?” I asked, a wave of relief coursing through me.

“Yeah,” he answered, “that's pretty much it. That and no one's ever done any maintenance on it. We can fix it, put in new lines, but it won't be cheap, and it's not worth the money. You start spending on that thing, it'll be a money pit.”

“Tell me something. Could someone have cut the brake lines?”

“Cut them?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Yes.” I could imagine what he was thinking, that I was some crazy woman.

“I can look again, if you like.”

“Please.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

I waited, pacing around the living room as far as the phone cord would allow, anxious. I was scared of what he might say. Finally he came back on the line.

“Well?” I asked.

“Look,” he began patiently, “in my experience people don't cut brake lines. That only happens in movies.”

“I understand that,” I told him.

“So I'd say they just gave way. But you put me in a court and I couldn't put my hand on the Bible and say they hadn't been tampered with. It would have to be someone who knew what they were doing, though, who could disguise it well. For me, though, your brakes just died, nothing more.”

“Thank you. And what about the car?”

“Get rid of it,” he answered without hesitation.

“Junk it?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “You want my opinion, that's what I'd do.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “You want to call the wrecker?”

“We can do that.”

I put the phone down and glanced at the mirror on the wall, sure I could see more lines on my face. I'd been hoping to hold on to the money my mom had left me. It wasn't a fortune, maybe enough for a down payment on a house before the prices went too high or for emergencies. But a car qualified as urgent. I wouldn't be able to discover what had happened to Craig if I relied on Metro buses.

“You're home. I figured you must be out somewhere, the car's not there.” Steve seemed surprised to see me staring out the window. I saw his eyes flicker to the butts in the ashtray but he said nothing. He dropped his backpack on the table and gave me a hug and a kiss. “What happened, did it break down again?” he asked lightly.

I loved feeling his warmth and the security of a pair of arms around me. It was exactly what I needed right now and I melted into it for a minute then took a long breath.

“Sit down, okay?” When we were both on the couch I took his hands in mine.

“What is it?” he asked, looking worried. “You're starting to scare me. Has that guy done something? Has he called again?” Panic was making his voice
rise.

“Nothing like that,” I assured him. “I was up at Safeway. I started to drive home and the brakes failed.”

“Fuck. Are you okay?” He exhaled slowly and stared at me. “On the hill?”

“I'm fine now,” I said, hoping I really was. “Just before, where it's flat. I was lucky.”

“Shit.” His fingers grasped mine so tightly I could feel the guitar calluses on the tips. Then I saw his eyes widen in realization.

“Was it..?”

“I asked the garage. They said the brake lines had corroded or frayed or whatever brake lines do.”

He heard my hesitation. “But?” he prodded.

“But they couldn't say for sure. They just thought it was unlikely.”

“It's an old car.”

“It was a piece of shit,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, for sure. You're certain you're okay?”

“Yes.”

He pulled me close and held me for a long time until I felt calm. “What about the car?” he asked finally.

“Junked. Tomorrow I'm going to look for something new.” I didn't want to talk about it anymore, to replay the scene in my head. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Vince's?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

The idea made me smile. Vince's would be good. It was part of our history. Steve had taken me there on our first date, an Italian restaurant on lower Queen Anne where the furnishings and the service were straight out of the 1960s, all red plush and dark wood. A Mafia boss holding court over a plate of linguine and clams would have seemed right at home. But the food was good and the prices were reasonable. It was a part of the old Seattle that was holding firm even as the trendiness of plate glass and today's specials recited by a waitron took over much of the city.

It was early when we arrived and the place was almost empty. After seven it would fill up and stay busy until closing. For now, though, we could enjoy the quiet, just the soft background of cheesy Italian songs from a crackling cassette that had been played too many times.

Later, at home, while Steve slept peacefully, I sat out on the deck with a beer and a smoke. We'd made love slowly and tenderly and I'd hoped rest would come. But the thoughts wouldn't go away. I could have died. A tiny bit less luck and it could have happened. And I was still wondering if the caller had been responsible. In five days it seemed as if my life had changed completely.

In the morning I called Danny. I wasn't about to go look for a car on my own. The salesmen were always sleazy and happy to take advantage of women who didn't understand engines. I hated having to take a man along, but it was for the best if I wasn't going to drive off the lot with a lemon. He wasn't mechanical, but he was big and he could look menacing, so no one was going to bullshit him. I'd met him a few years ago through an old boyfriend, and we'd hit it off as friends. The relationship didn't last long, but the friendship with Danny had stayed. We hit three different places before finding a vehicle that met with his approval. I made the deal, paying cash and taking a chunk out of my savings, then bought him lunch while they cleaned the car up. By noon I was back on the road in a 1985 Plymouth Horizon.

I drove carefully, slowly becoming used to the way the steering reacted, hanging back from the car in front, relieved every time the brakes caught. It would take a little while before I felt comfortable driving again.

Steve was working; Saturday was always his busiest day as shoppers flocked downtown. I'd hit a dead end on the Craig story. Someone had killed him,
but I couldn't see why, or how they'd managed to shoot him up without a struggle. Maybe, if I went right back to the beginning, I might be able to shake something loose and bring some memories floating back to the surface that hadn't seemed important before. I decided to start by going to see his neighbor, Elizabeth Heston, again.

The day had remained typical Seattle spring, the clouds a pale dove gray. The day of sunshine had been a tease; now we'd probably have to wait until July for it to shine properly again.

I took the Alaskan Way Viaduct through town, the Horizon like a dream after the sluggish handling of the Pinto. Going through West Seattle made me feel like I was in a time machine; everything was somehow antiquated, as if the surge for the future that was happening everywhere else in the city had completely passed it by. But maybe that was a good thing, I wasn't sure any more. Maybe we were moving just a little too fast.

The little dead end of Kenyon was quiet, no one working in the yard, no sounds of life from the houses. I saw that someone had cut the grass at Craig's house and removed the last of the crime scene tape. To anyone who didn't know it was just another home on a small street.

I knocked at Elizabeth Heston's door, hoping she'd be home but not knowing exactly what I wanted to ask. She smiled as she saw me, opened up and invited me in to sit in her Japanese living room.

She looked fresh and healthy in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, her feet bare, toenails painted a brilliant, wicked red.

“I hadn't expected to see you again,” she said, sitting on the floor and crossing her legs. “Would you like some tea? Japanese green tea.”

“I'm fine, thanks.” I'd tried the stuff once and found it tasteless.

“Have you managed to find your story?” Her eyes were attentive and alert and she radiated a gentle calmness from her core.

“Not yet,” I told her. “That's why I'm back. I need to ask you a few more questions, if that's okay.”

“Of course.”

“I know this might sound weird, but did you see any unfamiliar people visiting Craig in the weeks before he died?”

She considered it all deeply for a long minute. “I don't spy on people,” she began.

“No,” I said with a smile. “I didn't mean you did. I just thought you might have noticed.”

“People came and went pretty often – they had plenty of friends.” She was thinking as she spoke, drawing out the words and tracking through her memory. “Not long before he died?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“There was a young woman who came a few times,” she said thoughtfully. “I'd never seen her before. I figured she was a friend of Sandy's. I only remember her because of her car.”

“Her car?” That took me by surprise.

“It was one of those Seventies cars, what do they call them?” She looked at me questioningly. “You know, the big ones with the big engines that all the jock-type guys liked to drive.”

“You mean muscle cars?” I said in surprise.

“That's it. You really never see a woman driving one of those, I think that's why I noticed her. The motor was loud, like the muffler was loose. Or maybe
she just wanted it to be noisy.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?” I tried not to sound urgent; this was something new and useful.

“Not really.” She shrugged. “I only looked out at all because the engine made such a noise. It vibrated things in the house so much I wondered what was going on.”

“Do you know what type of car it was?”

She gave a sweet smile. “I don't think I could tell you to save my life. They all look the same to me. But it was that shade of green they used back then, if that helps. You know, on bathroom fittings and cars.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said with a grin.

“Ugly.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Puke green, we used to call it. It had been awful when it was popular and time hadn't made it more attractive. “You can't recall what she looked like?”

“Only that it was a woman driving, that's all.” She sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“No, that's something. Thank you,” I said and meant it. I felt grateful.

“It sounds as if you've discovered something,” she said.

“I might have,” I told her cautiously. “But I'm not sure what.”

“That's very mysterious.”

“I don't know what it is,” I admitted. “But I'll find out.” I stood up. “Thank you for your time.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't be more help,” she said as she escorted me to the door.

“You've been a great help. I mean it.”

Clouds still covered the sky but the afternoon had warmed a little. I walked down into Lincoln Park, watching a ferry glide away from the dock before I strolled along the shore toward the point and the outdoor swimming pool. Soon it would open for the summer, ready for the hordes of kids who'd be there every day once school was out. Past that the shoreline curved into a small bay with a long, sandy beach, woods rising steeply up the hill behind it.

A boyfriend had brought me here ten years before. It was a July day, the air still and the sun hot. The tide had come in and we'd walked shoeless over the sand, letting the water cool our feet. It had seemed like magic, a perfect little moment that I remembered clearly. I'd been back a few times since then, with different guys, trying to recapture that feeling. Never with Steve, though. With him I never wanted to recreate anything, but to make something new, and so far it had worked. I was even beginning to believe it might last. I strolled along the path. The place was always quiet, a little secret that even seemed to have escaped the locals. At the other end it opened on to Beach Drive, houses on the water, some large, others just small places that had stood for decades, most of them creaking with today's money.

A good forty-five minutes of walking brought me back to the car, the salt air still in my nostrils. Elizabeth Heston had given me something to consider, another card on the table. Had the girl in the muscle car come to see Sandy? Or had there been something going on that she knew nothing about?

It might not mean anything at all, and I had nothing that could help me trace the woman; there were plenty of those cars around town. I was going to have to go and talk to the others again, see if they knew anyone who fitted
that description. Mike would be a good place to start. He and Craig had been good friends as well as bandmates. But he'd have finished at the market for the day. It would have to wait until Monday.

Steve was already home, busy chopping vegetables and chicken for a stir fry. I kissed him and told him about the new car, sounding as excited as a teen with her first vehicle, then left him to work; the galley kitchen was only big enough for one person.

I knew nothing about muscle cars, but I had an acquaintance who might. There might be another way to track down the mystery girl. While Steve worked, constantly pausing to push the long hair away behind his ears, I gave Anna a call.

We'd met back in high school, where neither of us fitted in with any of the cliques. Anna had fought the administration to take metal shop and had ended up with better grades than any of the boys. Even back then she was ambitious, with a job bagging groceries at the store, using the cash to buy herself a car as soon as she turned sixteen. Like me, she hadn't bothered with college, but she'd put her savings into real estate back when houses in Seattle were cheap. By the time she was twenty-five Anna had happily come out as a big butch lesbian, comfortably settled with her girlfriend Gloria, with four houses she'd restored to rent out, and she was branching out into apartment buildings. I liked going over to see them; they laughed all the time and didn't take life too seriously. They were happier than any other couple I knew. Steve couldn't quite understand it; I really had nothing in common with either of them. They didn't care about music or any of the things that meant so much to me. But sometimes history ran deeper than anything.

Cars were Anna's passion. She still had her first one – a '51 Ford she'd
restored lovingly, painting it metallic cherry red and cream. The last time I'd seen her she was in a '65 Mustang that she'd bought as a wreck and worked on for three years before it was roadworthy.

The phone rang ten times before she answered, sounding rushed as ever.

“Hey Anna, how's things? It's Laura.”

“Laura!” She said the name with genuine pleasure, loud enough for her girlfriend to hear. “Gloria says hi. She's making dinner. How's the music business?”

“Insane as ever. How's life as a rich woman?”

“Beautiful,” she said with an easy laugh. “Just beautiful. Is this a social call?”

“Business this time,” I said. “What do you know about muscle cars?”

“Muscle cars?” she asked in surprise. “What's this, you trying to expand your range or something?”

“Just has to do with a piece I'm working on.”

“Okay,” she answered slowly. “Well, they're not really my thing. Kind of specialized, you know.”

“How many are still around in Seattle?”

“Christ.” I could hear her almost choke on her drink. It would be Coke, straight from the big bottle; she didn't care whether it was cold or not. “I don't know, plenty I'd guess. Lots of guys still like them. You know, that macho thing.”

“What about women?”

“There are women who like guys who drive them. No shortage of those.
But not so many women into driving them.”

“You know any?”

“Nah,” she answered with a laugh. “I steer clear of those people. You know, lesbians and macho men don't mix too well and I don't like having to hurt them. I guess you're looking for a woman who likes muscle cars?”

“That's about right.”

“I tell you what,” she said thoughtfully, “I know a couple people who might be able to help. You have any more information on this woman?”

“Just that her car's the sort of sickly green from the early Seventies.”

“Oh yeah, the puke specials. I'll see if I can find anything and get back to you, okay?”

“That's be great. How's Gloria doing?”

“Another promotion at the hospital,” she replied proudly. “Next stop will be head of surgery the way she's going. Come on over and see us sometime.” She paused. “Gloria says she'll even make that pot roast you like.”

“It's a deal.” Maybe I should make more of an effort. I glanced up to see Steve. His face was white, eyes wide, and he made an urgent slashing motion across his throat. “I got to go. If you can find anything, that'd be great.”

Steve was holding an envelope. His hands were barely able to grip it from shaking.

“What is it?” I asked urgently.

“Did you pick up the mail on the way in?”

“Yeah, why?” I'd emptied the box and just thrown it on the table, not even glancing at the letters and packages. The package he held up had both our names typed on it. No address, no stamp. “That's weird, someone must have
put in it there.”

“Look inside.” His voice was wavering and he couldn't take his eyes off the envelope. He'd slit the top. I reached in and felt something cold and metallic. I drew it out and held it up. A bullet.