The Rivers Run Dry Page 4

  “Neat freak,” Stacee said. “It has to do with the math-genius brain. She gets crabby when things aren’t in perfect order.”

  On the bottom shelf, two pairs of hiking boots were separated by a wide space, presumably where another pair of boots belonged.

  “Did she have another pair of boots?” I stepped toward the shelf.

  “Yes.”

  I pulled two evidence bags from my back pocket, gently scraping soil from the soles, working dirt loose from the treads with the cap of my pen, letting the soil fall into the bag. It wasn’t much to recover—the neat freak had dutifully cleaned the boots before shelving them—but at this point, procedure was as important as anything else.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  The tone of her voice sent a shiver down my spine, and I didn’t turn around. She sounded like a small frightened child who had woken to find a parent doing something dangerous.

  “This is just procedure. Do you know where she hiked before Sunday?”

  She didn’t reply, and when I turned the whites of her eyes were visible above the brown irises. My first impression of Stacee Warner was that she was a scrappy personality, even drowsiness couldn’t disguise it. But now a fissure cracked open, revealing a vulnerability that made me want to insist Courtney VanAlstyne was fine; she probably flew to Vegas again. No ransom note, no body; no traces from the dogs. But I didn’t. Once upon a time, I received my own bad news, and among the worst things people said were platitudes. Your father is probably fine, there must be some mistake, I’m sure it’s going to be okay. Words of supposed comfort stung more than outright disregard, because in tragedy if you doubt the depths of darkness you run the risk of robbing the grieving of their love.

  “You—you think she’s dead.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  After taking the samples, I replaced the boots on the wood shelf and marked the bags with a Sharpie. I thanked Stacee for her time, gave her my card.

  It was 11:00 a.m.

  And Stacee Warner was wide-awake.

  The University of Washington’s campus stretched from one body of water to another, Lake Washington to Lake Union, forming one of the largest colleges in the Northwest. Known simply as “The U,” it boasted top-ranked medical and law schools, and alumnae wore straight faces when they said God was a Husky.

  The UW’s math library was located in Padelford Hall and on Wednesday afternoon the only person inside was a young Asian man at the reference desk. He hadn’t been working on Sunday, he told me, but agreed to find the librarian who was and have him or her call the number on my card.

  I took the stairs one floor up. The halls were quiet, the students apparently outside for lunch in the sun. Professor Mark Wolper, Courtney’s advisor, had his office door cracked six inches, and I could hear his voice rising and falling. When I glanced into the opening, he was hunched over a desk bisected by stacks of paper. His worn cotton T-shirt stretched across a rounded spine, his knobby vertebrae looking like a string of pillow lava. I stood in the hallway, waiting for the phone conversation to end, but after ten minutes, I knocked on the jamb to indicate my presence.

  He stopped mid-sentence, head swiveling. “Yeah, what?”

  I stepped inside. The phone rested in its base.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Are you in the 102 class? Because we have tutors for you girls.”

  “No, sir. I’m with the FBI.”

  “The what?”

  I opened my credentials case. “Special Agent Raleigh Harmon.”

  “FBI.” He snorted. “You want to ask about my Arab students, that it? Well, I’m not talking.”

  His gray eyes were flat until I mentioned Courtney’s name. Then the eyes flashed to life.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Friday afternoon.” He picked up a paper clip, unwinding the metal. “What’s this about anyway?”

  “What did you two discuss on Friday?”

  “Her project.”

  I waited. The paper clip turned into a jagged silver line. “What’s her project?”

  “She’s writing a thesis. You wouldn’t understand it.”

  “A thesis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that unusual, a junior writing a thesis?”

  “She’s unusual.”

  “In what way?”

  “For one thing, she’s a female with a working brain.” He tossed the damaged paper clip into the steel trash can, pinging the side. “That alone sets her above 99 percent of her sex.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” He snorted again. “Okay, FBI. You want to know whether she was plotting to blow up the campus?”

  “Actually, I’m curious about this idea that women are dumb. Is it a theory, or a lemma on the way to empirical proof?”

  “Are you mocking me?” he said.

  “No, but the last time I checked both clinical science and deductive reasoning had yet to prove double X chromosomes hinder cerebral development. But if you’ve made a breakthrough on your own, I’d like to hear it.”

  He paused. “Your background is . . . ?”

  “Geology.”

  “With the Feds? You’re kidding me.”

  “Miss VanAlstyne?”

  He glanced out the window. A column of sunlight sliced diagonally through the room, revealing dust mites dancing in entropy. Her thesis, he explained, focused on ideas of probability and the statistical quantities that characteristically defied mathematical definitions.

  “Courtney wants to prove that quantitative boundaries exist for luck.” His face broke into a ragged grin. “Her math . . . it’s like poetry.”

  “Nobody’s heard from the poet since Sunday morning.” I watched his reaction.

  His long fingers reached for another paper clip, unwinding again. “She wasn’t in class Monday. Or today. I was going to call.”

  “Any idea where she might be?”

  He shook his head.

  “None. You’re sure?”

  “She takes research trips. Sometimes.”

  “Does this research take her out of the area?”

  He tossed the second paper clip, missing the trash can. “Let me ask you, Miss Geology. If you were studying luck, where would you go?”

  “Where it doesn’t show up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because some of the best definitions come from studying the opposite quality.”

  “Interesting. She goes to Las Vegas to study gambling. It’s fantastic material. Winners, losers, both in abundance, and everybody inside a casino wants to talk about luck. Here’s Courtney, quantifying anecdotes with mathematical equations. I’m telling you, it’s poetry.”

  “I thought the house always wins.”

  “That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “The house wins most of the time, in order to recoup its money, to stay in business. But what about the rest of time? That’s the area Courtney’s working on. She’s quantifying what we colloquially refer to as ‘luck.’”

  “If you believe luck exists.”

  “Let me guess. You don’t believe in luck.”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Well then.” He snorted. “You won’t have to bother your pretty little head reading her thesis, will you?”

  On the drive back to the office, down Montlake Boulevard, I called the Bureau’s special agent at Sea-Tac Airport, a guy named Marvin Larsen. According to Jack, Marvin was “a troglodyte.” But even a dinosaur could help.

  “We got no Courtney VanAlstyne on any outbound flights,” Marvin Larsen told me. “Unless she got hold of some fake ID, or cooked up a fraudulent passport, she didn’t board any planes out of here. I even checked Saturday. No goes.”

  At 2:45 p.m., still sweating from the climb, I explained all this to Allen McLeod as we sat in his glassed-in office and he scribbled notes on a white legal pad, doubling back over my details and circling key phrases.

>   “Sounds like we have a rich girl disobeying her parents,” he said. “And they can’t admit their princess would do anything wrong. Maybe she’s sleeping around. Maybe she’s getting away from them. But let’s not screw ourselves in the foot. Write up 302s for all the interviews and I’ll take them up to the ASAC for a paper trail.”

  “Yes, sir.” I caught myself. “And what about the parents?”

  “The senator wants to call them personally. He made that clear to the ASAC. Let ’em know they’re getting full bang for the buck. Big donors, big favors.”

  “And we let the Issaquah PD handle the case?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  I stood to leave.

  “Harmon?” he said. “Check with Jack. He was wondering where you ran off to.”

  chapter four

  No Barney Mobile for him. No stinking backseat. No engine that rattled.

  Jack Stephanson drove a black Jeep with a removable hardtop, the gray leather seats soft as driving gloves, and the nubby tires squealed as he sped through the underground garage. At the solid steel gate, he flicked his index finger, signaling the guard. The gate lifted and the Jeep shot up Spring Street.

  “The witness is Felicia Kunkel,” he said. “Felicia’s got some kids but they belong to the state now—hey, buddy, move it!” Jack honked the horn.

  At the edge of the Jeep’s bumper, an elderly Chinese man shuffled on the white crosswalk, his black satin slippers frayed at the heels. He stepped with an odd tenderness, his shoulders curled, as though his reedy weight might injure the pavement.

  “Somebody get this guy a wheelchair,” Jack mumbled.

  When the horn honked again, the man’s head swung on his neck like a dandelion dangling from its stem. His dry lips uttered something unintelligible, and the moment his feet cleared the car’s path, the Jeep rocketed down Fourth Avenue.

  “Felicia might try to run,” Jack said. “She’s scared. She doesn’t want to testify. You’re going to sit on this one, Harmon. Do not let Felicia get away. Without her, our entire case collapses. We spent ten months nailing these pervs. You blow this one—imagine that on your record.”

  It was 4:00 p.m. and Seattle’s office workers were purging from buildings in an anxious exodus to beat rush-hour traffic. I watched the women stride down the sidewalks in sharp slacks and jewel-toned blouses, their blonde hair cut in angles that refracted sunlight like successive shelves of gold. The men were broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed. Even the suits couldn’t disguise direct Viking descent.

  When the light turned green, Jack swung the Jeep down to the waterfront along the piers, to the Bureau’s leased parking lot.

  “Jack,” I said, “lay off the torture routine. It’s already old.”

  “I’m not torturing you, Harmon,” he grinned. “You’re doing that all by yourself.”

  I gathered my gear from the backseat, slammed the Jeep’s door, and climbed into the stinking Barney Mobile.

  Felicia Kunkel lived in a two-bedroom yellow rambler six blocks east of Sea-Tac Airport. Jack and I waited in our separate cars with the Bureau radios on while the tactical squad scoped the house. They wore flak jackets and gripped MP5s. Within six minutes, they radioed that Felicia’s “employer” was not home.

  As the tactical team took silent places within the ragged camellia bushes on either side of the front door, Jack and I walked across the dirt lawn. Suddenly the air vibrated with a sizzle like heat lightning. The sun disappeared. When I looked up, I saw grease-ringed bolt seams riveted to the underbelly of a 757. Moments later, the roar kicked in.

  Jack stood on the front stoop, waiting for the jet engines to fade before knocking on the door. Waxy green leaves were scattered across the steps, creased by boot impressions. The concrete stoop miscalculated the foundation by four inches, causing the front door to appear raised.

  Jack knocked again. “Hey, Felicia! You ready?”

  She opened the door. “I’m havin’ second thoughts.”

  Her pale face was freckled with small red sores. Dun-colored hair hung in greasy curtains to her ribs, to the precise point where her torso changed shape and her bottom swelled like an inverted funnel.

  “Felicia, you’re not going to let me down, are you?” Jack said. “C’mon. We had a deal. You help us; we help you.”

  She flicked her eyes toward me. “Who’s this?”

  “This?” He turned, as though surprised to discover someone standing behind him. “This is just Raleigh. She works in the office.”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “Raleigh’s going to take you to the hotel. She’ll stay with you through the night, make sure you’re okay for tomorrow. You can order all the room service you want. Hey, raid the minibar, have a pajama party. Then tomorrow morning Raleigh will drive you to the courthouse. And you can get your kids back.”

  Felicia’s green eyes shifted. She was the nervous type who couldn’t hold a stare long, but her glance over my shoulder seemed forced. The bushes never rustled.

  “Bookman could come back any minute,” she said.

  “So what’re you waiting for, another beating? That’s all he’s got for you, Felicia. Pain and more pain. How much more abuse do you want to put up with?”

  Her eyes filled with tears so suddenly it was as if a water pipe had broken inside her neck. “You’re sure this is gonna work?” she said.

  “Felicia.” He said her name in a whisper. “Felicia.”

  Her green eyes rested on Jack’s mouth.

  “Anybody in your situation would be scared. Somebody tells you different, they’re lying. Let me help you, Felicia. I want to help you.”

  Then he reached up, wiping a tear from her mottled cheek.

  Our double room at the Edgewater Hotel, courtesy of the FBI, had two queen beds, one desk, a chair, and a well-stocked mini-bar that Felicia raided while I checked the closet and bathroom, then under the bed.

  “Hey, look,” she said. “They got Grey Goose in here.”

  I stood at the window, wondering whether to draw the curtains. The hotel room hung over Puget Sound like a ship’s deck, Seattle being a city that gathered its waterfront in both arms. I hated to lose the view, but I worried Felicia’s “employer” might be ambitious enough to hire a boat and fire into a hotel room. I pulled the curtains halfway, leaving enough view to fire back.

  “You want a drink?” Felicia bent over the small refrigerator’s open door.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I need a drink, that’s for sure. Where’s the ice?”

  I picked up the phone on the nightstand between the two beds and dialed 0 for the front desk. The clerk informed me that the ice machine was just down the hall from our room, for my convenience. I informed her that my convenience required a bellboy with a bucket of ice, pronto, or we’d call the manager. I hung up.

  Felicia stared at me. “You need a drink.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She shrugged. “More for me.”

  Clutching tiny bottles of vodka to her narrow chest, she upended a drinking glass from the paper doily beside the sink and poured two bottles into the glass, followed by the briefest splash of orange juice. She downed it, then poured another and walked to the window, yanking back the navy chintz drapes. A gloaming twilight drifted into the room, filtering the furniture with a rosy quartz glow.

  “Come away from the window, please.” I picked up the phone and dialed room service. Two cheeseburgers, extra fries, onion rings, two chocolate milkshakes, two cans of Coca-Cola, cheesecake, and a thermos of black coffee, extra sugar. And the ice bucket.

  “You want anything?” I asked Felicia.

  “Now you’re talking.”

  When the rolling table arrived, it was covered by a white tablecloth that brought the VanAlstynes back to my mind, wealthy people who ate dinner in their bedroom. I tipped the bellboy in the hallway, lifted the tablecloth, then removed the knives from the stiff swaddles of white napkins. I rolled the table into the room.r />
  Felicia picked up the plate covers, uttering curses that I assumed meant appreciation. Golden steak-cut fries, perfectly salted. Toasted burger buns cradling green butter lettuce. Thick red tomatoes, glistening slices of red onion.

  I locked the door, positioning Felicia at the far side of the table, blocking her path to the exit. She washed down every third bite with another double vodka and OJ.

  “You eat like this all the time?” she asked.

  “In hotels?”

  “I was more thinking this kind of food. You’re kind of skinny.”

  “I’d eat this meal three times a day if I could.”

  “You don’t get to eat what you want?” She nibbled on her burger, plucking the crust from the edges.

  “I live with my mother—she’s a health fanatic. She cooks tofu and organic bean sprouts. Red meat freaks her out.”

  “Get out.”

  “Her food tastes like old newspapers.”

  She dropped her head, the greasy dun hair falling forward, and laughter came soundless, a soft interior rumble that shook her shoulders, a girl used to hiding her joy. When she looked up, the light in her green eyes was bright with alcohol. She finished her drink, then walked to the luggage rack and pulled a pair of yellow pajamas from her torn duffel bag.

  “I’m gonna get changed,” she said.

  She walked to the bathroom and I set the untouched cheese-cakes on the desk with the thermos of coffee, then backed the table into the hall, locking the door again.

  “Felicia.” I knocked on the bathroom door. “You need to keep the door open.”

  She cracked it a foot.

  I walked over to the big window, glancing back and forth between the bathroom and the view outside. Night had swallowed dusk, and two ferries were crossing the Sound like hovering plates of candles. Picking up one of the cheesecakes, red ribbons of syrup swirling across its creamy surface, I watched her step out of the bathroom wearing Mickey and Minnie Mouse pajamas.

  She made another drink. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”