The Rivers Run Dry Page 6

  Yesterday afternoon a King County Superior Court judge sent Bookman Landrow far, far away. Felicia, relieved and joyful, asked me to drive her to the Department of Social Services. Wearing her new dress, she sat in the backseat to avoid soiling her new blue pumps, the floorboard still tacky with vomit. She did not want me to come inside when she made her appearance to the social worker handling her case, and I didn’t argue. Felicia needed to stand on her own. I needed sleep.

  But now I realized I should have stayed with her. One blue dress wouldn’t wipe out a file as thick as my wrist.

  Jack uncrossed his legs. “From the get-go, Harmon’s been the point person on this. Take it up with her.”

  “Jack asked me to help him,” I said, the defensiveness ruining my voice. “I followed his orders.”

  “He’s your training agent, Harmon. You do what he says, when he says it.” McLeod unclasped his hands, the fingers opening like falling fence rails. “But you’re still expected to make decent judgment calls.”

  I nodded, giving myself time to bring my anger down a notch. “I’m not aware of what went wrong.”

  “Maybe down South they don’t know how to talk to a victim’s family,” McLeod said. “So I brought in Lutini—she’ll handle it from here. Meanwhile you and Jack get to work on this missing.”

  “Courtney VanAlstyne?” I said. “That’s what this is about?”

  Jack said, “Harmon made a rat’s nest out of the VanAlstyne situation, not me. Let her clean it up.”

  “Jack, this is urgent,” McLeod said.

  “Urgent is a bomb strapped to an Arab’s body. My counter-terrorism work trumps any alleged disappearance of a rich girl. Let Harmon work this by herself.”

  “Headquarters called us, Jack. This jumps to priority,” McLeod said. “You find out what happened or you find a way to throw it back to Issaquah PD, I don’t care which, but I’m tired of 4:00 a.m. calls from the ASAC asking what we’re doing about this kidnapping when we don’t think she was kidnapped. And the parents won’t go public. The whole thing’s nuts. I want write-ups on everything from this minute forward, every t crossed, every i spotted.”

  “Dotted,” said Lucia Lutini.

  “What?” McLeod said.

  “The correct phrase is every t crossed, every i dotted.” Her voice sounded like melted butter.

  “What did I say?”

  “Spotted.”

  “Fine,” McLeod growled. “Dot the i’s.”

  Jack leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. I could see condensation gathering on the varnished shine, his skin hot with anger. “What am I supposed to tell counterterrorism, it’s time for recess?”

  “You’ll figure it out, Jack.” McLeod said. “You’ve got a sliver tongue.”

  “Silver,” Lutini said.

  McLeod stared at her, his expression frozen. “Anybody else, Lutini, I’d have them transferred to Alaska.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Back at my desk, I called Detective Markel at the Issaquah PD, leaving a message to explain our sudden interest in the VanAlstyne case. I would be on Cougar Mountain tomorrow, I said, looking into the crime scene on behalf of the Bureau. We would not charge his department for time and tests. I hung up and ran a back-ground check on Courtney VanAlstyne’s former boyfriend, the name the roommate gave me, printing out the information and copying it for McLeod.

  Just after 1:30 p.m., Lucia Lutini asked me to lunch.

  Cumulus clouds bumped across the mottled blue sky as we walked down First Avenue, heading south. She wore a wool cape the color of moist moss, her black boots tapering to deadly points. In the air I felt the first bite of fall.

  “I spoke with the VanAlstynes this morning,” she said in her buttery voice, the words keeping a rhythm that sounded like a melody. “Separately. The wife first, then the husband.”

  “What’s your impression?”

  She tilted her head one degree left, then one degree right. “She’s hiding something.”

  “About the disappearance?”

  “At this point, I don’t know. The only certainty is that Mrs. VanAlstyne is a lovely woman with a firm grip on her own neck.”

  We crossed at Yesler Way and a man in a ragged coat with a face like a skinned plum stumbled toward Lucia. When he opened his mouth, his breath smelled like butane.

  “Lucia,” he said. “How about some change?”

  “Hello, Red. I’m going to tell you the same thing I always tell you. The mission is two blocks over. They serve hot meals. Why doesn’t that sound good to you?”

  “Lucia,” he moaned.

  Her hands were tucked inside the green cape, but she took one out and wagged a finger at him. “Ah, I see. You think you can embarrass me with my companion. You’re a smart guy, Red. Very smart.”

  “C’mon. Give me some money.”

  “You want to come to lunch with us? Best sandwich in Seattle.”

  “I got a stomach virus. I can’t eat nothing.”

  “The mission treats that too.” She smiled, walking again. “Have a wonderful day, Red.”

  “No thanks to you!” he yelled.

  In Occidental Square iron grates caged the root-balls of deciduous trees. The red leaves remained on the branches, and the dead brown leaves scattered across the bricks, creating a susurrus that revealed the unpredictable wind.

  “Red’s been down here for years,” Lucia said, by way of explanation. “I first encountered him when his hair was blond instead of gray. How time accelerates for those people.”

  “Why ‘Red’?” I asked. “His skin?”

  “His eyes. Even back then.”

  We walked two blocks south where a line of people waited outside a brick building. The air smelled of garlic and onions and seared meat. Lucia turned down an alley and keyed open a black door, walking into a steam-filled room. At a large sink, a young man washed pots, his dark hair curling from the moisture, one forelock dropping like a comma to his brown eyes.

  “Buon Giorno, Lucia.”

  “Buon Giorno, Pietro.”

  She unwrapped the green cape, walking into a tight kitchen where bottles of translucent green olive oil and russet vinegars hovered above a blackened grill. A round man with a laurel of white hair stood with his back to us, the frayed strings of his apron hanging from his circular torso. With the roaring hood and sizzling meat, he didn’t hear us approach. Lucia reached out, gently touching him on the shoulder. He turned, a pair of tongs in his right hand snapping like crab claws.

  “Lucia!” he cried. “Why you didn’t call? Mario, he was just here!”

  She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders at the same time, a seamless gesture that said Mario was not for her. “Papa, I want you to meet Raleigh Harmon. Raleigh, this is my father, Danato Lutini. Raleigh works with me, Papa.”

  Danato Lutini shook my hand, and my arm undulated like a rag doll.

  “You a crime fighter like my daughter, yeah? I feed you any-thing you want. Anything!”

  Lucia kissed his cheek and I followed her back to a storeroom no bigger than a closet. She overturned two five-gallon buckets, hanging my blazer and her cape on the door hinge. Danato appeared with sausage sandwiches on paper plates, the long roll cradling roasted pork bedded with tomato sauce and sautéed onions. My first bite exploded fennel and black pepper and garlic without a trace of bitterness and just when I caught those flavors, the roasted tomato kicked in behind it.

  I swallowed. “Wow.”

  Lucia wiped sauce from her lips with a paper napkin. “It’s literally a hole in the wall, this place. One window on South Jackson. But that line out there? Goes around the block every day. Papa won’t hire waiters, won’t buy tables. He stays at the grill, my Uncle Carmine shuffles back to give him the orders. People wait forty-five minutes for a sandwich.”

  “It’s worth it.”

  Danato appeared in the door again, this time holding two demitasse cups.

  “Eh, Raleigh, you like my sandwich?” His v
oice had a sing-song accent.

  “Loved it.”

  He smiled, lifting his head with a nod, a gesture of yes and thank-you and I-knew-you-would. When he glanced at his daughter, warm light filled his face.

  “Lucia, you drink the espresso. Take your time. A good lunch, yeah? None of this hurrying business. It’s bad on the stomach.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  We sipped the coffee. It had the sharp challenge of bitter chocolate. I stared at the boxes along the shelves, the imports marked Italia, trying to find the courage to ask.

  “What does McLeod want you to tell me?”

  She set her cup in the saucer. “Our beloved supervisor has the idea you don’t know how to handle rich people.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Personally, I disagree,” she said. “In fact, I believe you come from that same tribe.”

  “You think I’m rich?”

  “Old wealth, most of it gone. That once-upon-a-time circumstance of money.”

  I sipped the espresso.

  “Yes, what I thought. Gentrified poverty. Which is lovely—consider yourself doubly blessed. You received what money’s mostly good for, education and high culture, but your boundaries broadened. McLeod, who is determined to rise in the ranks by playing by every rule, is fairly obtuse. The malaprops, for instance. But I noticed you never flinch when he mangles the mother tongue. That’s Southern, partly. But also cultured.”

  “I would appreciate your advice.”

  “Well, you’ve already surmised Jack is a raving egomaniac. What else do you need to know?”

  “Your best advice.”

  “Watch your back.”

  “How long have you worked for the Bureau?”

  “Eleven years,” she said. “All of them in Seattle. My back-ground is accounting; I’m a CPA. After eight years with white collar I didn’t want to go to Quantico for personal reasons. Three years ago I requested victim’s assistance. They complied. Other duties are thrown in occasionally, such as profiling.”

  I guessed she was a master at profiling. “How do you like this squad?”

  “My father has a phrase: Eat for the hunger that’s coming.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t let yourself go empty. Keep some fuel in the tank.”

  “All right.”

  “Now, the VanAlstynes,” she said, “they present a curious puzzle. Why the need for privacy when they’re so worried their daughter has been kidnapped? Perhaps they’ve been victims of extortion in the past, and they don’t want us or the public to know about it. I’ll find out what I can, and I’ll help you as much as possible, but . . .” She tilted her head, shrugging, the same gesture she gave about Mario. “After that, I’m hoping you’ll know what to do.”

  Friday rush hour began with a drive north to the University District. The sky had sealed itself with gray clouds that sank toward the horizon as though weighted with silver pellets. Just off Roosevelt Avenue, I found Mama Mia’s Pizza, the plate-glass window jaundiced by cooking oil fumes.

  Behind a chipped white counter, a clutch of Asian men wore clean green uniforms and chattered in their native language, paddling pizzas into the mouth of a false brick oven. Where Danato’s smelled of Italy through the centuries, Mama Mia’s smelled of wet cardboard, powdered milk, and bleached flour. A dozen teenagers waited at the counter, forking over ten bucks for an all-you-can-eat Friday buffet. Youth wasn’t the only thing wasted on the young.

  In the far back, I found Kermit Simms. He was wiping down a series of small round tables, the wrought-iron type found in French cafés, and when I introduced myself, the skin on his face turned a hue resembling the soiled rag in his damp hand.

  “Do you have a moment?” I asked.

  “What’s this about anyway?”

  “When was the last time you saw Courtney VanAlstyne?”

  “I knew it. Her old man put you up to this. I haven’t gone near her, so take a hike.”

  The teenagers pushed several tables together, scraping the iron legs across the beige linoleum that was gritty with soil. Kermit began tossing the dingy rag back and forth between his hands, his sinewy forearms twisting with each catch. He smiled suddenly, for no particular reason. “So, yeah, thanks for stopping by,” he said.

  “We’re not done.”

  He glanced at the Asian men near the front door. They were hollering at each other in some foreign language as more teenagers streamed in the door.

  “I got one minute,” Kermit said. “That’s it.”

  I followed him toward the bathrooms in back, where a chrome pay phone was bolted to a wall with names and numbers scrawled across it, including what looked like slate-blue eyeliner proclaiming “Lauren loves Chris.”

  ”When was the last time you saw her?” I asked again.

  The rag dangled from his fingers. “I just told you. Not for a while.”

  “What’s a while, Kermit?”

  “Two months, at least. You heard something else, it’s a lie.”

  “Why would somebody lie about it?”

  “You got wax in your ears? She broke up with me. I was upset. But I’m over her. History. Done. Take the l off lover, that’s what we got.”

  “Why’d she take out the restraining order?”

  “Her old man put her up to that! Marty VanAlstyne wanted it to be one mile, get the idea? Even the police said I got a right to get to classes like anybody else. I told you, the guy’s just waiting to pounce. And have I bothered her? No.”

  “But you did. At one time.”

  “She broke up with me and wouldn’t tell me why. I got a right to know why she was kicking me to the curb.”

  “Why was she?”

  His neck was cabled with ligaments, steel cords holding the suspension bridge of his shoulders. “Normal people, people with class they let you down easy. But she’s spoiled. That girl’s nothing but a spoiled brat.”

  “Nobody’s seen her since Sunday. Her parents are worried.”

  He paused. “Nobody’s seen her?”

  “She hasn’t been home. She missed her classes. No phone calls. Any idea where she might be?”

  He shook his head.

  “I heard you two made trips to Vegas.”

  “You think I have something to do with this?” His face darkened. “Hey, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Was she in any trouble, Kermit?”

  “Trouble?” He sneered. “Her daddy takes care of ‘trouble.’”

  “You mean like when an ex stalks her? That kind of trouble?”

  His hand squeezed the rag, making a fist. “One night in Vegas I watched her run up a hundred and eighty grand in bad bets. When she couldn’t pay, she called Daddy, and the next thing you know Steve Wynn’s comping us another night at his casino. She’s spoiled.”

  A burly college kid with a two-day skid of beard across his chin squeezed past us into a narrow door marked “Restaroom.” When the bathroom door closed, Kermit lowered his voice.

  “Look, unless you’re arresting me, I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Even if I were arresting him he didn’t have to talk to me. But why ruin a good thing? I gave him my card, asked him to call if he thought of anything.

  Anything, I wanted to add, that came to light under the torch he still carried for Courtney VanAlstyne.

  chapter seven

  The next day was Saturday, and in the morning Aunt Charlotte shuffled into the kitchen wearing a set of lustrous pajamas decorated with burnt sienna butterflies. The color matched her short auburn hair, stiff and dyed, flattened in back. She poured herself coffee, grabbed toasted bread made from unsprouted wheat, and plunked down at the turquoise table, letting out a sigh.

  She asked me if I was sleeping all right.

  Fine, I told her.

  “Your mother’s kind of a night owl, isn’t she?”

  “She keeping you up?”r />
  “I’m just not used to noise at night. Living in the city, I start thinking we’re having a break in.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “Don’t make her uncomfortable. I love having the both of you here. I was thinking maybe if she came to work in my store . . .”

  “Give her something to do during the day?”

  “That’s the thought. My only concern is about the dog, here alone with the cats all day.”

  “Madame can come with me today. That’s one down.”

  Her face brightened. “You can take your dog to work?”

  “I’m hiking in Issaquah today.”

  Her face dropped. “For fun or for work?”

  “Work.”

  She set down the mug. “Raleigh, you need one of my necklaces.”

  “No. Really.”

  “Where are you hiking?”

  “Cougar Mountain.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “About what?”

  “Why they named it Cougar Mountain.”

  “Okay, why?”

  “Cougars? Animals?” she said. “They attack.”

  “Again, this is the gun’s job.”

  “You’re walking around without any kind of spiritual protection.”

  I started to explain that I did have spiritual backup, but she held up the hand.

  “Stop. Don’t bother,” she said. “Don’t tell me who watches over you. Your mother already gave me that lecture, thank you very much. Fortunately, after twenty years in the Episcopal church, I’m immune to conversion.”

  In the gravel parking lot where Courtney VanAlstyne’s vehicle once sat, I studied the map of trails that snaked across Cougar Mountain, and I waited for Jack Stephanson. The trails crossed the hilly topography with a sort of meandering purpose, eventually leading to various overlooks and destinations. Pinned beside the map was a notice warning about bobcats, cougars, and bears.

  Thirty minutes later, after Madame had investigated every bit of flora in the parking area, I started up the trail without Jack. The autumn wind smelled of faded chlorophyll and sandy soil, and every gust sent yellow aspen leaves fluttering in slow spirals that landed on red-tipped ferns. But the narrow trail was rocky and without vistas, and I tried to imagine the long-legged child of privilege stepping over the rounded outcroppings of rock. After a mile I came to a fork in the trail, where a weathered wooden sign hammered to an oak tree pointed to the Clay Pit Road, the trail Stacee Warner mentioned. I took the turnoff, scanning the humus shoulders for disheveled leaves, stray footprints, one shred of evidence that might back up the kidnapping allegations of the VanAlstynes. Madame raced ahead.