Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) (41 page)

“Why? At any point did they tell you that you couldn’t leave?”

“Not in so many words. But I got the impression.”

“Were you held hostage? Did they take your gun away?”

“I don’t know for sure if I was a hostage. That’s what I just said. And no, they didn’t take my gun away. If they’d have done that, then I suppose there wouldn’t be any questions about whether or not I was being held, would there? But then again, they didn’t need to take my gun.”

“Why?”

“Because they had at least ten people there, probably all armed. I was way outmatched. Are you asking could I have shot my way out of there? I think if I’d have tried any macho bullshit with my gun, I’d almost certainly be dead now. So, bottom line, I suppose you’re right—I could have tried to leave. I did have my gun. But the question is whether I’d have been allowed. I had the distinct impression that I would not have been—that I was a concern to them and that they felt the best way to deal with that concern was to bring me in close where they could keep an eye on me.”

“You’ve heard the old saying to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, haven’t you?” David asked.

“Sure,” Boyd said. “Did you attempt to call law enforcement when you found out about the meeting?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I felt that doing so could have very well endangered lives.”

“Why would you say that? Don’t you think that law enforcement could have handled the situation?”

“Handled the situation?” I asked, incredulously, jumping up from the table and leaning forward. “Did you happen to notice what happened today, you fucking idiot? Handle the situation like that? In case you haven’t figured it out, bad things happen when people get together in enclosed spaces with guns. Certain people, like that stupid fucking DEA agent, say the wrong thing at the wrong goddamned time and someone who’s supposed to be working on your side suddenly gets themselves killed! What did she do to deserve that? Are you completely fucking stupid, or what? Handle the situation, my ass.”

David also jumped up and grabbed me from behind. Boyd remained seated and simply stared at me.

“Sit down, Danny,” David said, pulling me back to my chair.

I stared at Boyd for a moment, then sat back down.

“I meant no disrespect,” Boyd said. “I apologize for my choice of words, and I’m sorry for what happened today. A mistake was made, and I apologize.”

I stared at him for a moment more, and then I nodded. I calmed myself, and then I continued. “Today was relatively controlled and still somebody got killed. Yesterday—last night—it was a completely uncontrolled, unscripted situation. A bust could not have been arranged at night in the short time available within what I felt to be acceptable risk. I spent several years in the army CID making the same sort of judgments, so I know a little bit about assessing risk. Last night would have been too risky. There were a dozen heavily armed men at relatively high alert on duty last night. Mistakes would have been made and lives—maybe mine—might have been jeopardized. And for what benefit? To maybe stop a potential meeting to discuss a potential marijuana trade? That’s not good enough for me to risk my neck. I made the judgment call that I wasn’t going to endanger any lives—including my own—by trying to be a hero. It made no sense and besides, it’s not my job anymore.”

“Did you intend to report it afterwards?”

“No need to answer that, Danny,” David interrupted. “That question—what my client may or may not have intended to do in a completely hypothetical situation calls for speculation on his part and is neither relevant nor is it appropriate. As a matter of fact, gentlemen, unless you have anything else of substance to add, I think that’s enough questions for today. We’ve been answering questions for nearly an hour. Mr. Logan has been in this office now since 4:00 p.m.”

“Three,” I said, correcting him.

“Three,” David said. “As you can see, my client has had a long, stressful day. One of his dear friends has been murdered, right in front of his eyes. He told you he’d tell you everything he knows. He’s done that. Throughout it all, I haven’t heard a single crime he’s committed. At the very worst, he’s guilty of being in the same room at the same time as some bad characters. But that, in and of itself, is no crime. He didn’t set up the meeting. He didn’t contact the bad guys. He didn’t speak at the meeting. He didn’t even go to Port Townsend with the knowledge that a meeting was going to be held. He showed up in Port Townsend, where he was basically kidnapped and dragged to the meeting. Next thing he knows, the person that brought him is dead, and he’s under arrest. He’s done nothing wrong. Now, if you don’t have anything to charge him with, it’s time to let him go. By the way, he’s not going anywhere. He lives here, as you know. His family has been here for more than a hundred years. If you need to talk to us again, we’ll be happy to comply.”

The agents excused themselves for about five minutes before returning. “We talked to our superiors. We’d like to be able to contact you in the future about what happened.”

“Already agreed,” David said.

“Then you’re free to go,” Boyd said.

“I want my gun back,” I said.

“Swing by tomorrow. It’ll be released then,” Boyd said, suddenly nice again. “Again, we’re sorry about Gina Fiore.”

I nodded, and then followed David out of the building.

We no sooner stepped out of the front door when I heard voices say, “There he is!”

Immediately, we were blasted by powerful lights from half a dozen local television cameras, all pointed in my direction. Microphones were thrust into my face, and I was hit by a barrage of questions: “Mr. Logan, what happened?” “Mr. Logan, were you with Gina Fiore?” “Mr. Logan, is it true that the Chicago mob arranged Gina Fiore’s murder?”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” David yelled out, “Please!” It grew quiet.

“There is an ongoing federal investigation, and we have been instructed not to speak to the press until the DEA issues a statement, which we are told will take place tomorrow morning,” he said, recounting what Boyd had told us. “I am authorized to say that Mr. Logan spoke to federal agents this afternoon. He cooperated fully with them and is not a suspect in anything that’s happened today. Any other questions must be directed to the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. That’s all we are allowed to say.”

Immediately, the reporters continued with their onslaught of questions, but David used a heavy grip on my upper arm to propel me through the throng and to his car, where we made our escape.

~~~~

My Jeep was still in Port Townsend, so David dropped me off at my apartment a little after eight. He made me tell him I was okay before he drove off. I went inside, turned the light on, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. If ever there was a good night to get drunk, tonight was it. My plan was to make a short beeline to the patio. I’d barely finished the thought when the phone rang. Caller ID: Toni.

“You’re home,” she said, relieved, when I picked up.

“I am.”

“I’ve been calling and calling.”

“My cell phone’s off,” I said.

“I know. I heard what happened on the news. Jesus, Danny,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I suppose. I’m okay.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“The Feds had me. I’ve been in interrogation since three. David O’Farrell finally got me just a little while ago.”

“Holy shit,” she said. “Did you get hurt today?”

“No.”

“And you’re okay now?”

“Yeah. I just got home. I’ve decided that I’m going to get drunk.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll be right over.”

I didn’t really feel like seeing anyone, but I didn’t feel like arguing about it, either. I had the feeling that if I said no, I’d start a fight, and I was in no mood to fight. Easier just to give in. Besides, it would take her fifteen minutes to get to my apartment and with a little effort, I could suck down a whole six-pack by then.

“See you in a few,” I said.

~~~~

It turns out that I wasn’t in a full-race, green-flag drinking mode after all. More of a somber, yellow-caution-flag mode. Slower, more thoughtful. I was only halfway done with my second beer when Toni got there. Thoughtfully, she’d brought another growler of Mac & Jack’s, just in case. She hugged me for a good long while when she walked in. It felt good—not in a sensual way, but in a comforting way. God knows I was ready for some comforting. Toni knew me better than anyone in the world. She could tell where I was hurting and why—maybe even better than I could. If anyone could help me sort things out, she’d be able to. Maybe not tonight, but over time. She grabbed a beer and walked over to my CD player where she picked out one of our favorites, “Bleach” by Nirvana. We walked out to the patio together.

In the past few weeks, the days had begun to shrink. Three weeks ago, it would have been bright and sunny at eight thirty. Now, it was definitely twilight. Still warm with a nice, gentle breeze, but the sky was darkening and the lights across Lake Union were clearly visible. I lay back in one lounge chair, and Toni took the other.

Neither of us spoke, until she finally said, “Talk to me.”

I was quiet for a minute, drinking my beer slowly, staring at the water. Finally, I gathered my thoughts and said, “Heavy shit today.”

I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye. “Were you right there?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I was six feet away. I watched her die.” The vision of Gina on the concrete floor was back in my brain. “She was trying to ask me to tell her parents something when she died.” I was quiet for a moment. “I guess she probably wanted me to tell them that she loved them.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “What happened, Danny?” she asked. “What went wrong?”

I started at the beginning and walked her slowly through the whole chain of events, up to the point where I was arrested along with the others.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, quietly. “What a clusterfuck! That idiot DEA agent opens his big mouth, and the mobster just blows her away? That’s unbelievable.”

“It’s like it happened in slow motion,” I said, “like in a dream when you’re trying to run in water. You could see the whole thing unfolding, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing you could do about it. As soon as that asshole said what he did, I knew Frankie was going to shoot her, and there wasn’t fuck-all I could do to stop him. It was bing-bang-boom! Gina’s dead.”

“Then, of course, I fucking lost it and kicked him in the nuts so hard he’ll probably be singing soprano for the rest of his life. When the bastard doubled over, I kneed him so hard in the face that I’m sure I flattened his nose permanently.”

“Well done,” Toni said, lifting her beer in a toast.

“Doesn’t bring her back, though,” I said. “If I’d have been a few seconds quicker—if my brain would have acted a little faster, then maybe I could have stopped him before he fired. It felt like I was in quicksand. Just couldn’t engage fast enough.”

“It sounds like the whole thing was just a couple of seconds.”

“Something like that. The DEA guy talked, and then I think John Calabria said something, and then Frankie yelled at her and shot her, almost at the same time. It was quick.”

“Nothing you could have done,” Toni said.

I thought about it for a second. “Probably not. I knew Frankie wasn’t cuffed, but I wasn’t going to point that out. He was on his own with that. I was curious as to what he was going to do. I had no idea that ten seconds later the whole fucking thing would blow up in our faces like it did. I think he must have just snapped.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then Toni said, “Do you think there’s a possibility that Gina actually set this whole thing up with the Feds like the guy said? Is that why the agent fucked up and said what he said?”

“They said not, but who knows?” I said. “Why would she? Why turn her own relatives over now? That makes no sense.”

“I suppose not,” Toni said. “I was just looking for something to give to her parents. Some sort of explanation. You’re going to have to talk to them, you know.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I’m not looking forward to it.”

“You did all that you could,” Toni said. “All anyone could, under the circumstances.”

“Thanks for that,” I said, raising my bottle.

“You’re welcome,” she said, clinking the neck of hers against mine.

We sat without talking for a few minutes, listening to the music. Eventually, I said, “This is going to take a while to get over.”

“I don’t expect you can get over this,” Toni said. “It’s not something you get over. I think it’s something you get accustomed to. You learn how to live with it. Gradually, time patches it over a little.”

“I imagine,” I said. “I hope so, anyway.”

We drank our beers and listened to the music and watched the day turn to night.

Kurt Cobain sang about needing a friend. I understood. The lyrics and the melody soaked into my brain. Somehow, I felt better, comforted. “Toni,” I said, “thanks for being here.”

She smiled. “Where else would I be?”

She left around ten thirty, and I went to bed shortly afterward. I tossed and turned again. Two hours later, I woke up in a cold sweat. I’d been dreaming—nightmares, really. I’d dreamed of demons—of explosions, of sheer terror, of seeing friends killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. I dreamed of a faceless woman, bleeding out on a cold, stark-white floor. It was so real that I could hear her gasping for breath. And at last I dreamed of angels—white angels dancing across a deep blue sky.

~~~~

Next morning first thing, I called Robbie. I told him how sorry I was. He didn’t sound good. Why would he? We made an appointment for Toni and me to stop by at eleven. Robbie said there was a houseful of people already, but that his parents had said they wanted to talk to me.

Toni and I arrived a few minutes early. Toni had to park fifty yards up the street because of the traffic. We found a space and walked back to the Fiore house. I was dressed in a dark suit, while Toni wore a long-sleeved, very proper black dress. We walked up the path from the gate to the porch. Several people sat out on the porch, talking quietly. A few of them clearly recognized me. Gina’s death was big news and, apparently, the people here had seen my television “interview” last night or maybe the front-page follow-up picture in the
Seattle Times
this morning. No one said anything, though. The door was open, so we went in without knocking.