Blue Molly (Danny Logan Mystery #5) (2 page)

* * * *

Felicity never stopped looking for George, nor did she ever accept the explanation from the police that perhaps George had simply decided to run off. As George’s surviving spouse, she took sole title to 515 pounds of high-grade gold that George had brought to the express office the morning of his arrival and shipped to the San Francisco mint, where it was to be coined. She never wanted for money or material things the rest of her life, but she never remarried, and she never stopped looking for George. Felicity Tanner passed away on August 18, 1946.

February 5, 2014
12:05 p.m.
Seattle, Washington

Looking back, I should never have taken my eyes off the short, bald guy with the pool cue. I mean, I have no excuse: I saw him coming.

We—Doc and I—were in the Merchants Café and Saloon, minding our own business, waiting for the Super Bowl victory parade to start, when loud voices erupted nearby. Short and Bald and three or four buddies all wearing the same style of black leather jackets were standing at a table opposite a middle-aged couple who were having lunch and didn’t seem to be bothering anybody. Short and Bald yelled something at the lady and, despite her non-menacing appearance, she jumped right up and started yelling back at him. If he’d hoped that his yelling would have somehow cowed or intimidated her, it didn’t work. We watched them yell back and forth at each other, impressed at her courage and feisty spirit.

At first glance, neither the woman nor her male companion appeared to be the confrontational type. Both were middle-aged, neatly dressed—they looked like businesspeople. Yet there she was, leaning over the table eye to eye with Short and Bald, matching him decibel for decibel. This must have frustrated Short and Bald because he then produced the bottom end of a two-piece pool cue, which I hadn’t noticed before. He started waving it in front of her in a menacing fashion. I was surprised that she didn’t seem all that impressed by it, but her husband did. He jumped up, ready to come to her rescue, but before he could even get to his feet, he was shoved back into his chair by one of the other thugs. Things weren’t going well for the couple, so that’s when I decided to step in. I got up and walked over, hoping that a calm voice might help to defuse the situation.

This didn’t work out well at all. As a matter of fact, I suppose you could say that it might have had the opposite effect, because it was right about then that all hell broke loose. People started swinging, and the fight was on.

Now, two minutes later, there was a numbnuts in front of me wearing a 49ers hat, of all things, and yelling at me in Russian. Without further ado, he started in on a delivery for a punch that, if it had connected, would have knocked me right over the center-field wall at Safeco. I figured this made him my most immediate threat and, therefore, deserving of most of my attention. This may have been a mistake, though, because while 49ers Cap was about halfway done with his windup, I decided I had time, so I took a quick glance back at Short and Bald just to make sure he wasn’t getting out of hand. It was a good thing, too, because that damn pool cue of his was comin’! Right now—right at Danny Logan’s noggin. Time to move.

So I moved. I did the natural thing and stepped backward; however, in so doing, I tripped over a guy who wasn’t there a second ago but was definitely there now, thanks, most likely, to Doc bustin’ him upside the head. Then I was falling backward. I wasn’t sure where I was going to land, but I was pretty sure it was going to hurt so, as best I could, I braced myself.

The last thing I expected was to fall into a booth on a slippery leather seat cushion, flat on my back. Even more surprising was that my head fell straight back into the soft lap of a young blonde who was so surprised that her eyes flew open wide and her lips formed a precious “Oh!” shape. Of course, I could barely see this beyond her truly magnificent breasts, which were enveloped by a tight blue-and-green T-shirt that read “2014 Super Bowl Champs!” on it.

And there’s no way I could have known that she was with the Russian thugs. I smiled at her for one quick second and thought she was just about to smile back when I felt a pair of rough hands grab my left ankle. “You get off her!” the man grabbing my foot bellowed just before he gave a mighty yank.

The booth cushion was still smooth and slippery, and I was surprised at how I seemed to gain speed as I was hauled back out of the booth. This time, I knew for certain where I was going to land: on the floor, and it was going to hurt. I braced—again.

Just before I sailed off the cushion, I noticed that the guy grabbing my ankle—49ers Cap again—evidently thought I was either defenseless, completely stupid, or both, because he left himself wide-open for a creative counter-attack. So that’s what he got. While he had hold of my left ankle, pulling for all he was worth, I took the opportunity to use my right foot and deliver a swift front kick to his unprotected crotch, causing him to make a little “Oh” sound of his own as he released me and folded up in pain. (The fact that I was able to deliver this kick while on my back and sliding backward across a seat cushion is something I’m particularly proud of.) Unfortunately, my self-congratulations ended about a tenth of a second later when my momentum carried me off the cushion, and I hit the floor hard. I was right—it
did
hurt, and I knew I’d be paying for it later.

But not now. I’m a resilient guy and the fight was still on, so I popped back up. Doc was to my right. He stands six feet four inches and weighs somewhere in the 240 range, and he’s ex–US Army Special Forces, so I wasn’t too worried about him.

To my left, the middle-aged couple was still engaged. After I went down, Short and Bald had turned his attention back to them, and the woman was still yelling at him. Husband was clearly overmatched but, to his credit, that didn’t stop him from going toe to toe with Short and Bald. The guy had guts; I’ll give him that. By now, he also had a bright red mark over his left eye—he’d be sporting a nice shiner soon.

Short and Bald looked like he meant business with the pool cue and I figured that things were about to come to an ugly end for the husband, so I stepped in that direction.

“Hey!” I yelled.

Short and Bald spun around to face me just as the bar’s front doors flew open and two of Seattle’s finest burst through. The whole scene seemed to freeze as if someone had pushed a “Pause” button. Short and Bald was motionless, pool cue cocked as if he were a batter at the plate waiting for a pitch. I stood still, caught in mid-stride. Doc, who had been looking for someone else to hit, stood and watched. Nobody moved.

The police officers scanned the area, then they took control of the situation. “Nobody move!” one of them screamed at the top of his lungs.

I found this to be a little amusing, since—like I said—at that particular moment, no one
was
moving. I suppose I shouldn’t have laughed out loud, though. I’m pretty sure that’s what got me and Doc arrested.

Ever watch a Super Bowl parade from the back of a squad car doing, maybe, three miles an hour? I don’t recommend it. We crawled along through the middle of seven hundred thousand screaming Seahawks fans. It was a real hoot having everyone peer into the car as we crept past. They all got a close-up look at the dastardly criminal in the backseat. Our ultimate destination was an alley behind the police department three miles away. We pulled in an hour later.

My uniformed driver, with a name tag reading Malkovich, and his associate, Sutton, were kind enough to lead me through a stout metal door into a large room with lights so bright I had to blink. Almost immediately, I noticed a familiar odor, like a mixture of urine and vomit and feet. I couldn’t tell the source, but the smell was unmistakable. The room was full of chrome-and-vinyl chairs, the kind you see at the DMV—long rows of seats welded together so that no one can pick one up and throw it. A television was mounted to the wall in a corner, tuned to a station showing the parade. A handful of people were waiting: waiting to be processed in or waiting for loved ones to be processed out. An intimidating sergeant, who I think was a little bigger than I am, sat behind a glass wall at the head of the room. Aside from casting an evil eye on everyone the police hauled through the metal door, her main job seemed to be to keep watch over a set of double doors on the other side of the room that led somewhere into the building’s innards. If you met with her approval, the sergeant’d push a hidden button, and a buzzer went off, the doors unlocked and swung open, and you were cleared to pass.

Officer Malkovich, the senior of my two captors, checked in with the sergeant while Sutton kept a firm grip on my shoulder, my arms still handcuffed behind my back. I guess I expected the first step in the process of clearing up this little misunderstanding was that I’d be taken to an interrogation room where the cuffs would be removed and I’d be questioned by someone of authority. There, they’d figure out that Malkovich and Sutton had made a grievous mistake by arresting yours truly for “disturbing the peace,” when it was obvious to anyone who’d been there that all I’d done was come to the aid of a couple of helpless citizens under attack by criminal elements. I was the one “undisturbing” the peace—smoothing things out, rescuing the needy, and putting things back to rights. The sooner they understood this, the sooner I’d be released, most likely with their thanks for saving the innocent couple and their humble apologies for throwing my sorry butt into jail. That’s what I hoped and expected. That’s not exactly the way it turned out, though.

Something must have gotten crossed up somewhere because, to my dismay, they just flat skipped over the “thanks and apologies” part altogether. Instead, the desk sergeant glanced over at me and gave me a stern look. Then she pressed her button, the double doors buzzed, and the Malkovich/Sutton team led me straight through to begin my booking.

My first stop was an intake desk, which was manned (womanned?) by a female officer who sat on a swivel chair, her back to us as she replaced a file into a short metal cabinet behind her desk. She heard us approach. “Empty your pockets,” she said, before she even started to turn my way. She had the bored sound of somebody charged with doing a simple task over and over again, all the while wishing she were somewhere else. She slammed the file drawer closed and turned around to look up at me. She was medium height, thin, with dark hair and pretty dark eyes, about my age. Her name tag read “Morrison.” I gave her a smile and said, “Sorry, Officer Morrison.” I did a little turn so that she could see my hands still cuffed behind my back. I lifted my arms as high as I could. “I’m afraid in my present condition, you’re going to have to turn me upside down and shake me in order to empty my pockets.”

Officer Morrison stared at me, clearly unimpressed by my little joke. Then she turned and looked up at Malkovich. “Do you mind?”

He looked at her, a blank expression on his face.

So she clarified for him. “Move . . . his . . . cuffs . . . to . . . the . . . front. Please. Geez.”

This apparently got through. He nodded and scrambled to comply. Once cuffed in front, I reached into my pockets (still difficult even with the cuffs in front). I pulled out my keys, my wallet, and forty-three cents in change I’d gotten at the bar before the disagreement started. I’d already been relieved of my SureFire pocketknife by my captors. In the process of clearing my pockets, I exposed my (empty) waist holster.

Officer Morrison watched this process, then she looked at my wallet: my driver’s license, my PI license, and my concealed carry permit. She looked up at Malkovich. “Where’s his sidearm?”

Sidearm?
I was impressed. Most civilians would have simply said “gun” or maybe “handgun” if they were trying to be precise.
Sidearm
is what we were taught in the army. There, we referred to personal firearms, broadly, as either sidearms or rifles.
Guns
were something the artillery people played with.

The officers looked at each other, unable to answer her question. So I helped. “It’s a 1911, and it’s secured in my Jeep back at the bar.” I gave a sideways nod to Malkovich and Sutton. “These guys never had access to it.”

“Why’s it in your Jeep?”

“Because it’s against the law for a civilian to carry a firearm into a bar in Washington State. My partner and I disarmed before we entered.”

She nodded and made a notation on her form.

While she was doing this, I spoke up. “Officer, would you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead,” she said, without looking up.

“Are you former military?”

She paused to scrutinize me, then said, “United States Army. Tenth Mountain Division. First Brigade.”

I smiled. “I thought so. I spent a few years with the 101st and then I transferred to sixth MPs.”

“CID?”

I nodded. “Yep. Fort Lewis.”

She stood up. “You were an army cop?”

“Three years.”

She looked me in the eye for a second, then she said, “Well, it’s nice to meet a fellow soldier.” She handed my paperwork to one of my guardians. “Officers,” she said, addressing Malkovich and Sutton, “given this man’s service to his nation, let’s skip the body-cavity search.” She looked at me, still no smile. “Just this one time. Take him over to get his picture taken.”

I couldn’t believe it: what a grouch.

* * * *

Thirty minutes later, I sat by myself in an empty holding cell on a wooden bench that was bolted to the floor.
Now
I know where the smell in the waiting room was coming from: standard-issue civilian jail. Nothing you could see—the room looked clean enough. But the smell was there nonetheless, as much a permanent fixture as the thick, gloppy paint on the walls, the fluorescent lights inset into cages in the ceiling, and the shiny light-gray linoleum floor tiles. I’d spent enough time in jails on the good side of the bars to be familiar with the nasty smell. I held my arm up and breathed through my sleeve, searching for relief but not finding much.