Damage Control (14 page)

Cole nearly fell off the toilet getting out of the way. “Hey, asshole. I’m about to kick your fucking ass.” He leaned forward and peered through the hole. “Did you hear me?” he shouted. Then, “Oh shit.”

B
RIGHT STOOD WITH
her back to the counter, staring out at the gas pumps. She was no longer interested in being the young boy’s wet dream. The gas pump had shut off at $16.68, and she’d topped it off at $16.75.

She turned to the boy. “What time is it?”

“What time do you want it to be?”

She shook her head and looked at him with revulsion. “Time?”

“Eleven-forty-five.”

Cole was such a jerk. She had another six minutes to wait and he would make her wait every one of them. He could never cut it short. He always had to take fifteen minutes, just to give himself enough time to read about the damn Mariners. He was an asshole, and he drank too much and treated her like shit whether he was drunk or sober. He had no job except for occasional laborer’s work on a construction site, which was why he bothered hanging out with that loser Laurence King. Then he stayed out all night drinking and spending what money he made, showing up at her house whenever he felt like a blow job. Now he was paranoid, convinced of some government conspiracy fantasy King had probably dreamed up. She wasn’t surprised someone had shot King. He was an even bigger asshole than Cole. But she sure as shit knew the government wouldn’t go to the trouble of doing it. It was probably some lowlife King had pissed off or who he owed money.

The more pressing matter was what the fuck was she going to do in bumfuck Idaho. And with Cole’s relatives? Please. He and his brothers would probably take turns screwing her, or worse, do her together. That was just what she needed. Christ, what had she gotten herself into?

She looked out at the Nova. Cole’s leather jacket was draped over the backseat. He hadn’t taken it with him. The money was in the pocket. The keys were in the ignition. She smiled and turned to the clerk. “What’s the total?”

“Twenty-four thirty-five.”

“Make it twenty even.” She slid the grocery bag toward her. “For five bucks, I’ll give you another peek, a quick feel, and you can get a hard-on under that orange smock.”

25

D
ANA DISEMBARKED FROM
the United Airlines 747 into the open-air terminal of Kahului Airport on Maui. She stopped to search her purse, then proceeded from the gate, stopping again to adjust the heel of her shoe. A short distance later she paused to admire the landscape and smell the fragrant flowers and tropical plants on the warm breeze. Each time she watched the people who passed, looking for any indication that someone was following her. The man who had come to her brother’s house was not on the plane. She had walked throughout it to check. She also had not seen him in the airport. If there was anyone else following her, she couldn’t tell. She rented a car just outside baggage claim and caught a courtesy shuttle to the rental car lot.

She had arrived in Maui during the heat of the day, gaining three hours with the time change. The sun burned a bright white, and she estimated the temperature at perhaps 90 degrees. Twenty minutes later, she stepped from the sanctity of an air-conditioned bus and walked to her rental car, a bright orange Jeep. If someone was following her it would have to begin here. She’d been to the island before and knew that Maui had a two-lane road, one lane in each direction. Sunglasses adorned, she pulled from the rental lot and deliberately drove the wrong direction for several minutes, then made an abrupt U-turn. No car behind her made the same maneuver. She followed the road around the island, the Pacific Ocean to her left, dark-skinned kids sitting on surfboards without a care in the world but to catch the perfect wave. The woman at the car rental counter had smiled when Dana asked for directions to Lahaina. “It is a small island. If you don’t find it the first time, just go around again.”

Dana found it the first time. She turned off the main road, pulled to the side, and stopped. The three cars behind her on the highway continued past the turn. She drove toward the water and turned right on Front Street. It led past a school and a park with an enormous banyan tree. The tree’s roots and branches spread out like the tentacles of a huge octopus, creating an umbrella beneath which artists set up booths to sell jewelry, beaded necklaces, and paintings.

Front Street went through the center of Lahaina—mostly single-story buildings. The sidewalks bustled with tourists in shorts, sandals, and tank tops. Dana turned down an alley to a pay parking lot and found a spot. She took a moment to straighten her appearance. Her hair had wilted in the heat, and the wind had wreaked its own havoc. She pulled it back into a ponytail, fixed her makeup, and adjusted her blouse and slacks.

She got out of the car and walked along Front Street. Most of the stores were Hawaii’s version of five-and-dimes, selling tourist knickknacks, bamboo beach mats, and T-shirts. Jimmy Buffett music blared from a second-floor restaurant and bar. Diners sat on a balcony eating a late lunch or getting an early start on happy hour. Toward the north end of town, the number of tourists thinned, and the quality of the merchandise in the stores improved. Art galleries and fine jewelry stores replaced the five-and-dimes. Dana considered the jewelry in several store windows. She decided against the discount whole-salers and searched instead for stores off the beaten tourist path. Walking down an alley, she came to a tiled inner courtyard with palm trees and a fountain. A tanned man in a gray polyester blazer and open-collared shirt stood outside a storefront that displayed glass sculptures—dolphins and whales, a colorful glass bowl. Stepping closer, Dana saw jewelry, including several of the ocean-blue stones like the one in her pocket. As she approached, the guard nodded, pulled open the door, and welcomed her inside to air-conditioned relief.

She removed her sunglasses and let her eyes adjust to the subtle lighting. A glass counter contained blue gems and diamonds.

“The stone is tanzanite.” The woman behind the counter greeted her with a British accent.

“They’re beautiful,” Dana said. “My favorite.”

“They are many people’s favorite, though they continue to be somewhat of a secret in the United States. Where are you from?”

“Seattle. My husband and I were on the islands about ten years ago.” Dana subtly placed her left hand on the counter to display her adorned diamond ring.

The woman used a key to unlock the display case and took out one of the larger blue stones. She placed it on the counter. “There is only one producing mine left in the world. The others flooded several years ago, and the African miners will no longer go down the shafts because of superstition. We import these from Grand Cayman.”

Dana pulled the earring from her pocket and placed it on the counter. “Actually, I’m hoping to match my earring. I’m afraid I lost the other and have given up any hope of ever finding it. It makes me sick; it was a wedding present from my husband. He had it crafted here on the island. We’ve returned for our ten-year anniversary, and I’d like to surprise him… and me.”

The woman smiled. “May I?” she asked, her interest at a peak. She held the earring up to the natural light, admiring its beauty.

“I believe the artist’s initials are on the back,” Dana said. “William Welles.”

The woman shifted her gaze to Dana, as if uncertain she had heard correctly. She rolled the earring in her palm and looked at the back of the clasp. Astonished, she asked, “How long have you had this?”

Dana tried to remain casual. “As I said, for about ten years.”

“That’s about the time he stopped designing jewelry,” the woman said, speaking almost to herself.

“Stopped designing?” Dana grew concerned. Ten years was a long time. William Welles could have died or moved from the island. She hadn’t thought of that.

The woman nodded. “Yes. William Welles no longer designs jewelry.”

“But he’s still alive?” Dana asked.

“Oh, yes.” The woman sighed. “He strays into town infrequently.” She paused, obviously searching for the proper accolades. “William Welles is an artist. Most of the sculptures you see here in town are his work. He is a genius, if eccentric.” She refocused her attention on the earring. “I don’t know him to have crafted a piece of jewelry in quite some time. You have a real piece here.”

“Half a piece, I’m afraid… unless I might find him?”

“We can craft the piece here,” the woman offered. “My husband designs jewelry.”

“I’d prefer to have Mr. Welles craft it, for reasons I’m sure you can understand—though I’d certainly be willing to purchase the stones through your store.” Dana hoped that would appease the woman. “Do you know how I might find him?”

“I’m told he lives on the northwest coast, off the Kahekili Highway, on a ridge overlooking the ocean, but it can be difficult to find. He does not accept visitors.”

“Could you tell me how to get there?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the way.”

Dana sighed. She sensed the woman was being reticent because she wanted to get the business for herself. “That’s very disappointing. I was hoping to match the earring with a bracelet and necklace.”

“Of the same design?”

“Of the same design and quality,” Dana assured her.

The woman’s face pinched. Her eyebrows pulled together, and her nostrils flared as if she were on William Welles’s scent at that very instant.

26

S
HIT, NICE BROAD.
She leaves him sitting on the toilet. That’s cold.”

Patrick Murphy spoke as Logan approached. Multiple patrol cars, unmarked vehicles, and an ambulance were parked to the side of the convenience store. Two men from the Yakima County coroner’s office lingered outside the door to the bathroom, kicking at the gravel. The two Yakima detectives who initially responded had run Cole through the computer and learned that he was wanted in Seattle on one and possibly two murder charges. That set off bells and whistles until they reached Murphy and Logan. Logan requested that the detectives maintain the crime scene until he arrived, and they obliged him.

Logan detected the distinct odor of whiskey on Murphy’s breath. He pointed to the convenience store, where he had just spoken with a kid who’d been working behind the counter when Cole and his girlfriend walked in. “The kid says they came into the store, Cole asked for the key to the bathroom, and she picked up some snacks. Then she apparently flashed her boobs at him before going out to pump the gas.”

“Excuse me?” Murphy said.

Logan nodded. “That’s what he said.”

Murphy grinned. “Shit. I told you she was a nice broad.”

“After she pumped the gas, she went back inside but didn’t have enough money to pay for the gas and the groceries. The kid said she and Cole didn’t look to be getting along, and she seemed to get impatient waiting for him. Then she offered to flash the kid again for a discount.”

“What was his response?”

“She walked out with the groceries.”

“Good boy.” Murphy smiled. “Opportunities like that don’t come along but once in a lifetime. Did she have a nice set of ta-tas?”

“We didn’t get that far, Murph. I didn’t think it was germane to the investigation.”

“Shit. It might increase police interest. You put out an APB for a pair of 36Ds, and you’ll have every patrol car in the state looking for her.”

Logan nodded. “You might be right about that.”

“What about the shooter? Kid have any information?”

Logan shook his head, frowning. “Thought he saw another car drive in while the girlfriend was pumping gas but couldn’t be sure. My guess is he was watching her. Said he thought she was driving a Nova, blue or tan. I had Yakima put out an APB on a blue or tan Nova.”

“With one nice set of headlights,” Murphy added.

“What about her home?”

“I got guys camped there, but no sign of her, and probably not for a while. She might be hiding; Cole doesn’t come off as the kind of guy to take being left on the crapper real well.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not her worry anymore.”

“The kid couldn’t ID anyone else going into the bathroom? What, was he in the back pullin’ on his puddin’?”

“Like I said, he has a vague recollection of hearing the bell go off, but he’s pretty much immune to the sound. My guess is he was fixated on Bright. We’re lucky he caught a glimpse of the car.”

“He was spanking his monkey, was what he was doing,” Murphy said. He nodded to the bathroom around the side. “You been inside yet?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a real treat, let me tell you—a corpse sitting on the crapper with his pants around his ankles.”

“Can’t wait,” Logan said.

He followed Murphy. The two detectives from Yakima waited with Deb Hallock and a uniformed officer who had apparently come with Murphy. Logan thanked the detectives for waiting, then he and Murphy walked toward the door.

“Didn’t even get a chance to wipe his ass,” the uniformed officer said to Murphy as they stepped into the bathroom. “That’s cold.”

Murphy stopped at the door. “What? Did you look, Turketti?”

The officer stammered, “No—no, I didn’t look.”

Too late. Murphy frowned and shook his head. “You sick son of a bitch. I always had my doubts about you.”

Flustered, the officer turned a deep shade of red. “I didn’t look. There’s no paper in the toilet.”

“Shit. You are sick, Turk.”

“I didn’t look,” the officer pleaded.

Logan stepped inside the bathroom. The floor tiles were one-inch squares, the kind that came on twelve-by-twelve netted sheets. It was cheap and could be easily installed and easily replaced if an individual tile broke. The wall and counter tile were pumpkin orange. Logan pulled on latex gloves and swung open the stall door by the top edge. Marshall Cole sat pitched off kilter, like a passed-out drunk. The bullet had hit him in the right eye, which was now a gaping hole. Otherwise, Cole looked like there wasn’t a scratch on him. It reminded Logan of a crow he’d shot with a pellet gun as a kid. The pellet had struck the bird in the eye, and it had fallen from the sky like a stone. But for the empty eye socket, the bird had looked like it could fly away. But the bird never got off the ground again, and Marshall Cole wasn’t getting off the toilet.

Blood had dripped down the wall and formed a puddle flowing with the grout lines, partially absorbed by an open newspaper. At the side of the toilet was an industrial-size roll of toilet paper still in its plastic case. A hole in the wall separating the stalls indicated where the toilet roll had once hung. There was a handgun on the toilet tank.

Logan stepped back and opened the door of the second stall. The dispenser was also on the floor. The toilet bowl was clean. He stepped back to the first stall and bent down to check the pockets of Cole’s jeans, covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Shit. What’re you going to do, give the guy a blow job, Logan?”

Logan spoke through his handkerchief. “I’ve told you—it’s the Irish, not the Scottish, who give blow jobs.” He stood. “You remember the stash King had on him? I wanted to see if Cole was carrying a similar amount.” He wasn’t. Cole’s pockets were empty except for some pocket change. Logan bet when they found the woman, they would find a wad of cash. If she had left Cole at a gas station, there had to be a good reason. Either they really weren’t getting along or she’d seen an opportunity and taken it.

Murphy turned to the young officer, who stood waiting. “Turketti, quit staring at the guy’s dick and find out the estimate on the time of death.” He turned back to Logan. “Might help us to figure out how far the woman’s got.”

Logan nodded. “The kid at the counter says she and Cole came in about eleven-thirty. She left fifteen minutes after that. He got curious after she took off without Cole but said he wasn’t anxious to tell Cole his girlfriend left him for a box of doughnuts and six-pack of beer. He let another half hour go by, then decided to find out what Cole did with the key. Said the door was unlocked, and when he pushed it open, he could see Cole’s boots. He thought maybe he’d passed out. Then he saw the blood.” Logan looked at his watch. “She’s long gone. Best bet is to sit on her home.”

“And the kid didn’t hear a shot?” Murphy asked. “It would have echoed like a bass drum in here.”

Logan examined the bullet wound. “Twenty-two or nine-millimeter, and the killer probably used a silencer. Remember? Nobody at the motel heard anything, either.” He stepped out of the stall.

Logan pulled open the door of the adjacent stall again. He walked in, sat on the toilet, and looked through the hole where the dispenser used to be. He made the shape of a gun with his hand and stuck his finger in the hole. “Bang,” he said softly.

“No offense, Logan,” Murphy said, looking into the stall, “but I’ve had very few images of you, and this one isn’t the most flattering.”

Logan chuckled. “What was he doing?”

“Shit. Taking a crap and enjoying the sports page. That’s a man’s God-given right.”

“I don’t mean Cole. I mean the killer. What was the killer doing in here?” Logan stood up. “He could have walked in, shot him, and walked back out. Why go to all this trouble?”

Murphy shrugged. “Cole was armed. If he took a couple of shots at the guy in the motel, like we think, the guy would have known it. Maybe he was concerned Cole was waiting for him on the other side of the stall door.”

“Maybe,” Logan said. He braced an arm against the back wall of the stall, reached over Cole, and picked up the gun—a nine-millimeter automatic, a candy-store popgun that could be purchased anywhere. He wrapped it in his handkerchief and walked out. He told the two Yakima detectives he was finished.

Outside, he handed the gun to Murphy. “You’ll want to have the lab run a ballistics test and compare it with the bullets pulled from the motel wall where we found King.”

Murphy looked back at the door to the bathroom. “Shit. Who is this guy?” he asked, and for the first time that Logan could remember, the profanity meant something.

“I don’t know, Murph. I don’t know.”