No Way to Die (6 page)

“We know him,” I said. “We’ll give him a call. Toni, do you have anything else?”

“Not for now,” she said.

“Okay,” I turned to Katherine, “Katherine, this has been really helpful. Again, we’re deeply sorry for you and your kids having to go through this. Initially, I’d say we’re very interested in helping you get to the bottom of what really happened.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I would be very grateful.”

I continued. “What we’d like to do is talk to the police and find out why they’re so convinced it was a suicide. If they don’t mind us rooting around, then I want to run this past all of my work associates to make sure it’s an assignment we can really help with.”

She nodded.

“I’ve already explained your rates to Katherine,”Dad said.

“And they’re acceptable?” I asked.

She nodded. “If Thomas was murdered and you can get the police to reopen the case,” Katherine said, “I’ll consider your fee a bargain. As a matter of fact, if that happens, I’ll double your fee.”

“That’s very generous,” I said. “We’ll go to work and try to figure out exactly what happened. We’ll be in touch,” I said, and Toni and I stood to leave.

* * * *

The windshield wipers worked in a slow, intermittent pattern to flick away the drizzle as I drove us back up Highway 99 to the office.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Toni said as she flipped through her notepad. “I think it’s too early to say. I’m eager to see what the police have.”

“Me, too. Presumably, it could be a case of all the physical evidence pointing to a suicide and all the background evidence pointing to a murder.”

“What she said made a lot of sense,” Toni said. “She seems pretty sincere—pretty convinced.”

“Yeah, it does. But I’ve got to say, I’ve heard similar stories a few times before. When I was in the army, I had to investigate suicides. In all cases, what we thought might be suspicious turned out to be exactly what the evidence said it was—a suicide. We couldn’t always tell the motive, but I’m confident we never let any murderers skate away.”

“Could be that way this time, too,” Toni said. “We’ll have to dig in to find out.”

I nodded my head in agreement.

We drove in silence for a few blocks. My mind bounced around with thoughts about Katherine and Thomas Rasmussen.

“Here’s something to consider, Danny,” Toni said.

“What’s that?”

“If Katherine is right, and Thomas was murdered, someone—someone who’s highly skilled, by the way, and not afraid to actually murder people—was able to kill him and manipulate the evidence so as to fool the police.”

“Yeah.”

“Whoever that skilled murderer is, he might not appreciate a couple of PIs nosing around in his perfect murder. In fact, he might get pretty damned annoyed at us. I’m just saying.”

I thought about this for a minute. Then I said, “You know, the thought of a murderer being pissed at me—even at us—doesn’t bother me.” I shook my head. “I’ve had homicidal idiots on my ass before. Fuck those guys. If I’ve got you watching my back, I’m good. Their mistake. In fact, they’re the ones that need to watch out for us.”

Toni smiled. “Hooah,” she said.

“Damn straight.”

WE ARRIVED AT the Logan PI office at about nine thirty and immediately went straight to my office to call our contact at the Seattle Police Department. I didn’t know Detective Inez Johnson, so I was hoping a detective I knew would put in a good word for us. Otherwise, she might not even talk to me—some cops don’t like PIs. I pulled the speakerphone into the center of the desk and dialed.

After a few rings, a curt voice announced, “Special Investigations, Lieutenant Brown.”

“Dwayne, it’s Danny Logan calling.”

“Danny Logan,” Dwayne said, his voice brightening. “How you doing, man? You getting anybody killed this week?”

I laughed. “Trying not to,” I said. “But it’s only Monday—the week’s young. Who knows?” He laughed. “Dwayne, I’ve got you on speakerphone because Toni Blair’s here in the office with me.”

“Ah—the better half,” Dwayne said. “How you doing, Toni?”

“I’m fine,” Toni answered, smiling.

We both genuinely liked Dwayne—he was one of the “good guys.” I’ve known him for several years—since I was stationed at Fort Lewis. He and I worked several cases together—me as an army CID special agent, he as a Seattle Police Department detective. Last summer, we worked on the Gina Fiore disappearance together.

“Wait a second,” Dwayne said. “I’ve got to switch you over.” A couple of seconds later, he returned to the line, which now echoed like he was speaking from the bottom of a barrel. “I’ve got you on speakerphone now too, because there’s someone in my office you may remember. Then again, maybe not. He’s not all that memorable.”

“Gus?” Toni called out.

“Live and in person,” said Goscislaw “Gus” Symanski, Dwayne’s partner. “How’s my favorite PI?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“I wasn’t talking to you, moron,” Gus answered.

Toni laughed. “I’m good, Gus. How about you? Is Dwayne working you too hard?”

“He always does,” Gus answered.

“Good,” Toni said. “I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”

“Never happen,” Gus said.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of this phone call?” Dwayne asked. “You’re not hunting for another one of our missing persons, are you?”

“Not this time,” I said.

“Good. We haven’t fully recovered from the Gina Fiore case yet.”

“That was a tough one,” I agreed. “This time, though, we’ve been asked to look into the apparent suicide of a guy named Thomas Rasmussen.”

“Hmm,” Dwayne said. “That’s the tech guy that shot himself a couple of weeks ago, right?”

“Yep. We met with his widow this morning, and she presented a credible case that it might not have been a suicide after all.”

“Really?” he asked. “Why’s she feel that way?”

“Conflicting behavior,” I said.

“You know, somebody wants to murder someone and disguise it as a suicide, there are easier ways than using a gun.”

“Assuming you don’t want to get caught,” Gus added.

“Right,” Dwayne said. “Assuming you don’t want to get caught.”

“I know,” I said. “We’re just going to run through some of the facts of the case—try to develop an understanding.”

“Who handled the investigation for SPD?” Dwayne said.

“Inez Johnson.”

“Whoa!” Gus said.

Toni and I looked at each other. “What do you mean, ‘whoa’?” I asked.

“Inez is a ballbuster,” Gus said. “She’s mean.”

Dwayne laughed. “That’s bullshit. Inez is—Inez is by the book. She’s hard-nosed, and she’s tough. But she’s fair. Gus just rubs her the wrong way.”

“I try not to rub her at all,” Gus said.

“Do you want me to put in a call to her, so she’ll talk to you?” Dwayne asked. “Otherwise, she may not get back to you for a while.”

“Yeah, a while—as in five years or so,” Gus added.

“Seeing how you’re offering, that would be great,” I said. “Will she be okay with you doing that?”

“No problem. She likes me. Gus is the one who pisses her off. Consider it done,” Dwayne said.

“We appreciate it. We owe you one.”

“Yes, you do. We like it when you owe us one, right, Gus?”

“Damn straight.”

“Tell you what,” Dwayne said. “Since we’re just a couple of humble public servants, you guys can buy us lunch one of these days. We can do your favorite, Danny.”

“Sushi at the Marinepolis!” Gus yelled out. They both know I’m not a fan of sushi.

“Done,” Toni answered before I had a chance to object. I gave her a dirty look. She stuck out her tongue.

“Outstanding,” Gus said. “I’m already looking forward to it. By the way, Toni, I’ve upgraded my wardrobe. You should see it.”

“That’s right,” Dwayne said. “Gus found a Joseph A. Bank factory outlet up in Tulalip that still had a bunch of 1970’s sport coats. Yesterday he wore one that was plaid. Today, it’s got—what’re those little curlicue circles on it?”

“Paisley?” Toni asked.

“That’s it!” Gus said. “Paisleys!”

“Gus!” Toni said, smiling. “I’m so proud of you.”

“See there?” Gus said to Dwayne. “Some of us are dapper. Others, not so much.”

* * * *

Just after lunch, I called Inez Johnson. Whatever Dwayne said to her must have worked because she agreed to meet us in her office at four thirty. Driving through traffic at that time was likely to be a bitch, so we left Logan PI at 3:45 in order to make the two-and-a-half-mile trip on time. On top of the drive time, it normally would have taken thirty minutes to either find a nearby parking space, or else park in a distant lot and walk to the Seattle Criminal Justice Center downtown on Fifth Avenue. Fortunately, Dwayne had given us a parking pass to the building’s private underground lot a few months earlier during the Fiore case—one of those credit-card types that you swipe across a sensor to open the gate. Even more fortunately, he must have forgotten about it because he never asked for it back when the case was over. We swiped the pass across the sensor, and it still worked. “Bingo!” I said as the swing arm began to lift. We walked into the lobby on the sixth floor at exactly four thirty.

We’d just finished signing the visitor log and getting our guest badges when Inez Johnson walked out to greet us. She was an attractive dark-skinned woman, probably in her forties—maybe her fifties, I couldn’t tell. She was medium height. Her hair was short and dark with a few streaks of gray here and there. She looked like she might be of Central American descent.

“Mr. Logan and Ms. Blair,” she said in a deep voice with a distinctive Caribbean lilt. She shook my hand with a firm grip. “You come with a very high recommendation.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “So Gus Symanski called and put in the word for us?” I couldn’t resist.

She’d been just about to shake Toni’s hand. She froze, her hand suspended in midair. She turned to look at me. “Let’s not get started off on the wrong foot by mentioning
that
man, shall we, Mr. Logan? Dwayne Brown called on your behalf.”

Toni glared at me.

“I apologize,” I said. I smiled and turned on the charm. “Just trying to break the ice.”

Inez gave me a hard look for a moment. “Ah, the ice,” she said, as she turned and looked around the office. She finished and looked back at me. “Don’t see no ice. Do you see any ice around here, Mr. Logan?”

Oops—Gus was right. I was going backward fast. I looked down. “No, ma’am.” I was tempted to bark out, “No excuse, ma’am!” but I opted for discretion. This created an opening for Toni.

“Ms. Johnson,” Toni said in a very pleasant voice. “Please excuse my partner here. He’s a
man
, as you can see. He can’t help himself. I’m still working with him on things like, oh—housebreaking, for instance.” She hit Inez with one of her sincere smiles.

It worked. Inez smiled back. “I understand, dear,” she said. “I know what you have to put up with. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like around here sometimes.” She took Toni by the arm and started to lead her back through the doors that read
Authorized Personnel Only
.

When the doors opened, the two women paused. I hadn’t moved yet. Toni turned back to me and said in a stern voice, “Danny—come!”

Inez erupted in laughter.

* * * *

Inez’s small office had a large American flag in one corner. A photo of a striking young soldier wearing the tan beret and shield of the 75th Ranger Regiment hung on the wall next to the flag. Actually, I’m a little biased. I think any young man or woman wearing an army uniform is pretty striking, but this guy looked like he’d been cut from the proverbial recruiting poster.

“Your son?” I asked.

“Yes, my son Michael. He was killed in 2006 in Iraq. His helicopter was shot down when they were returning from a mission near Tikrit.”

I stared at the photo. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I studied the photo a moment longer and added, “He looks like you.”

She nodded. “Thank you. He was twenty-six at the time.”

Her story reminded me that I’ve seen too many of my good friends put into body bags, too many funerals, and too many grieving parents. At least I’d learned a little about what to say. “You must be very proud of him,” I said.

“That, I am.” She turned to me. “He died serving his country. My family’s first generation. For us, if you gotta die before your time, there’s not a more honorable way than doing it for this great country.” She stared at the photo for a few moments, lost in thought. Then, she turned to me.

“Dwayne told me about
your
combat experiences and your time in the army. He told me you were wounded—twice. And he said that you were awarded the Silver Star for bravery.”

I nodded.

“Well, you’re right. I am proud of my son—very proud of what he’s done. He gave his life for his country. But I’m proud of you, too,” she paused, “despite your sense of humor. Like my son, you were also willing to sacrifice for your country.”