Indigo Slam

CHAPTER 8

New World Printing was east of the Duwamish Waterway between Georgetown and Boeing Field in a tract of older industrial buildings that were built when red bricks and ironwork were cheap. The front of the building contained a fancy glass entrance and a receptionist who would pick up her phone and tell Mr. Brownell that a Mr. Cole wanted to see him. Considering Mr. Brownell's uncooperative response when I phoned, it was likely that Brownell would (at worst) refuse to see me, or (at best) be warned of my approach and therefore prepared to stonewall. This was not good. I have found that if you can surprise people in their workplace, they are often concerned with avoiding an embarrassing scene, and you can jam them into cooperating. This is advanced detective work at its finest.

I parked at the curb and walked around to the loading dock on the side of the building where two men were wrestling a dolly stacked with about ten thousand pounds of boxed paper into a six-wheel truck. 'You guys know where I can find Wilson Brownell?'

One of the men was younger, with a thick mustache and a hoop earring and a red bandana tied over his head like a skullcap. 'Yeah.' He pointed inside. 'Down the aisle, past the desk, and through the swinging door. You'll see him.'

'Thanks.'

I followed an endless aisle past shipping flats stacked with boxes of brochures and magazines and pamphlets. I picked up two boxes and carried them with what I hoped was a purposeful expression, just another worker bee lugging paper through the hive.

A balding guy with a potbelly and tiny, mean eyes was sitting at the desk, talking to a younger guy with a prominent Adam's apple. The balding guy was thin in the arms and chest and neck, but his belly poked out beneath his belt-line as if someone had slipped a bowling ball in his pants. He squinted at me the way people do when they're trying to remember who you are, but then I was past him and through the swinging door and into a cavernous room filled with whirring, kachunking, humming machines and the men and women who operated them. A woman pushed a dolly past me and I smiled. 'Wilson Brownell?'

She pointed and I saw him across the room, standing at a large machine with two other people, one a kid in a KURT LIVES T-shirt, and the other a middle-aged guy in a suit. A large plate had been removed from the side of the machine so that they could see inside.

Wilson Brownell was in his early sixties, and taller than he looked in the pictures at his home. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a simple plaid shirt, with short hair more gray than not and black horn-rimmed glasses. Professorial. He was using a pen to point at something inside the machine. The guy in the suit was standing with his arms crossed, not liking what he heard. Brownell finally stopped pointing, and the suit walked away, still with crossed arms. Brownell said something to the younger guy, and the younger guy got down on the floor and began working his way into the machine. I walked over and said, 'Mr. Brownell?'

'Yes?' Brownell looked at me with damp, hazel eyes.

You could smell the booze on him, faint and far away. It was probably always with him.

I positioned myself with my back to the kid so that only Wilson Brownell would hear. 'My name is Elvis Cole. I've phoned you twice trying to find a man named Clark Haines.'

Brownell shook his head. 'I don't know anyone by that name.'

'How about Clark Hewitt?'

Brownell glanced at the kid, then wet his lips. 'You're not supposed to be here.' He looked past me. 'Did they let you in?'

'Come on, Mr. Brownell. I know that Clark phoned you six times from Los Angeles because I've seen his phone record. I know that he's been at your apartment.' He wasn't just stonewalling; he was scared. 'I'm not here to make trouble for you or for Clark. He walked out on his kids eleven days ago, and they need him. If he isn't coming home, someone has to deal with that.' Elvis Cole, detective for the nineties, the detective who can feel your pain.

'I don't know anything. I don't know what you're talking about.' He shook his head, and the booze smell came stronger.

'Jesus Christ, those kids are alone. All I want to do is find out if Clark 's coming home.' You'd think I wanted to kill the guy.

He held up both hands, palms toward me, shaking his head some more.

'This isn't an earth-shaker, Wilson. Either I'm going to find Clark, or I'm going to turn his kids over to Children's Services, and they're going to take custody away from him. You see what I'm saying here?' I wanted to smack him. I wanted to grab him by the ears and shake him. ' Clark is going to lose his kids unless he talks to me, and you're going to be part of it.' Maybe I could guilt him into cooperating.

Wilson Brownell looked past me, and his eyes widened. The bald guy with the bowling-ball paunch was standing in the swinging doors, frowning at us. Brownell's face hardened and he stepped close to me. 'Do everybody a favor and get your ass out of here. I'd help you if I could, but I can't, and that's that.'

He turned away but I turned with him. 'What do you mean, that's that? Didn't you hear what I said about his kids?'

'I said I can't help you.' Wilson Brownell's voice came out loud enough so that the kid on the floor peeked out at us.

Two men had joined the bald guy in the swinging doors. They were older, with thin gray hair and wind-burned skin and the kind of heavy, going-to-fat builds that said they were probably pretty good hitters twenty years ago. The bald guy pointed our way and one of the new men said something, and then the bald guy started toward us. Brownell grabbed my shoulder like a man grabbing a life preserver. 'Listen to me, goddamnit.' His voice was a harsh whisper, lower now and urgent. 'Don't you mention Clark. Don't even say his goddamn name, you wanna walk outta here alive.' Wilson Brownell suddenly broke into a big laugh and clapped me on the shoulder as if I'd told him the world's funniest joke. He said, 'You tell Lisa I can get my own date, thank you very much! I need any help, I'll give'r a call!' He said it so loud that half of British Columbia could hear.

I stared at him.

The bald guy reached us, the two new guys still in the swinging door, watching through interested eyes. The bald guy said, 'I don't know who this guy is. He just walked in here.'

Brownell kept his hand on my shoulder, letting the laugh fade to a grin. 'Sorry about that, Donnie. I knew this guy was coming by, and I shoulda told you. He's a friend of mine.'

I glanced from Brownell to Donnie, then back to Brownell, wondering just what in hell I had walked into.

Brownell shook his head like, man, this was just the silliest thing. 'This guy's wife has been tryin' to set me up with this friend of hers for three months now. I keep sayin', what on earth am I going to do with a new woman when I'm still in love with my Edna?'

Donnie squinted the ferret eyes at me like he was deciding something. 'What, are you a mute or something? Don't you have anything to say?'

Brownell was looking at me so hard that his eyes felt like lasers. I shook my head. 'Nope.'

Donnie made his decision, then glanced back at the two guys in the swinging door, and shook his head once. The two guys vanished. 'You know better'n this.'

Brownell said, 'I'm sorry, Donnie. Jesus Christ.'

The tiny eyes flicked back to me, and then a smile even smaller than the eyes played at the edges of his mouth. 'C'mon, I'll show you the way out.'

I followed the bald guy out, got into my car, and drove to a Seattle 's Best Coffee, where I bought a double-tall mochachino and sat there feeling confused, a more or less natural state. I had flown to Seattle expecting some difficulty in dealing with Wilson Brownell, but nothing like this. Wilson Brownell seemed stark raving terrified to mention Clark 's name. In fact, Brownell seemed not only terrified of me but also of his fellow employees. Maybe there was something to it, or maybe Brownell was just a goofball suffering from some sort of paranoid psychosis. Goofballs are common. I could sit here and guess, but all I would have are guesses. I needed to ask Wilson Brownell, and there were only two options: I could shoot my way back into New World and pistol-whip the information out of him, or I could wait and ask him when Wilson left work. The C-Span Lady had said that Brownell got home between five-thirty and a quarter to six, which meant that he probably left work between five and five-fifteen. It was now forty-three minutes after two, giving me two hours and twenty minutes to fill, and I decided to visit Rachel Hewitt's grave. If Clark had visited her grave, he might've left flowers. If he left flowers, there might be a florist's tag, and if there was a florist's tag, I might be able to get a line on Clark. A lot of ifs and maybes, but ifs and maybes define my life.

The Seattle 's Best people let me use their Yellow Pages. Twelve cemeteries were listed in the greater Seattle, Mercer Island, and Bellevue area. I copied their numbers on a napkin, traded three dollar bills for quarters, and started dialing. The first four cemeteries I phoned did not have a Rachel Hewitt listed, but a woman who answered the phone at the fifth said, 'Why, yes, we do have a Rachel Hewitt as a client.' Client.

I said, 'Did you know Rachel Hewitt?'

'Oh, goodness, no.'

'You knew she was there without having to look it up.' She had said it that quickly.

'Oh, well, I had to look it up just last week for another gentleman. On a Monday, I believe. Yes, that's right, a Monday.'

'Over the phone, or in person?'

'Oh, he was here.'

I described Clark. 'Did he look like that?'

'Oh, no. Nothing like that. This gentleman was tall and blond, with short hair.'

I got directions, hung up, and eighteen minutes later I pulled through the gate onto the grounds of the Resthaven Views Cemetery and parked at the office. The woman I'd spoken with was older and sweet, and named Mrs. Lawrence. She showed me a large plot map of the grounds, and directed me to Rachel Hewitt's grave site. I said, 'The man last Monday, do you know who he was?'

'Oh, a friend or relative, I imagine. Like you.' Like me.

Rachel Hewitt had been laid to rest on the side of a grassy knoll near the western edge of the cemetery with a clear and pleasant view of Lake Washington. I left my car in the shade of a sycamore tree and walked north counting headstones. Rachel Hewitt's was the fifth headstone in, but the headstone was bare. Guess Clark hadn't been out, or if he had, he'd skipped the flowers.

I said, 'Well, damn.'

No flowers meant no lead.

Three cars were parked below me, and I could see people trudging among the graves, some sitting on the grass, some standing, one older gentleman in a lawn chair he'd brought, visiting old friends or loved ones. Above me, twin mausoleums stood on the crest of the hill with what would be sweeping views of the lake. Trees stood sentry around the mausoleums, lending shade, and a couple of cars were parked among the trees, one a faded tan pickup, the other a black Lexus. Someone was sitting in the Lexus, but they were so far away I couldn't see them clearly. Something flashed, and I thought they must be looking through field glasses. Admiring the view, no doubt. Enjoying another fine day with the dead.

I brushed at the headstone and took out the photograph that I'd taken from Brownell's apartment and again thought how very much Teri looked like her mother. I put the picture away and stared at Lake Washington and tried not to feel sour. No mean feat when you've spent your own money to fly a thousand miles to stand clueless beside a woman's grave. I was still confident that I could find Clark, but the odds that I could do it within a reasonable amount of time were diminishing, and I would need to do something about the kids. Of course, even if I found Clark, I was thinking that I still might have to call Children's Services. Clark wasn't shaping up as the World's Finest Dad. Rachel might not like it, but there you go. Maybe she should've done a better job of selecting their father.

I left the cemetery and drove south along the lake. It was a lovely afternoon, and the lake was flat. People rollerbladed along the water and sunbathed on short strips of beach, and none of them were bummed because they had just visited a woman's grave.

I turned west at Seward Park and stopped at a red light next to a woman in a green Toyota. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Friendly. Then I glanced in the mirror and saw a black Lexus two cars behind. It looked like the Lexus from the mausoleum, but I couldn't get a clear enough look at it to be sure. I said, 'Come on, Cole, you've got to be kidding. First LA and now Seattle?'

The woman in the green Toyota was staring at me. I looked away, embarrassed. 'Get a grip, Cole. Now you're talking to yourself.'

I snuck another glance, and now she locked her door.

The light changed and the Lexus stayed behind me, but two blocks later I slowed, and the Lexus sped by. A guy with a blond buzz cut was driving and a dark man who looked about as big as a Kodiak bear was in the passenger seat. Neither of them looked at me. I said, 'You see? It was nothing.'

The woman in the green Toyota passed me, too. Fast.

I parked a block and a half from the New World main gate at eighteen minutes before five. At five, employees started filtering out both on foot and in cars; at six minutes after, Wilson Brownell nosed out of the lot in a small yellow Plymouth hatchback. I let him get one block ahead, then I pulled out after him. He went west across the Duwamish directly to his apartment and parked at the curb in sight of the C-Span Lady's window. I pulled into the mouth of an alley a block away and waited for him to go into his building, but he didn't. He locked his car, then walked north to the next corner and disappeared. I left the car blocking the alley, trotted after him, and made it to the corner in time to see him go into a place called Lou's Bar. There was a case of beer and damn near a dozen bottles of booze in his apartment, but I guess he wanted to stop off for a couple before he went home for the serious drinking. Or maybe he just didn't want to be alone.

Wilson Brownell watched the bartender pour Popov vodka over ice as I entered. I waited for the bartender to finish and move away, then I took the stool next to Brownell. Two women were hunched together over a little table in the shadows, and three of us were at the bar, but the third guy was facedown on the wood. Brownell saw me and said, 'Jesus Christ.'

I looked serene. 'No, but we're often confused.'

'I got nothing to say to you.' Brownell tried to get up, but I hooked one of his feet behind the stool and pushed down hard on his shoulder, digging my thumb into the pressure point at the front of his neck. I didn't like being tough, but I was willing to if that's what it took to find Clark Hewitt and get his butt home to his kids. No one in the bar seemed to give a damn. He said, 'Ow. My goddamned neck.'

'Relax and I'll let go. If you try to get up, I'll knock you on your ass.'

He stopped trying to get up and I released the pressure.

As soon as I let go, he took a belt of the Popov. 'Goddamn. That hurt.'

I took out my wallet and opened it to the license. 'A fifteen-year-old girl who told me that her name was Teresa Haines gave me two hundred dollars to find her father.'

Brownell took another belt of the vodka.

'I have come up here at my own expense because Teresa, whose name I now discover is really Hewitt, and her two younger siblings have a missing father who has apparently abandoned them.'

Another belt.

'I have discovered that Clark Haines, whose name is also Hewitt, is a drug addict. I have discovered that Mr. Hewitt has come to Seattle, has spent time with his old friend, Mr. Brownell, but that Mr. Brownell doesn't give enough of a damn about these minor children to cooperate in helping me find their father.' I put away the wallet, then took out the picture of Brownell and Clark and their wives and put that on the bar.

The picture was creased from having been in my pocket. Brownell's jaw tightened. 'You went into my home.'

'Yes.'

His jaw flexed some more, then he picked up the picture and put it in his own pocket. He had more of the vodka, and I saw that his hand was shaking. 'You don't know a goddamn thing about anything.' His voice was soft and far away.

'I know Clark was with you.'

He shook his head, and the soft voice came again. 'You're in somethin' now you don't know anything about. If you're smart, you'll just go home.'

'So tell me and I'll go.'

He shook his head and tried to lift the Popov, but his hand was shaking too badly. I didn't think it was shaking from the booze. 'I can't help you and I got nothing to tell you.' He blinked hard, almost as if he were blinking back tears. 'I love Clark, you see? But there ain't nothing I can do. I don't know where he went and you shouldn't be asking about him. I'm sorry about his children, but there ain't nothing I can do about that. Not one goddamned thing.' Brownell's hand shook so badly that the Popov splashed out the glass.

'Jesus Christ, Brownell. What in hell's got you so scared?'

The bar door opened and the blond guy from the Lexus came in. He was maybe six-two, with hard shoulders and sharp features and ice blue eyes that looked at you without blinking. He stepped out of the door to make room for his friend, and the friend needed all the room he could get: He was a huge man, maybe six-five, with great sloping shoulders, an enormous protruding gut, and the kind of waddle serious powerlifters get. His thighs were as thick as a couple of twenty gallon garbage cans. The buzz cut was wearing a blue sport coat over a yellow T-shirt and jeans, but his friend was decked out in a truly bad islander shirt, baggy shorts, and high-top Keds. The big guy had a great dopey grin on his face, and he was slurping on a yellow sucker. The buzz cut said, 'Willie.'

Wilson Brownell said, 'Oh, shit.' He knocked over his stool as he lurched from the bar, then hurried through a door in the rear. Gone. The bartender didn't look. The women didn't look. The guy sleeping on the bar stayed down.

The buzz cut and his friend came over. 'You are coming with us.' The buzz cut spoke the words with a careful, starched pronunciation that made me think of Arnold Schwarzenegger, only the accent was Russian.

'Sez who?' I can slay 'em with these comebacks.

The weightlifter reached under his shirt and came out with a Sig automatic. 'You'll come or we will shoot you.' He said it in a normal speaking voice, as if he didn't give a damn who heard. Another Russian.

I said, 'Have you guys been following me from Los Angeles?'

The weightlifter shoved me, and it felt like getting blindsided by a backhoe. 'Shut up. Walk.'

I shut up. I walked.

Maybe Wilson Brownell was right. Maybe I was in something deeper than I realized, and now it was too late to get out.

Isn't hindsight wonderful?