WHEN WE ARRIVED at Mann’s campaign headquarters there were official cars blocking the entrance to the parking lot. Officers in uniforms were standing next to the entrance and the area in front of the office was cordoned off. I parked on the street and we got out and walked toward a uniformed officer standing next to the barrier.
“Can I help you?” he asked in that officious tone so often used with that question. It’s seldom a real offer of help but more likely a challenge to whatever it is you want to do.
“We’re here to see Detective Connolly,” I said.
“He expecting you?”
“Yes.” I felt like screaming no, we always drop by crime scenes in the early morning and ask to see the person in charge. But I kept my cool. On the way over, Yuri and I had agreed to be as truthful and compliant as we possibly could. We couldn’t see anything to gain by lying or holding something back. And P.W. hadn’t given us any instructions. Maybe she had demurred to keep her distance.
The officer got out his phone and turned away from us to talk to someone. Then he turned back and asked, “You Chandler and Webster?” It almost sounded like a classy law firm instead of two pathetic investigators who had fled from the scene and were potentially prime suspects in a murder.
“Uh huh,” Yuri said.
“He’s waiting for you inside. The officer at the door will give you booties to wear.” I guessed he was being polite because he hadn’t been told why we were there. We might be related to the deceased, witnesses to what happened, people associated with the campaign or even consultants. People who deserved civility rather than reprimands. Or worse.
We thanked him, got our booties from the officer at the entrance, and went inside. This time the lights were on. As we headed across the room toward the kitchen and the storage area a man in a trim leather jacket and jeans came out of the back and walked in our direction. He was late thirties, tall and dark haired, with the Irish good looks of a cross between Colin Farrell and Cillian Murphy. If he spoke with a brogue, I feared I might swoon.
“Detective Connolly,” he said, holding out his hand to me. The gesture was polite, but there was no warmth in his sharp blue eyes. And no smile. And no accent.
“Cameron Chandler,” I said, looking him in the eyes to show I wasn’t embarrassed to be there, even though we had perhaps misbehaved or possibly broken some minor law.
Yuri extended his hand. “Yuri Webster.” Friendly yet professional. No hint of guilt or remorse for leaving the scene.
“I’ll need statements from you tomorrow, but for now I want to verify that nothing has changed since you left.” His emphasis on the word “left” made me very aware that we weren’t off the hook. I wanted to explain what had happened, but Yuri and I had agreed not to offer any information; we would play it as safe as possible by sticking to answering questions.
As we stood in the entrance to the storage room, I thought everything looked the same as when we were there earlier – the haphazard heap of Knight signs, the neatly stacked pile of Mann signs, and the body on the floor. But this time the room was lit up by overhead lights and there were several people hovering over the body while one person seemed to be examining it. With the lights on I could see that the man on the floor had brown hair and was wearing jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt splattered with blood.
“Well?” Detective Connolly prompted.
“Nothing’s changed,” Yuri said, looking to me for confirmation.
“I understand you checked for a pulse.” Connolly looked at me.
“Yes.”
“And after you decided he was not in need of medical assistance, you left through the back door.”
“The same way we came in,” Yuri offered. “The door was unlocked,” he added, with a self-conscious glance in my direction.
“I assume that we’ll find your fingerprints on the doorknob.”
“Yes.” That was one right decision we’d made. Guilty people wiped their prints, didn’t they?
“Do you know the victim?”
Yuri was shaking his head “no.” Too much shaking, but the answer was clear.
“I can’t tell without seeing his face,” I said. “But I doubt it.”
“We don’t work directly for either of the campaigns,” Yuri said, offering information again rather than sticking to our agreed upon approach. He was obviously more rattled by what had happened than I’d realized. Probably because he was still regretting that he had gotten me involved and was concerned about consequences such as us losing our jobs or, worst case scenario, going to jail.
“Do you have a name for him?” I asked.
“Yes.”
We waited, but apparently it was not something Detective Connolly was going to share with us. It felt like he was staring us down, taking our measure or waiting for us to blurt out a confession. I can usually read nonverbals, but his were a closed book to me. A very attractive book, but closed all the same.
“That’s all for now,” he said, abruptly dismissing us. “I’ll expect you at my office by 10:30 tomorrow morning.” He didn’t ask if that was convenient. It was an order by someone who had the power to issue such orders. He knew we’d be there. We turned around and headed out.
Once we were outside Yuri said, “That went well, don’t you think?”
I almost laughed. “You mean because he didn’t put us in cuffs and haul us off to jail?”
“There’s that.”
After a brief pause, I asked: “Did you notice how dark the blood was? Like the body had been there a while.”
“It couldn’t have been there too long, depending on what time the office closed.” I could see Yuri mentally making some calculations.
“Wouldn’t that depend on what they were working on?” I asked. “If they were making calls, it could have been as late as 8:30 or 9:00.”
“So, between, say, four to six hours, depending on what time they closed up shop.”
“Does the color of blood change in that amount of time? Or is it a question of where the blood came from?”
“I’ll have to ask my neighborhood coroner,” Yuri quipped. When he doesn’t know the answer to something he thinks he should know, he usually falls back on humor. It was one of his frustrating yet endearing traits.
“I’m just hoping the time of death at least means we won’t end up being suspects.” Being named as suspects would not only be bad publicity for Penny-wise, but Mom would be horrified.
“When you put it that way—”
I dropped Yuri off at his condo with a reminder to set his alarm and headed for home. Once there I quietly let myself in and just as quietly made my way to my bedroom. In no time at all, I was in bed. The last thing I remember was wondering what Detective Connolly’s first name was and whether he was married.
My mother knows how to push all of my buttons and exercises her ability to do so on a regular basis. When it comes to my own kids, I believe I am entitled to use my knowledge of their habits and preferences to bend them to my way of thinking. But I don’t feel that MY mother has a right to do that to me. So, when she came in to wake me up early to tell me that she and the kids had done just fine without me while I was on a stakeout, I groaned and rolled over. “Leave me alone.”
“You need to get up and fix breakfast for your children. I’m leaving to have breakfast with a friend.”
We both knew that the kids were perfectly capable of pouring milk into the cereal of their choice and that cold cereal was what they liked for breakfast on weekday mornings. Her comment wasn’t about breakfast, it was about me not being a full-time mother. She’d probably planned her breakfast out after I asked her to cover for me during the stakeout. She knows they can sometimes last all night. Annoying and manipulative.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get up.” I didn’t tell her that my alarm was due to go off in ten minutes anyway.
She waited until I sat up before leaving. “Have a nice breakfast,” I called after her, followed by “mommy dearest” in sotto voice.
“What was that, Cameron?” When it comes to whispered comments not meant for her to hear, Mom has the hearing range of an animal of prey.
“Nothing, Mom. Just yawning our loud.” I yawned loudly to make my point.
Before getting into the shower, I went downstairs to check on Jason and Mara, just in case they really did need something. They were already at the kitchen table eating their cereal while working their phones like they were important executives who couldn’t afford to take time off to eat breakfast.
“Hi,” I said. “Don’t be late for school.”
“Ah, Mom,” Jason said, implying that I, too, was an annoying mother. His light brown hair was neatly combed, but his blue plaid shirt looked like it had been slept in. I hoped Mom hadn’t seen him before she left. In her eyes it would be further evidence of my inadequate parenting. Jason probably had several less wrinkled shirts in his closet, but he always wore whatever was closest at hand.
“Sure, Mom,” Mara said without looking up. She was impeccably dressed, well, at least in a thirteen-year-old’s version of impeccable. Perhaps a better phrase would be “fashionably disheveled.”
“Have a good day,” I added. “See you at dinner this evening.” At least I hoped I would be home for dinner and not behind bars, eating gruel off a paper plate with a plastic fork.
I got to work just as Blaine was unlocking the door. “You’re early,” he said.
“And good morning to you,” I replied. Then added, “I have a lot to get done today.” I didn’t owe him an explanation, but I was feeling defensive. Everyone would know soon enough that Yuri and I had screwed up.
The coffee pot was gurgling and my computer was making its morning coming alive sounds when Yuri arrived. “You’re early,” I said.
“Blaine already mentioned that,” he mumbled as he grabbed his mug with the fornicating penguins around the bottom and took a stand in front of the coffee pot. “We need a Keurig,” he stated, not for the first time.
“The pods aren’t biodegradable.” I mimicked Blaine’s tone the best I could. Blaine was the reason we didn’t have a faster method for making coffee. Being green was more important to him than convenience. Given how organized Blaine was, I envisioned him getting up early enough to drink freshly ground, fair trade beans from a coffee press before coming to work.
Yuri gave up and sat down at his desk, keeping one eye on the pot, even though he knew it would make a loud rumbling sound when it finished brewing, like a volcano signaling it was ready to erupt.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Yuri announced without looking at me. “I’m really sorry,” he added.
“I’m sorry too, and, as I’ve already said, I wasn’t an innocent bystander.”
Blaine stuck his head in. “P.W. is ready for you.”
“Damn,” Yuri said. “She’s early. No coffee.”
“We shall go unfortified into the griffin’s den.” I headed for the door.
“Not funny.” Yuri followed, glancing regretfully back at the coffee pot.
P.W. was not only her usual smartly-dressed self, but looked wide-awake as well. Her deep forest green pants suit was the perfect match for her moss green blouse covered in tiny plum colored flowers. A large plum colored flower pin picked up the motif, it’s gold stem curving downward on her jacket lapel. I felt suddenly frumpy even though I’d chosen my clothes carefully for the day’s meetings, subdued colors, tailored, and professional. Unlike our behavior the night before.
“I understand you will be seeing Detective Connolly this morning,” P.W. said.
“Yes,” I confirmed. Yuri nodded, his dark hair hanging low on his forehead, but not quite low enough to hide behind.
“This is not the first time that you, Yuri, have crossed a line while working on a case.” P.W.’s dark eyes pinioned him. Then she paused, like a priest waiting for acknowledgement of transgressions. He did so with a brief nod. “I do not, however, have any complaints about your work over all,” she continued, suddenly sounding like a manager during a performance review. “You are a good investigator, if overly zealous at times.” She turned to me. “I was hoping that you would be a stabilizing influence on him, but it seems that you, too, are, ah, willing to ignore professional protocol to get results.”
“It’s my fault, not Cameron’s,” Yuri interrupted.
“That’s not true. I wanted to see what was inside as much as he did.”
“And if there hadn’t been a body in there…,” P.W. finished for us. “Well, let me just say that although I don’t approve of what you did, as long as you don’t lose your licenses over this, I don’t see that there’s a problem going forward.”
We were “going forward,” not being fired. I felt a surge of relief. Yuri straightened up and pushed his hair off his forehead. If we survived the next hurdle, our meeting with Detective Connolly, we could hopefully get back to normal.
“I want you to tell me again exactly what happened and what Detective Connolly said and asked you last night. Let’s start with you, Cameron.”
I went through my version of the evening’s events, and then Yuri gave his version. They were similar as to the main points, but each of us had noticed some slightly different things. For instance, Yuri was able to describe the contents of the campaign office in detail, almost like he had snapped a picture of it for his memory banks. He was also able to estimate the number of signs in each of the piles in the back room. I, on the other hand, had noticed more about Connolly’s reaction, or lack of it, to what we had told him. I was also able to tick off items he’d failed to share with us for one reason or another. And, of course, I could have described his facial features and his blue eyes in some detail, but I left that out.
As Yuri talked, I studied the copper ashtray on P.W.’s desk. The ashtray was a striking vintage piece, about four inches in diameter and embossed with a double-headed Imperial eagle with the inscription “War 1914.” Yuri had managed to peek underneath it one time when P.W. wasn’t looking, so we knew “K. Faberge” was impressed on the center base. After that, Yuri had done some research. He hadn’t managed to find out anything specific about the history of this particular ashtray, but he had discovered it was worth thousands of dollars. We all assumed it had some sentimental value linked to P.W.’s secret past.
As usual, the ashtray held a single cigarette. During our narration, P.W.’s left hand with its square cut emerald ring nestled between two mine-cut diamonds reached out several times to the unlit off-white cylinder with its short cardboard tube tip. She fingered it briefly once, but never picked it up. Yuri had also researched the brand and identified it as a Russian import, a Kazbek Papirosi. Although the ashtray and cigarette were always present, none of us had ever seen her smoke. We weren’t even sure she owned more than one cigarette. But we had all witnessed her hand slowly moving, as if of its own volition, toward the lone cigarette in the copper ashtray. It was a drama waiting to unfold.
“All right, then,” P.W. concluded. “Let me know how your meeting with Detective Connolly goes.”
We stood, mumbled a few words and left quickly, before she could change her mind about our status with Penny-wise. Once back in the pit, Yuri raised a fist in a victory salute while I held a finger up to my lips to suggest we should be quiet about our celebration. Most of the other team members were at their desks, not paying us much attention. I thought it was best to keep it that way.
Unfortunately, Norm apparently noticed Yuri’s gesture and asked, “What’s up?” It sounded like an obligatory inquiry rather than a request for information. I noted that he was holding a cup of coffee. Grant, our one experienced investigator prior to coming to work for Penny-wise, was there too, with a cup of coffee on his desk. Adele, our research specialist, was also drinking coffee. As was Will, our self-proclaimed expert on self-defense and obsessed with gadgets guy.
I was about to respond to Norm when Yuri swore and asked, “Why didn’t someone make more coffee? The person who takes the last cup is supposed to make more.” He sounded like someone had done him a real injustice. Before I could offer to make coffee, he gestured toward the door.
“Come on, Cameron. Let’s go get a real cup of coffee.” I grabbed what was left of a day-old donut out of a box on Yuri’s desk and quickly hurried after him.
Will smiled as we left. I had no doubt he was the one who had taken the last cup. It was his way of getting back at Yuri for teasing him all the time. Of course, in my opinion, any investigator who wears a beige belted trench coat with a leather buckle is asking to be picked on. Even though I was secretly fond of the image.
One of the advantages of having an office in a mall is that there are all sorts of shops nearby, including a glut of places to get coffee. Seattle is known for its obsession with coffee. Light, medium or dark roast. Mild, bold or extra bold. French, Italian, Guatemalan. Blends. And more blends. Flavored. Caffeinated. De-caffeinated. Americano. Espresso. Irish. Cappuccino. Steamed milk. Half and half. A shot of soy. On and on go the choices. Too many choices. That’s why I always order a tall drip. It simplifies life.
I finished what remained of my donut while Yuri got us each a drip coffee and a couple of pastries. I didn’t even hesitate about the calories. We needed fortification to face our day.
After reviewing last evening’s traumatic climax for the umpteenth time, we headed downtown for our meeting with Detective Connolly. Yuri had offered to drive, and I had wisely declined. The only thing more frightening than being a passenger with Yuri behind the wheel in residential areas is to let him drive you downtown. Especially during the lingering remnants of commuter traffic. I only made that mistake once. Although in the last few years it was getting harder and harder to tell rush hour traffic from any other time of day. The increase in population and poor transportation planning for the future makes driving in the city a nightmare. Even without Yuri at the wheel.
We weren’t sure how long our meeting would take, so we parked in a nearby lot, a wedge-shaped piece of land that had been threatened for years by development that somehow never happened. It’s not a secured lot, and I’ve heard that cars parked there are often vandalized, but it’s convenient and comparatively cheap by downtown standards. As we headed up the hill, we were panhandled several times. I usually just shake my head “no,” but Yuri seemed to have his pockets filled with dollar bills and gave each person who approached us a dollar. When I raised my eyebrows in question, he said, “I know it won’t even buy a cup of coffee these days, but I just can’t walk by someone who’s down and out without giving them something.”
“I know someone who hands out energy bars,” I said.
“Hmmm. Not a bad idea. But I’d need bigger pockets.”
We had to go through security. The guard asked Yuri to step aside to be wanded. Then he was asked to remove everything in his pockets. Except for a wad of dollar bills, a couple of paperclips and his wallet, he didn’t have anything in them. Nothing to set off the machines. It was most likely a random search. But given why we were there, it almost felt personal. Finally, they gave him the go-ahead, and we made our way to the waiting area of the Major Crimes Unit. The receptionist told us to take a seat and she would let Detective Connolly know we were there.
There were several other people in the waiting room. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing there. Were they witnesses to a crime? Suspects? Friends or relatives of victims? They were all either thumbing through magazines or on their phones. No one was looking at us. But there was no privacy, so I didn’t feel comfortable talking to Yuri. He obviously felt the same because he remained silent, finally taking out his phone and playing solitaire to pass the time. I responded to a couple of personal emails and scanned news headlines so I could talk to Jason about what was happening in the world over dinner. With a news junkie son there is always something to talk about.
When Detective Connolly opened the door and motioned us in, I had the irrational urge to run away. I didn’t really think we were suspects, and I knew P.W. would have warned us if we needed to have a lawyer present, so I had no basis for the panic I was experiencing. But as I went through the door into his office, I couldn’t help but feel like I might be leaving my freedom behind.
Connolly’s small, glass-fronted office was packed with neatly stacked files and boxes filled with what I suspected were more files. There were two uncomfortable wood chairs in front of the gray metal desk. Except for the bookshelves on the wall behind the desk, the walls were bare. No taxpayer money had been wasted on this office.
I took a seat and, for a brief moment, lost myself in the detective’s cornflower blue eyes. Then I abruptly came back to earth. He was an officer of the law, someone who could judge us as wrongdoers, gorgeous cheekbones and sculpted chin aside.
“Why don’t you tell me about last night,” he said as he picked up a pen and retrieved a yellow pad from a desk drawer. “I understand you tailed some individuals who you saw stealing Knight campaign signs, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Start from when you saw them take the signs.”
Yuri nodded for me to go ahead, and I started telling our story, occasionally pausing for Yuri to add something to the narrative. I kept it brief and addressed the issue of illegal entry in a matter-of-fact manner. “When we realized the door was open, we decided to see just how many signs we were talking about. We intended to take a picture and provide the information to the Knight campaign first thing in the morning so they could act as soon as possible. We thought having more evidence would be helpful.”
Connally didn’t comment. Nor did his face indicate what he was thinking. Was he going to press the point or let it go? I couldn’t help but worry that he was setting a trap, one that we wouldn’t see until the moment we fell into it. After a long silence, he said, “Can you identify the three individuals who stole the signs?”
“No,” Yuri said. “They put up their hoodies each time they got out of the truck. But I can give you the photos we took. No facial shots though. And I took pictures of the truck and its license plate. Last night I gave one of your officers the license number.”
“Yes, he looked it up this morning.”
I wanted to ask if they’d identified the owner, but I restrained myself. There was another lull in the conversation. Was it a trick to get us to volunteer something? Yuri doesn’t do well with silence, but I told myself that I was going to wait it out.
Before Yuri broke down and blurted out something, Connolly spoke again: “You never saw the victim’s face, correct?”
Change of subject. Okay. Yuri and I both nodded. Connolly pulled a picture out of a file and slid it across his desk to us. “Know this man?” The face in the picture was youngish, early twenties. In death he looked almost peaceful. It was a much better view than we’d had of him the night before.
I shook my head “no” and looked at Yuri. He was also shaking his head “no.”
“I assume his identity will be made public,” I said.
“Are you asking for his name?” Connolly had a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“Just curious,” I said.
“You seem to display a fair amount of curiosity about a great many things.” His poker face was unreadable.
“It’s the nature of our business,” Yuri chimed in.
“Fair enough,” Connolly said. “But I assume you’re aware that when your curiosity leads you to enter an unoccupied building at night and without permission, you’re committing criminal trespass and that can land you in jail. Not to mention, cost you your license as a private investigator.”
There was a tense silence during which I found myself holding my breath.
When Connolly didn’t say he was actually going to charge us with something, I broke the silence, asking a question that was intended to remind him that we weren’t the only ones who had broken the law. “Do we need to have our client hold off on doing something about the sign thefts? I mean, I can’t imagine that anyone from the Mann campaign will continue stealing signs under the circumstances. And they can hardly get rid of them and claim they were never there. But at some point, our client will want to follow up on this.”
“And I assume it will eventually be in the news,” Yuri said. “Not exactly good press for the Mann campaign.”
“We aren’t particularly concerned about a minor theft at this point,” Connolly said. Hopefully that meant he also wasn’t concerned about our “minor” potentially criminal actions either. “And, no one from the Mann campaign has entered a complaint against the two of you,” he added. His words were encouraging, but his tone was stern, letting us know we weren’t home free yet.
“But what if the two are connected?” I asked. “The stolen signs and the victim.” That seemed a very real possibility to me. Depending on the identity of the victim and his connection to the campaign.
Connolly actually smiled. “I know you don’t hesitate if a door is unlocked, but I assume you know better than to meddle in a murder investigation.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Do I make myself clear?”
It was tempting to point out that he had stated an assumption not a direct order, but it seemed wise to simply agree. At the same time, I could almost read Yuri’s thoughts. How could we possibly continue with life as usual under the circumstances? It was almost as if we had a duty to the corpse to look into his demise. Especially if his death was linked to the sign thefts. And it seemed to me the odds were pretty good that it was. Yet, with no client, how could we justify following up?