Jake and Rachel took a bus to Lomax’s building. It was late afternoon, and for the previous two hours Rachel had been checking online for any stories about Chih or Bobby. She and Jake had found a brief story of Chih’s murder in The Seattle Times, but that was it. There was no follow-up, no stories of leads or investigations, and Jake wasn’t surprised to find other news, such as a Greenpeace demonstration and arrest, getting more coverage. Chih was a small-time jeweler. It was just another robbery and murder. There was also nothing about Bobby Null, about any dead bodies found in a dumpster, about a gunshot victim in the U-District. The crimes of petty thieves seemed irrelevant. During the crowded bus ride, Jake was certain he had shot Bobby squarely in the gut, a slow, but fatal wound. Bobby had been unconscious and the only way he could’ve survived would have been if someone had found him in that dumpster. That was impossible, yet why wasn’t there any news of it?
“Thanks for not mentioning last night,” Rachel said.
“No big deal,” he said. He noticed that she had changed into black sneakers and black jeans. “You have on a creeper outfit.”
She shrugged. “This is comfortable. Did you talk to him this morning?”
“He asked me if I thought he was drinking too much.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Good. What did he say?”
“He said I should start looking for a place because after you leave, he’s going to sell the condo.”
“What? He said that?”
“He did.”
“What else did he say?”
“Something about getting the car repaired.”
She nodded and stared out onto the street. “You think he’s going to go drinking again?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“About Chih. He was a friend.”
“The guy in the paper. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“We go back a while.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I know. I’m still a little surprised.”
She said, “Do you know who could’ve done this?”
“No,” he said. “Probably a random crime. I think.”
After a moment, she said, “You were close to him.”
“Close?” He realized he didn’t need to be so secretive. “He was my fence and a guy who taught me a lot about jewelry.”
“Oh, I see. Are you going back up for the funeral?”
He hadn’t even thought of that. He should’ve been more consoling to Chih’s wife; instead he had pumped her for Chih’s contacts. Nice. He told Rachel, “I don’t think so.”
“Do you think his death is connected to what you did?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” A line of people filed off the bus. Jake thought of Chih bouncing around the store, overcharging tourists for cheap jewelry. He said, “There was a moment, once I began visiting his store more, when we both realized at the same time that we were dealing with stolen jewelry. It was funny.”
“Why?”
“I was doing what I’m doing here, selling jewelry, and after I brought in some diamonds, we began talking. It was just the way we were careful about where I got the diamonds, and how he liked to deal in cash. All these clues. Then I said something like I had more, and then he looked at me, and we both knew.” There was that moment when their eyes met and Chih gave him a slow, knowing smile. They had continued to speak indirectly about the jewels-for-cash deal, testing each other, until Jake knew he was a fence.
“So he was a legitimate jeweler?”
“Yeah. Didn’t start out that way, but soon had a pretty good store.”
“Was he married? Kids?”
“Married. I don’t know if he had kids.”
“You don’t know?”
“We didn’t talk about personal things,” he said, and felt a tinge of regret. Personal tidbits leaked out from time to time, and Jake suspected Chih did have kids from something he had once said about the lousy schools in Seattle.
Rachel pulled on the cord over the window, signaling the driver. She said, “We get off next.”
They left the bus, Jake disoriented and following Rachel as she moved briskly through a crowd of people waiting to board. They walked for three blocks in silence, their steps in unison. At one point Rachel linked her arm in his, and Jake tightened his elbow around hers. She smiled, but stared ahead. The side streets were darker with more homeless settling in for the night in doorways and alleys by the larger warehouses. They approached Lomax’s block, and Rachel asked where they should be.
“Let’s check if his car is here yet.”
The parking lot was empty except for one pick-up in the corner. Jake wanted to watch the front entrance, so he and Rachel hid across the street by an office supply building. They found a spot beside a garage door, a high concrete curb as their seat. Except for the darkening dusk sky, there wasn’t much lighting on this side of the street, so Jake wasn’t worried about being seen. Most of the traffic ran on Howard and Folsom. The smell of cheap wine and motor oil seeped into their clothes. They settled in.
During the next thirty minutes, as they watched the sparse traffic in silence, Jake kept thinking about Chih getting killed. The newspaper report said only that he was fatally shot; it didn’t report how. In fact, most of the details had been left out. Did he suffer? Jake didn’t want to consider this.
“There’s someone leaving,” Rachel whispered.
They watched a man in a white T-shirt and jeans hurry through the front door and out the security gate, letting it slam loudly on its own. He jogged around the building. Soon, the pick-up pulled out of the lot and turned a corner. It was quiet again. Jake asked, “What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Friday night. People going out.”
Jake said, “Without work I’m losing track of the days.”
“Me too,” she said. “You mean the restaurant?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what you did there. How’d you get to be a chef?”
Jake told her about starting as a part-time bus boy. He had wanted a crappy job just to keep busy, and to supplement his income. When the owner needed a volunteer to come in on Sunday morning at five a.m. to help prepare the brunch buffet, Jake was the only one interested. He spent all morning filling the carts with ice and arranging them in the dining room, then setting up the Steno burners and hot trays. He refilled the food trays throughout the day, and by the early evening, he’d pack it all down, empty and wash the carts. He liked the solitude of the job—he didn’t have to deal with customers or waiters. He liked waking up at dawn and moving through the restaurant when it was quiet and empty. He liked cleaning up after everyone had gone home. The owner was surprised, since the other busboys hated that job, and either quit or refused to do it any longer, but Jake stayed with it. Soon, instead of bringing the empty trays and serving bowls to the kitchen and asking for refills, the cooks began telling him to refill them himself. Then they asked him to prepare the easier pastas by himself. Within a few weeks the owner moved him off the bus boy schedule and he began working the cold side during the week. He continued manning the Sunday brunches, and still liked that the best.
“You sound like a farmer, getting up at dawn and all that,” Rachel said.
“It was so simple. You have to do certain things, and you do it. I liked that. When I was working the mail room at a company, I had to deal with all kinds bullshit.”
“Like what?”
“Petty supervisors taking credit for what you did, people asking for special favors for their mail, people messing up the postage meters and then blaming you.” He shook his head.
“Why even bother with a regular job?”“I needed something regular, something different. I still do. Keeps me out of trouble.”
He saw Lomax’s car drive by, and he nudged her. This time, however, the car didn’t pull into the parking lot, but stopped by the curb. Lomax climbed out and then a woman opened the passenger door. They were talking.
“A date?” Rachel whispered. “Well, well.”
The blonde woman was tall and fleshy, her dress a little too tight; her arms squeezed into the sleeves. She had a shiny black pocketbook she swung as she walked with Lomax through the front gate. They entered the building. Jake said, “He can’t park there for long. They must be going back out soon.”
“Damn. If we had the car we could follow them.”
Jake calculated the length of a date: dinner, maybe a movie or a club, maybe drinks. Would they come back here or would Lomax drive her home? A few hours at least. He felt the adrenaline beginning to whisper through him, the quiet hiss of excitement. He modulated his breathing, exhaling slowly, and focused on the building. The second floor loft had its lights on, but that was it on this side. What was Lomax doing? Maybe changing, getting cash, looking for something. He picked the woman up right after work, but needed to drop by his place first. It’ll be just a second, Lomax told her. Why don’t you come in.
A police car turned the corner and drove down the street. As it passed Jake, he stared at the cop driving. He felt Rachel tense next to him, but Jake wasn’t worried. They were just sitting around. The cop continued down the street, unaware of them. Routine patrol. He turned to Rachel, who said, “I feel like a criminal and I haven’t even done anything.”
“Guilty conscience.”
“Not you?” she asked.
Lomax emerged from the building, holding the front door open for his date. The woman walked under the yellow light above the entrance and paused; her face was warped by the shadows, then blinked into darkness as they passed through the gate and moved to the car. Lomax wore a leather jacket, and held open the passenger door for her. Jake and Rachel watched them drive away.
He pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and snapped them on. Rachel watched him, startled.
He turned to her and said, “You ready to try something a little risky?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s my ‘poking around’ phase. I look around a little bit.”
“Where?”
He pointed towards Lomax’s building.