The Solace of Bay Leaves

Efforts to fake saffron, the world’s most expensive spice, date back to the ancient Greeks. The Unites States Pharmacopeia database lists 109 phony saffron substitutes, including marigold flowers, corn silk, gypsum, chalk, and cotton or plastic thread.

“OKAY, SO WHAT EXACTLY IS A BOND BROKER?” I ASKED CARL after we were seated at a corner table. Laurel had greeted us both warmly, looking wan but clear-eyed. “I mean, I know what you do, but not what they do. Or what Bruce Ellingson does.”

My brother, who is two years younger than I and at six feet, five inches taller, is way smarter. He is also a virtual copy of our dad, from features to gestures to tastes in food.

“So there’s municipal bonds, which is what I manage,” Carl said. “City needs to raise money for, say, light-rail expansion, or the waterfront project.”

That one I knew. Tearing down the viaduct had removed a major earthquake hazard and not incidentally, given me stellar views. But it had also created both a years-long mess and an opportunity to rebuild the seawall along Elliott Bay. In the process, the city decided to upgrade the surface streets and create new waterfront parks and paths. Glenn had been particularly proud of his work bringing together “the stakeholders”—the people affected. Downtown residents were a core constituency, and at his urging, I’d attended several meetings and voiced my opinions. Not that I actually need urging to voice my opinions.

“When a city faces a large capital expense, it borrows money by selling bonds. Each bond is for a specific amount and matures, or comes due, at a specific time. In effect, each bondholder is making the city a small loan. Combined, they give the city the cash it needs.”

“And the loans are repaid over time, out of future revenue,” I said and he nodded.

We sat back while the server set my mac ’n cheese and Carl’s tomato-basil soup on the table.

“You know you could order something different,” I said. “Variety is the spice of life.”

“I am a creature of good habits.” Both habit and reply came from Dad. “Munies are tax-exempt, so high-income investors love ’em. Corporations issue bonds, too, when they need more money than a bank wants to lend them, say for an expansion or to develop a new product. The interest on those is taxable, so they have to pay a better rate to make up for it.”

“They help with the initial offering, or sale. And bonds that have already been issued can be bought and sold, like any other securities.”

“I’m surprised he still calls himself that,” Carl said. “He hasn’t worked in the field in years. Two, three?”

“What?” Though that would explain why Ellingson was home on a Monday afternoon.

Carl set his spoon on his plate and steepled his fingers, another Dad echo. Like our dad, he excels at explaining difficult concepts. Even to someone without a degree in finance. Or in anything.

I glanced toward the kitchen. Surely the police knew the history Carl had relayed. Patrick Halloran had been instrumental in pursuing Bruce Ellingson’s firm for systematically lying to customers, for years, about the prices at which they could buy or sell bonds, boosting their profit on the trade. A customer had stumbled over the truth and filed a complaint.

Now that I knew the story, I wished Carl had chosen another spot for lunch. But of course, neither of us had known we’d end up discussing all this right under Laurel’s nose.

“Their defense,” Carl said, “and it would sound crazy except that it kinda worked, was that puffing isn’t a crime—it’s part of business. They also claimed their lies weren’t big enough to influence decisions. That’s double crazy, in my opinion, because why else would you bother to lie?”

“Puffing is me telling a customer our lemon thyme is the freshest on the planet. Or that our smoked paprika will change her life,” I said. “Which it will. But that’s not the same as me telling a chef the ingredients he wants in his custom blend cost two dollars an ounce when I paid a buck and a half.”

“I agree, it’s not the same.” He picked up his spoon. “Good example, though.”

“The case had nothing to do with the city, so I never knew the details. The firm closed shop. No criminal charges were filed, but I heard they reached a consent decree with the feds, which usually means agreeing to give up their licenses and find a different line of work, not involving other people’s money.”

Laurel makes the best mac ’n cheese—no puffing—and mine was getting cold. I took a bite. If Bruce Ellingson could no longer work in the field, was that why his wife worked so hard? What was he working on at home, in his daughter’s old bedroom? Personal stuff?

“What’s Nate up to?” Carl asked, and we chatted about family stuff for a few minutes. Carl and Andrea and the kids had gone to Whidbey Island last weekend, combining a getaway with a Mom errand, scouting out the site of a planned senior cohousing community she’d heard about. Ground-breaking was months off, though, so even if our parents bought in, they’d need a place to stay next summer. I immediately thought about the loft for rent in my building and immediately perished the thought. I love my mother dearly, and her living half a continent away is too far, but her living one flight of steps away would be far too near.

“And another thing,” I said, leaning forward, my voice low. “Bruce Ellingson lived next door to the Hallorans. Doesn’t it seem like a conflict for Pat to investigate him?”

“But it’s got to have been uncomfortable as heck. Even though they weren’t friends.” Had the dispute over the compost pile been a cover-up? Or a real disagreement that took on greater significance because of the underlying tensions?

“You never know about neighbors. We thought we saw ours a few weeks ago, but it turned out to be the UPS guy.”

I laughed. In the six years they’d lived in their house, Carl and Andrea could count the number of times they’d talked with one set of neighbors on one hand with fingers left over. Like me and the guy in the unit below mine. Their near-invisibility had become a family joke.

“Both Bruce and Deanna were pretty friendly when we ran into them at breakfast on Sunday.” Too friendly. And Laurel had been tense. I was beginning to think she must have known about Pat’s role in Bruce Ellingson’s downfall. It was a key piece of evidence, and she’d kept it from me. Still, I supposed Pat hadn’t made the ultimate decision whether to pursue the case or let the regulators obtain a compromise. That would have been up to the U.S. Attorney.

We stood and put on our coats. The door opened. Special Agent Greer walked in, followed by Detectives Tracy and Armstrong.

The tall, thin Armstrong had worked with Tracy on last summer’s murder in my friend Aimee’s shop. He’d told me how much he admired Tracy, but it had been clear from the start that he was more willing than the older man to listen to the citizenry. To me. He was young and scholarly. What my mother would call an old soul.

“Well, Ms. Reece,” Tracy said. “You’re saving us a trip to your shop. I hope you’ll stay and spend a few minutes with us.”

“Call me if you need to, sis.” Carl kissed my cheek and edged past the new arrivals.

“Mrs. Halloran,” Tracy called over my shoulder, and I turned to see Laurel standing behind the counter, her face pale. “I trust you can make time for a word. In your office, if you don’t mind. Ms. Reece will be joining us.”

My eyes flicked toward him involuntarily. Did I have a choice? Laurel would not have withheld information from me without good reason, and I’d never know what that was if I walked out the door now. In fact, I had a pretty good idea that if I walked out, I’d be torching our friendship. I’d never find out why she’d kept silent about Pat’s real relationship with Bruce Ellingson. And I wouldn’t be able to help her, or Maddie.

Five minutes later, the five of us were crammed into Laurel’s office. She and Tracy took the two seats while Greer leaned against the desk and Armstrong the wall. That left me to squeeze between the file cabinet and door, making me wish I’d had the soup and salad for lunch.

Though all eyes were trained on Detective Tracy, it was Agent Greer who spoke first, drawing a small manila envelope out of her pocket. Her black pantsuit looked straight out of the TV version of an FBI agent, though the TV version would probably wear a lacy, low-cut tank instead of a gray silk tee. She handed Laurel a photograph.

Laurel shook her head, then passed it to me. An Asian man, probably Chinese, about forty. When you work in a busy place like the Market, you see a lot of people. Making deliveries doubles or triples the count. I’ve got a good memory for faces. But this one—I wasn’t sure.

“Maybe. Who is he?” I asked Tracy, who turned to Greer. This was her part of the investigation.

“His name is Xian Huang, though he goes by Joe. Chinese national. Ever hear the name?” she asked Laurel.

“We’re conducting an investigation into the head of a Chinese import–export firm based in Seattle,” Greer said. “Huang works for the company, though we’re not yet sure of his relationship to the person of interest or his crony.”

“I can only say that the investigation had just begun when your husband was killed,” Greer said. “Huang left the country shortly after that. He returned a few weeks ago.”

“How’s he connected to Maddie?” I said. “She’s a small-scale developer and property manager. Her husband’s a business guy for a sports team.” Move on, folks; nothing to see here.

“We’re looking into that,” Greer replied. “We don’t think Huang is dangerous, and he’s not our target. But we are hoping he can give us information that will confirm a few key details.”

Was this the Mr. Big operation Tag had mentioned? Had to be. I held the photo out to Greer but instead of taking it, she handed me another.

“He appears to be associated with this woman, whom my partner and I followed to the Market Saturday morning. But in the chaos, frankly, we lost her. We don’t know if she is employed in the Market or was shopping.” She handed me a second photo, showing a small woman in black pants and a black hooded jacket holding the hand of a child in a purple coat. I thought the woman looked young, the child likely her daughter, but the rain made it hard to see their faces as they crossed the intersection of First and Pike.

I started to hand the photos back, then stopped. “Wait. That’s why you said”—I glanced at Tracy—“that my lunch date with my brother saved you a trip. There’s an Asian grocery on Pike Place.” The little old lady whom I’d always assumed to be part of the family that ran the joint liked to perch on a stool at the entrance and snap at the feet of passers-by with one of those Chinese string toys. Her favorite was a paper alligator or crocodile. Kids were her main target, but she’d taken to nipping at my ankles then cackling when I jumped. I was finally on to her, but played along. Was this her daughter, the younger woman I’d sometimes seen at the cash register? “Does she work there? Or in a restaurant? You might show this around at the PDA, the Public Development Authority—that’s the agency that runs the Market. If she’s an employee of a tenant business, they won’t have a record on her. But someone might know her.”

Maybe they were watching Maddie to see if Huang or someone he worked with tried to make contact. To figure out the connection. Smoking Man must be part of their detail.

Greer opened her mouth and I was sure she intended to say no, they didn’t need an amateur’s interference, but Tracy raised a hand and she said nothing.

“Be careful, Pepper. Don’t go searching for them. Just let us know if you see them. Or let the bike officers know.”

“You must have other suspects,” Laurel said, turning to Greer. “From Pat’s cases.”

The agent nodded. “We’re scouring those files. Retracing our footsteps, taking a closer look at everyone we looked at three years ago.” She hadn’t been part of that “we,” but cops and queens like the royal pronoun.

“We’re reconsidering the burglary theory,” Armstrong added, “and checking into Ms. Petrosian’s business interests for any possible overlap. And of course, working on tracing that gun. We’re putting everything we have into this.”

I believed him. Up until last Friday evening, I’d have likened the chances of finding anything amiss in Maddie Petrosian’s business interests to those of the proverbial snowball. But I was seeing some of the people in my life a little differently now.

“Overlap,” Laurel said. “You mean the community activists, the people who fought the original development.”

“Pat was concerned, naturally,” Laurel said. “He knew how to talk the right language, about setbacks and quiet zones and all that stuff. His point was that the proposal was not in keeping with the neighborhood. Others were pretty hot, calling it an abomination. Californication. Pat could speak more reasonably.”

Eventually the reasonable side had won out. Any possibility that the conflict led to Pat’s murder would have been investigated at the time. And it couldn’t be connected to Maddie’s shooting— she hadn’t owned the corner grocery then. Though I did wonder whether his death had prompted her to step up her efforts to buy the property.

At least one neighbor hadn’t opposed the plans at all. A neighbor who’d lost a ton of potential business when the project downscaled from high-end condos to low-end retail and rentals. But before I could ask about Deanna Ellingson, Laurel rose.

Greer stood but Tracy remained seated, his eyes on me. “Something else on your mind, Ms. Reece?”

I wanted to ask why they had a guard on Maddie. Was she truly in such danger that the hospital security guards, not to mention the maze of hallways and doors, could not protect her? But if they were guarding her, then the answer was yes. And raising the question would only prompt Detective Tracy to make a wise crack about my encounter with Officer Clark on Sunday.