Twenty

When it rains, it pours.

—motto of Morton Salt, adopted in 1914, after the company added an absorbing agent to keep its salt flowing freely, even in wet weather

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE AS I DASHED BACK TO THE CAR. Inside, I blasted the vent to clear the windshield. If only clearing my head were so easy.

Maddie Petrosian had just upended my entire view of her, and of our friendship. What was it she’d wanted to say, about never having wanted—what?

And why did her family album include a photo of the original building on the redevelopment site?

Tim had not returned by the time the aides brought Maddie back to bed. Even that simple effort had exhausted her, and she’d said nothing more than “I love you, Pepper.”

I’d kissed her cheek, told her I loved her, too, and left. Ramon the security guard hunched over his duty post as I walked out. Officer Clark was not in sight.

Now I let out a deep sigh and put the car in gear. Traffic was no worse than usual, thank goodness. I parked in the Market garage for the second time this week and dashed down Upper Post Alley, past the Pink Door and Vinny’s wine shop.

What was I going to do about Maddie, the building, and the photo? What was I going to do about Edgar? Had I made the right call in trusting Tariq? And if I went straight from work to the Montlake community meeting, what would I do with Arf?

Sometimes it feels like life is one big question. I opened the door to my shop and drank in the scents: lavender and clove, cinnamon and oregano. For the time being, at least, spice was the answer.

“THANKS for letting me leave Arf with you for a couple of hours,” I told Kristen that evening.

“Are you kidding? The girls can’t get enough of him,” she replied. “And Maddie’s kids will love him. Tell Laurel I’d be there, if I hadn’t agreed to take them tonight.”

The Montlake Community Center looks like an oversized version of Hansel and Gretel’s house. Beyond, in an expansive urban green space, are a playground, tennis courts, and soccer fields. The rain had stopped and the last rays of sunlight lit up the marshes where they dropped into deep shadow beneath the bridge.

Laurel met me in the parking lot. After a quick hug, she surveyed the place. “All the hours I spent here watching Gabe learn to kick a soccer ball, watching him practice, waiting for him . . .”

“Have you talked to him?” I asked. “About the possible break in the case, I mean?” Although it wasn’t much of a break, not yet.

“I wasn’t sure what to say,” Laurel said. “He told me he’d had another dream. He was running across a big field, like this one, and a shadow passed overhead. Everything got cold and he was terrified. But then it moved off and left behind a shimmery golden light.”

My mother says dreams are teachers, precursors, guides, as real as waking life, and sometimes more.

“Then, he said that earlier in the day, he’d been crossing campus between classes and the Goodyear Blimp drifted by. They’re using it to film overhead shots for the football game this weekend.”

And sometimes dreams are jokes.

“But yes, I told him,” she said, and slipped an arm through mine. “Pat would have wanted Gabe to know what’s going on with the investigation, even if it’s still inconclusive. Besides, it’s part of growing up, to learn how to live with ambiguity and unsettled things.”

Do we ever fully learn? Or is that another of the life lessons that never end?

“Next week is the anniversary. You saw the annual update in the paper,” she said. “I want Gabe to be prepared, for when the link to Maddie’s shooting comes out.”

I nodded. Parenting seemed like a constant balancing act.

The large meeting room was already half full when we walked in, passing a pair of uniformed officers. Two more officers stood near the other door, deliberately casual despite their uniforms and gear. My jaw tightened at the sight of Officer Kimberly Clark. Several people greeted Laurel, exchanging hugs and words of encouragement.

On a table near the entrance, stacks of Crime Stoppers brochures lay next to flyers on Block Watch, the Community Police Academy for citizens, and other programs. A reader board on an easel listed upcoming meetings scheduled for this space, including the next Neighbors United meeting.

At the front of the room, a slide on the big screen displayed the city’s logo—a line drawing, white on blue, of Chief Seattle in profile—along with a collage of photos of Seattleites at various gatherings. At the bottom was the motto I remembered well from Tag’s uniform patch: Service, Pride, Dedication.

Then the slide changed to a picture of Maddie, her dark hair and eyes shining, her lips bright, side by side with a photo of the grocery where she’d been shot, a gray stucco dinosaur.

I spotted Detective Armstrong—at roughly six-five, he stands out in a crowd. He acknowledged me with a nod.

Detective Tracy caught up with us as I was edging into a row of seats. His camel hair jacket appeared tighter than usual. A stress eater, responding to the strains of a complicated investigation?

I could relate.

“Pepper, Mrs. Halloran,” he said. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see you two here.”

“My old stomping grounds,” I said. “Pottery classes in the art studio, tennis lessons on the playfield. And you know why Laurel is here.”

“People will ask you,” he said to her, “if there’s a connection between the present incident and your husband’s shooting.” “You’ve admitted that there is,” she replied. “The gun.”

“We’re keeping that detail to ourselves for now, as I’m sure you understand, and we’re counting on you to do the same.” Point made, he walked away.

“Good thing he’s a good cop,” Laurel muttered, “because he’s an annoying little bee.”

I suppressed a snort and we found seats. The Ellingsons sat on the other side of the room. Cody was not with them. In the next row sat Lindy Harmon, who’d petted Arf, beside a tall man I assumed was her husband. Further down were Frank Thomas and his wife, and the hair stylist. Tim sat in the front row with Maddie’s mother.

Where, I wondered, were Agent Greer and the agent who’d been watching us?

A black woman in a dark blue pantsuit strode to the podium, and the chatter died down.

“I’m April Stafford, community outreach officer for the Seattle Police Department,” she said. “Thank you for coming. I know you’re here tonight for an update on the investigation into last week’s shooting, so we’ll get right to that, then talk more generally about community safety and how the residents and the department can work together. Detective Tracy?”

Stafford stepped back and Tracy took center stage.

“First, let me assure you that we do not believe there is an ongoing danger to the community,” he said. He would say that, wouldn’t he, whether it was a targeted incident or a random crime. He wanted people to feel safe. “Despite that, we have been increasing our patrols throughout Montlake, primarily along Twenty-Fourth and near the schools, library, and community center. Not, let me repeat, because we think those areas are connected to the shooting, but because we know you are particularly concerned about the safety of areas where children gather.”

He paused to consult a 3x5 card he’d pulled out of his pocket. “I am authorized to tell you that the victim of the shooting, Madeleine Petrosian, has regained consciousness and is expected to make a full recovery.”

Relief rippled audibly through the room.

“She has not been able to tell us much yet, though we hope that will change soon. In the meantime, we’re counting on you to share with us any information you have—anything unusual you’ve seen or heard. Anything at all. Talk to me or my partner, Detective Shawn Armstrong”—he gestured toward Armstrong, who raised a hand—“or any of the officers here tonight. Our cards are on the table by the doorway. Feel free to call us any time.”

“Is there a reward for information?” a man called out. The question irritated me, and judging from the audible responses around me, others too. Had society deteriorated to the point where we only provided critical crime-solving info if we were paid for it? Besides, this was an affluent community.

“Tips called in to the Crime Stoppers hotline that lead to an arrest and conviction may be eligible for a reward up to one thousand dollars. We do hope you’ll share any information you have with us, the sooner the better.”

For the next twenty minutes, he answered questions. No, they had no useful fingerprints or DNA; trace evidence was still under analysis. “You know, folks, real police work isn’t like what you see on TV. We don’t have all that whiz-bang stuff that gets the case wrapped up before the ten o’clock news.”

A woman behind us asked if the shooting might be related to a string of burglaries in the University District, just over the bridge.

“No connection at this point,” he replied, “but we’re looking into all crimes in the region that share similar elements.”

Then I saw the man sitting with Lindy Harmon start to rise. She put her hand on his arm, said something, and he lowered himself back into his seat. I leaned forward for a better look. His profile was stony, his shoulders stiff as he trained his gaze on Detective Tracy. Some history there, but what was it?

“What about the construction project?” a woman asked. “Will it go forward?”

“On hold for now. We have not released the crime scene. As for when that will happen, or what will be done with the building, I’m told that the family will make a decision when the time is right.”

Tracy turned the microphone back to Stafford, who began a presentation on crime statistics and block watch programs.

“Let’s get out of here,” Laurel whispered. I wasn’t ready to leave—I’d hoped to ask Maddie’s mother about the photo album. Later.

On our way headed out, I saw Agent Greer in the back row, in her nondescript, dressed-to-fit-in sweater and jeans. No sign of her partner.

A uniformed officer opened the door for us. “Thank you,” I said, looking straight into Kimberly Clark’s eyes. At least she had the grace to blush.

“Well, that was about as helpful as a heart attack,” Laurel said once we reached the courtyard.

“What did you expect?” I asked. “He couldn’t say much, even if he has a good working theory.”

“I expect,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt. “I expect that nearly a week after a woman is shot on her own property and left clinging to life that the police would have a clue what happened. I expect that after three years, they’d know what happened to my husband. Not some theory, or vague speculation. And I expect you to be on my side.”

Though there was a fine tremor in her voice and her eyes filled with tears that did not fall, her anger and her sense of bitter betrayal came through loud and clear.

Not what I had expected at all.