SOMETIME IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF THE MORNING, I was wishing my first wife, Karen Beaumont Livingston, was still around so I could have had the pleasure of telling her how very wrong she was. She had always insisted that I was stone deaf when it came to hearing babies cry overnight. Maybe years spent shooting on gun ranges have given me a kind of situational hearing loss that always used to block out the sounds made by our babies. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on other people’s babies.
That night, every time Athena let out the smallest cry, I came wide awake and wasn’t able to fall back asleep afterward. The next morning, when Lucy cold-nosed me awake because it was time for her walk, I was short on shut-eye. It was all I could to do stumble out of bed and pull on my clothes. How Alan Dale had managed to live for close to six weeks on minimal amounts of sleep was more than I could imagine. Staggering out of the bedroom, I found Lucy had her leash in her mouth and was waiting by the front door. Alan, with Athena tucked in the crook of his arm, was standing in front of the microwave warming a bottle filled with baby formula.
“Morning,” he said. “Care for some coffee? Marge taught me how to use the machine.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Go ahead and press the buttons. I need to walk Lucy, but it won’t take long. It’ll be nice to have coffee ready and waiting by the time I get back.”
We made quick work of it. Lucy and I were down to P-1, across the street, and back in the elevator in a flash. It would have been a lengthier excursion had Sam and Billy Bob been in residence, but his grocery cart had already broken camp. No doubt they were off in search of someplace that offered free breakfasts.
Once back in the unit, I fed Lucy before grabbing my coffee mug and joining Alan in the living room. He was seated sideways on the window seat, feeding Athena and staring out the window. “I’ll bet you never get tired of this view,” he said, nodding toward the water.
On this unexpectedly sunny day, the view was especially gorgeous, with the blue expanse of Elliott Bay fringed by the rugged snowcapped peaks of the Olympics in the distance.
“Not so far,” I told him.
When Lucy finished eating, she came into the living room and walked past me without a glance, settling at Alan’s feet and lying down with a heartfelt sigh. Alan had evidently passed some kind of doggy security test and was no longer viewed with as a potential threat.
“Did you know Lucy slept in our room last night?” Alan asked.
“I noticed,” I said, realizing in that moment that I was also slightly jealous. My faithful companion had deserted me.
“The first time I got up to feed Athena, she was right there, sleeping under the crib.” Alan continued. “She just looked at me when I came into the room with the bottle. When I picked Athena up and brought her over to the rocker, Lucy came over and settled down on the floor beside us. When I put Athena down again, Lucy went back under the crib. Pretty amazing.”
He finished feeding the baby and then glanced at his watch. “My appointment is at nine thirty,” he said. “Marge told me she’d be here around eight thirty. How long will it take me to get to Third and James?”
“Not long,” I told him. “Just walk over to Third and catch a southbound bus.”
“Wouldn’t I be better off driving?” he asked.
“With the cost and scarcity of parking the way they are in Seattle right now, I’d say taking the bus might be a better bet.”
“All right, then,” Alan said, sounding dubious, “but would you mind holding Athena for a couple of minutes while I jump in the shower?”
“Not at all,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.
He brought the baby to me, but before handing her over, he placed a piece of cloth the size of a large hankie on my shoulder. “You’ll need to burp her,” he advised.
My usual dog-walking attire consists of a comfy sweat suit that happens to be far more washable than the dry-clean-only jacket I’d been wearing the day before, but I was grateful for the gesture. “Thanks,” I said. “Good to know.”
Moments after Alan’s back was turned, Athena delivered a very drippy burp that proved the protective cloth to be a necessity as opposed to an option. She was awake for the next little while, staring up at me with wondering eyes. Did she realize I was a stranger and not her grandpa—at least not the grandpa she was used to?
I spent the next several minutes examining her delicate features. Her eyes were a bright blue that reminded me of my granddaughter’s Kayla’s eyes when she was a newborn. So did the thin wisps of blond hair haloing her head. Her fingers were tiny beyond imaging, but when she grasped onto my index finger, she did so with a remarkably tight grip. I studied her with a combination of awe and amazement, as well as a growing sense of responsibility toward this child of a child I hadn’t known I had.
Alan was still finishing his shower when Marge marched in, all hustle and bustle, barking orders left and right as the door closed behind her. Suddenly it seemed like an excellent idea for Lucy and me to make a timely exit as well. I handed Athena off to Marge and went to shower and dress myself. While I was in the closet, I examined yesterday’s jacket. Even though it was one of Mel’s favorites, knowing the damage was beyond repair, I tossed it into the trash.
Before leaving the room, I paused long enough to give Mel a call. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“Bit of a full house around here,” I admitted. “I didn’t get much sleep because I woke up every time Athena uttered a peep.”
“And,” Mel added, “I suppose Marge is driving you crazy?”
“That, too,” I agreed.
“I’m planning to come down after work tomorrow. That way I can pitch in with the baby while serving the dual purpose of giving you a break from Marge and Marge a break from you.”
Mel understood the dynamics of Marge’s and my prickly relationship all too well.
“Eat in or out?” I asked.
“That depends on what time I get away from the office and how much traffic there is between here and there,” she told me. “We can decide tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“What’s on your agenda today?” she asked.
“I’m going to pay a call on the folks at Highline Development and see if I can come away with a last name for Petey Mayfield’s Aunt Lenora. If I do, I’ll see whether she’s willing to file a missing-persons report on him.”
“Good luck, then,” Mel said, “ but I’ve gotta go. I have a meeting with the mayor in fifteen.”
“Good luck to you, too,” I replied.
“Not to worry,” she said with a laugh. “Compared to the last mayor, this one is a piece of cake.”
Out in the kitchen, I found Alan and Marge in a huddle, conferring over what needed to be done and when. “Hey, Alan,” I said, picking up Lucy’s leash, “Lucy and I are going to head out, too, so I can give you a ride there. I’ll take Lucy out for one last walk and meet you on P-4.”
It was clear outside, clear and sunny, but with the cloud cover gone it was also bitterly cold. The truth is, it was probably only in the mid-thirties. People from Chicago or Maine would be all over me about calling the mid-thirties “bitterly cold,” but in case you haven’t noticed, people who live in Seattle are well known for being weather wimps. That goes just as much for high temperatures as it does for low ones. We don’t approve of weather extremes at either end of the spectrum.
I was grateful Lucy was quick about getting down to business. I had just loaded her into the backseat when Alan emerged from the elevator lobby. Because Third Avenue is closed to automobile traffic at certain times of the day, I dropped him at Second and James and pointed out how to get back up the hill to his Child Services appointment and then on up to Seattle PD at Fifth and Cherry to file Naomi’s missing-persons report.
It seemed to me that nine fifteen was a bit early to show up at Highline Development, so I headed on down Fourth Avenue South and pulled in to the Denny’s parking lot. Mel may have had an appointment with His Honor the mayor. I had a scheduled morning meeting with a Grand Slam.
Overnight, during the times when Athena had awakened me, I’d had a chance to mull over some of the things Hilda Tanner had told me. One thing that struck me as odd was her mention of the upcoming estate sale. The orange netting designating Agnes’s property as a construction site was already in place, but did the proposed estate sale mean that Agnes’s goods were still inside her little frame house? Why would that be? In my experience sellers usually vacate and empty out their premises before a sale closes, especially if the structure involved is destined for the wrecking ball.
Guzzling coffee and waiting for my order, I opened my iPad and located Zillow. If you bring up the right page, you can see what’s for sale as well as the sale prices on nearby properties that have recently changed hands. It took some scrolling around before I was able to zero in on Agnes Mayfield’s West Seattle neighborhood. When I did so, I was in for a surprise.
All four of the Mayfield houses, including the one Agnes had recently occupied, had sold in the low $200,000s, well below the going rate, even for teardowns. Similar lots in the neighborhood had sold for or were listed for sale at amounts close to double that. JDLR is copspeak for “just doesn’t look right,” as in something seemed amiss here. Not only that, the closing date on those transactions had been in early October, months after Agnes, reportedly suffering from dementia issues, had been carted off to a care facility of some kind. So was this a variation on a theme of elder abuse? It wouldn’t be the first time some underhanded relative or real-estate developer had taken advantage of an innocent pensioner, cheating him or her out of hearth and home.
My original plan had been to walk into Highline Development and ask for information straight up, hoping to come away with Lenora’s last name. Now it seemed as though a bit of subterfuge might be necessary. I had yet to meet Lenora No Last Name, but if she was the kind of schemer I was beginning to suspect she was, I would need to find some other means of identifying her rather than showing my hand to the developer.
When I finished my part of the breakfast, I asked for a “doggie bag.” Back at the car, Lucy was happy to polish off any and all uneaten pancakes. After that we headed back to West Seattle. With the GPS calling out the directions, I drove straight to the address I’d lifted from Highline’s Web site. I found the office in a strip mall on 35th, tucked in between a nail salon and a chiropractor’s office. Two doors away was a Subway sandwich shop. I drove into the parking lot and pulled up next to a sporty red Boxster S that was parked directly in front of the office designated as the home of Highline Development. There was nothing in the area that looked the least bit alarming, so once again I left Lucy, my backup dog, locked inside the S550.
When I walked into the office, I noted that the young woman at the receptionist’s desk who greeted me was clearly of Asian descent. Dark eyes peered out at me from a perfectly formed face. Her glossy black hair was parted in the middle and fell straight to her shoulders. She was most likely a thirty-something, but that was just a guess. The Web site had said Suzanne Nishikawa was the company’s CEO, but it seemed unlikely that a CEO would be seated at the reception desk.
“Would it be possible for me to speak to whoever is in charge?” I asked.
“Who might I say is calling?” she asked in return. “And do you have an appointment?”
I had no appointment, and I had already decided against handing over one of my business cards, which, after yesterday’s disaster, I was carrying in the waterproof plastic wallet provided by the printer. I was here undercover, as it were. Considering the circumstances, revealing the fact that I was a private investigator seemed like a bad idea. In this case it struck me that a mixture of truth and fiction was probably in order. I’ve never been an especially capable liar, but since I was speaking to a complete stranger, I hoped my face wouldn’t give me away.
“I’m interested in that housing development of yours down on 24th,” I said.
“Are you intending to make a purchase?” she asked.
“Well, yes, I could be,” I hedged. “My wife and I are on the verge of splitting up. I’m looking to buy another place, but I should probably be speaking to an agent about this.”
At that and with her face breaking into a welcoming smile, the woman rose to her feet and came around the desk with her hand extended in greeting. “Actually, I am the one in charge,” she told me. “My receptionist is out sick today. My name is Suzanne Nishikawa. And you are?”
“My name is Beaumont,” I told her, “J. P. Beaumont.”
I’ve met a few real-estate developers in my time. They’ve mostly been cigar-chomping, loudmouthed jerks. Suzanne Nishikawa appeared to be a white horse of an altogether different color. She wasn’t just petite—she was tiny, but not as tiny as she would have been without the assistance of a pair of amazing four-inch heels.
Until Mel Soames, a true fashionista, came into my life, I never knew anything about high-end female attire. She’s my sherpa when it comes to women and the clothing they wear. Unless I missed my guess, the shoes currently on Suzanne Nishikawa’s feet would clock in at right around four hundred bucks a pair. She wore a bright yellow suit with a skintight pencil skirt. The suit was made of some kind of shiny, satiny material that fastened around her slender waist with three bright gold buttons. In other words, she was a looker who believed in dressing to impress. Her designer duds, makeup, and nails were perfect, and the ring on her right hand sported a diamond solitaire that was downright eye-popping. Everything about her said she had money to burn and wasn’t the least bit shy about showing it off.
She led me into an inner office. The walls were decorated with framed photos and two separate degrees from the UDub (as my alma mater, the University of Washington, is referred to around here). One was from the Department of Architecture and the other was an M.B.A. from the UDub’s Foster School of Business. As for the photos? It looked as though Suzanne Nishikawa had been West Seattle High’s version of the “it” girl for her graduating class. The framed pictures were all copied blowups of what must have been yearbook photos. According to the accompanying captions, during her senior year in high school Suzanne had not only been head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and student-body president, she had also been class valedictorian.
“Looks like you were a real all-star,” I commented as I took a seat.
“Not good enough to get into Harvard,” she said with a wry smile. “SBA, as we say around here—smart but Asian. I thought about joining that class-action lawsuit, but I decided screw it. Why bother? I’ve done all right without going to Harvard. I stayed home, went to the University of Washington, and earned three degrees in seven years flat. Since I sold real estate for my dad on the side, I graduated with zero student debt.”
“Good for you,” I said. “That probably explains why there’s a shiny Boxster S parked just outside.”
“Right,” Suzanne agreed with a grin, but once the grin faded, she was all business. “I bought it a few months ago. Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Beaumont,” she added.
There could be no doubt that Suzanne was a crackerjack when it came to sales. She’d heard my name one time only and had made a mental note of it. You can always count on commissioned salespeople and politicians to remember people’s names.
Now came the time for me to spin my bit of yarn. “My wife—my current wife, that is—and I live in a downtown condo in Belltown,” I told her. “We’ve been through a bit of a rough patch lately, and counseling isn’t helping. If we do split up, I’ll need to downsize. With traffic so jammed up in the downtown corridor these days, I thought a move to someplace in the burbs might be just what the doctor ordered.”
“I’m sorry to hear that you’re encountering marital difficulties,” Suzanne said with an understanding smile, “but when life throws you those kinds of curves, it’s always a good idea to have a backup plan.”
There was a small conference table in one corner of the room, and that’s where she directed me. On it was a stack of beautifully designed color brochures entitled Homes at Mayfield Glen.
“What’s Mayfield?” I asked.
“The land we’re building on was once part of a farm that was originally settled by one of West Seattle’s earliest residents, a guy named Harold Mayfield. It was subdivided into lots in the twenties with plans to build single-family dwellings, but once the Great Depression came along, that never came to fruition—until now. Last fall several pieces of property came into the hands of an heir who was willing to sell, and here we are. It’s taking more time than expected to get permits and approvals, so we’re not ready to break ground just yet.”
I thumbed through the brochure. “None of these are view properties?”
“Not really,” Suzanne answered. “One has a peekaboo view of the downtown Seattle skyline from the upstairs master bedroom. Unfortunately, that one is already spoken for.”
“You’ve sold one of the houses without even having broken ground?”
She smiled. “That’s the reality when it comes to Seattle real estate these days. The nine-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar price tag is for standard builder’s-grade materials. As a pre-reconstruction buyer, you could have a bit of a discount off that. You could also choose to add in a number of upgrades in terms of customizing, appliances, and finishes.”
“May I take one?” I asked, picking up a brochure.
“Of course,” she said with a smile. “That’s why they’re here. In addition, our real-estate division represents many other properties if you’re interested in something a little smaller.”
I rose to my feet. “Thank you so much,” I said. “Obviously, I’m not ready to make any kind of decision just yet, but I’m glad to have this in my back pocket as a possible option.”
“When you are ready, Mr. Beaumont, please give me a call,” she said, handing over a business card of her own that included a whole panoply of telephone numbers. “We’ll be only too happy to be of service.”