WHEN LUCY AND I STEPPED OFF THE ELEVATOR AT THE penthouse level, my first thought was that we had exited at the wrong floor. Most of the time, the only food that ends up here is takeout, but now the undeniable aroma of cooking food—onions, garlic, basil, and beef—was all around us. When I opened the door to the unit and stepped inside, the utter deliciousness of it was almost overwhelming. Glancing into the kitchen, I spotted a large baking dish filled with lasagna cooling on the counter. Alan Dale and Athena were in the family room with the TV on. I didn’t blame him. The TV in the guest bedroom is tiny compared to the one in the family room.
“I take it Marge cooked up a storm today?”
Alan nodded. “She says I’m nothing but skin and bones, and she’s determined to fatten me up. Have you eaten?”
I felt a stab of guilt. When Mel isn’t around, I’m used to coming and going without having to report to anyone. “I had dinner with my son and his wife,” I said. “Sorry, I should have called to let you know.”
“No problem,” he said. “Now that it’s cooled down some, I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge.”
“How’s Athena?”
“She’s been fussy today,” he said, “a little colicky.”
“How’d you fare today?” I asked. The baby might have been fussy, but Alan didn’t look especially happy either.
He sighed. “The social worker says we’re the ones who have to find Athena’s father.”
“DSHS won’t help with that?”
Alan shook his head. “Unfortunately not, and without having Athena’s father sign off they won’t consider allowing me to take her out of state. The social worker’s suggestion was that I give up, go home, and let the state place Athena in foster care somewhere up here while we wait for the fatherhood question to be sorted out. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. I’m afraid the meeting didn’t end on a very good note.”
“You filed a missing-persons report on Naomi?”
Alan nodded. “And I tried to file one on Peter Mayfield, too, but the guy I talked to told me no dice. He said I didn’t have enough information—no date of birth, place of birth, occupation, physical description, last known address, or even an approximate date when Petey disappeared. In other words, I got nowhere on that. So how about you?” he asked. “Did you make any progress?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” I said. “With the help of one of Agnes’s neighbors, I managed to collect a toothbrush and a comb and hairbrush from her house. If I can call in some markers, maybe I can get someone to create a DNA profile on her that will connect up to Athena’s DNA.”
Alan’s face brightened. “So we’d know for sure that Petey was Athena’s father, but we’d still need to find him. Anything else?”
“I spoke to Petey’s aunt, Lenora, but she wasn’t exactly helpful—and not especially concerned to hear that he’s gone missing either. She strikes me as a not very nice woman. I think there’s a good chance that she’s deliberately trying to cheat Petey out of his share of his grandmother’s estate.”
“Really?”
“In talking to one of Agnes Mayfield’s neighbors, I learned Agnes was suffering from some kind of worsening mental condition. At the time when she was supposedly transferring those West Seattle properties over to her daughter—properties that most likely made up the bulk of her estate—there’s a good chance Agnes was in no condition to handle her own affairs, to say nothing of disposing of her property.”
“What do we do next?” Alan asked.
“As I said before, I’m going to call in some markers and try to get DNA profiles on both Agnes and Athena. By proving they’re related, we’ll also be proving Petey is Athena’s father. Depending on the provisions in Agnes’s will, Petey might be in line to inherit something. And if Petey is really gone, his portion might be passed on to Athena, especially if we can prove that there was wrongdoing on Lenora’s part.”
“But that’ll all take lawyers, money, and time,” Alan groaned.
“It can’t hurt to try,” I said. “You look after Athena and leave the rest to me.”
My cell phone rang in my pocket. I had missed my commute-time conversation with Mel, and I thought it would be her. However, caller ID said DOORMAN.
“Mr. Sam Shelton is here to see you,” Bob said, “Mr. Shelton and Billy Bob.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
I grabbed a Ziploc bag and a covered plastic storage container from the cabinet. I loaded the first with kibble and the second with a hefty helping of Marge’s lasagna. Then, with those and some plastic silverware in hand, I headed down to the lobby. Sam and his dog were standing outside, under the awning.
“Come on in,” I said, holding the door open. “I brought both of you some dinner. We can go on up to the sixth floor. There are undercover picnic tables out by the running track.”
“Are you sure?” Sam asked dubiously.
“I’m sure.”
I knew there were a few of the more hoity-toity residents of the building who would turn up their noses at finding a homeless man and his dog riding in the elevator, but too bad. Sam and Billy Bob were my guests. Fortunately, we made it on and off the elevator without anyone joining us. I led him outside on the sixth floor, and we settled in at one of the outdoor picnic tables.
In terms of amenities, having an outside recreational area at a downtown high-rise is supposed to be a big deal. And, I suppose, there are a few days in the dead of summer when it’s actually nice. But what the architects somehow failed to take into consideration is the weather patterns created by nearby buildings, which means that most of the time the outdoor area on Belltown Terrace’s sixth floor would work just fine as a Formula One wind tunnel. As Sam and Billy Bob dove into their food, they were totally unaffected by the cold, but then again they were used to living outside. I wasn’t, and I was freezing. I was also dying to know what had prompted Sam to show up in the lobby, but I tried to maintain my role as a proper host and waited until he finished his meal and pushed his dish aside.
“That was wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I told him. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I may have a lead on your missing mama,” he said.
“Really?”
He nodded. “The people who live on the streets have an informal underground of sorts.”
I already knew that. It was that very underground that had alerted us to the unwelcome presence of Ken Purcell lying in wait for Mel.
“What’s it telling you?”
“Do you use I-90 much?” Sam asked.
“Hardly at all,” I said. “For most of what I need, 520 works just fine. Why?”
“You told me that the cops picked Naomi up just west of the Mount Baker Tunnel. There’s a homeless encampment just up the street on the embankment on the north side of the interstate.”
This was hardly news from the front. There are homeless camps everywhere in Seattle these days—on sidewalks, under bridges, under the Alaskan Way Viaduct, wherever. And then, of course, there were Sam and Billy Bob, living under a mound of blankets and tarps in a fire-escape alcove in the churchyard right next door to where we were right now.
“So?” I asked, hoping he’d get to the point.
“It’s for women only,” he said. “No boys allowed.”
“And?”
“I heard a rumor that a while back there was a woman there who was expecting a baby. And when it came time for her to have it, the women from the encampment helped boost her over the Jersey barrier in hopes someone would pick her up and take her to a hospital.”
“Which is exactly what happened,” I said.
Sam nodded. “I’ve also been told that a day or so later she turned back up at the camp. My source said she wasn’t expecting anymore, but she didn’t have the baby with her either.”
“Did they say her name was Naomi?”
“Didn’t give a name.”
“Is she still there?”
“Hard to say,” Sam said. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“How’s the best way to approach this?” I asked.
Sam gave me an appraising look. “As far as I can tell, you’re definitely not a girl,” he observed. “Didn’t you hear what I said? That camp is strictly no boys allowed, and the woman who runs it is one tough cookie.”
It goes without saying that the people who live on the street have to be tough. If they’re not, and sometimes even if they are, they don’t survive for long.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“If you go there, you’ll need to bring a woman along with you, someone who can act as an interpreter or negotiator or ambassador, but don’t think for a minute that you can bring along that missus of yours. Those women will spot her as a cop, and you won’t get anywhere.”
It was almost as though Sam had read my mind. As soon as he mentioned that I’d need to have a female escort to visit the all-girl encampment, Mel Soames was the only name that came to mind. Admittedly, she does look like a cop—a very attractive cop, from my point of view—but even when she’s out of uniform, that law-enforcement presence is always front and center and there for all to see.
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
“Ever hear of the Pike Street Mission?” he asked.
I had to think about that for a minute, but then I remembered. The last I knew, it had been a tiny shelter operating in the repurposed basement of a defunct bar off a rat-infested alley near the Pike Place Market.
“Isn’t that the one a lady named Reverend Laura Beardsley runs down by the market?”
“Reverend Laura passed away a couple of years ago,” Sam informed me, letting me know that I’d been out of touch with my downtown Seattle roots for a while.
“Her shelter’s still called the Pike Street Mission,” Sam continued, “but they had to move. The building they used got torn down so someone could build an upscale hotel. They’re down closer to Pioneer Square these days. And the reason I’m suggesting them is that now they mostly cater to women. The director from there might have some standing with the ladies out on I-90.”
One of Belltown Terrace’s heartier residents came out to do nighttime laps on the lit running track. The first time he jogged past where we were sitting, Billy Bob issued a low-throated growl. Sam stood up at once. “We’d best be going,” he said. “It’s past our bedtime. Thanks for the grub.”
“I’ll walk you down to the lobby,” I told him. “But remember, if we find Naomi at that camp, the reward is yours.”
“Fair enough,” he said, “and just so you know, I’m still on the lookout for Petey.”
My phone was ringing as I rode back up in the elevator. “Good evening,” Mel said. “Sorry to call so late. I was stuck in a city-council meeting. How was your day?”
Letting myself back into our unit, I discovered that the leftover lasagna had been put away, the dishwasher was running, and Alan Dale and Athena were nowhere in sight. I took the phone into the family room and gave Mel as complete a rendition of the day’s doings as I could manage, ending with my conversation with Sam Shelton.
“Her name’s Rachel,” Mel said. “Last name Seymour—at least that’s the name I remember.”
“Who is Rachel?” I asked.
“The person who took over running the show at the Pike Street Mission after Reverend Laura died,” Mel replied. “She was a guest speaker at a YWCA luncheon I attended a few months ago. She’s an unlikely-looking CEO, but she’s also a pistol and very, very impressive.”
“I guess I’ll be meeting her in person tomorrow,” I said.
“When you do,” Mel advised, “here’s a word to the wise. Rachel may belong to that group commonly referred to as little people, but the terminology she prefers, as clarified in her speech, is dwarf.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “I’ll be sure to mind my verbal p’s and q’s.”
I spent some time on my iPad making a to-do list for the following morning, and Rachel Seymour’s name was on the top line. Next up was a visit to the County Clerk’s Office to find out whether or not Agnes Mayfield’s will had been probated. Third came a necessary visit to the King County Medical Examiner’s Office for a bit of DNA-profiling advice. Once those items were handled, it remained to be seen if an attempted visit to that all-female homeless camp would be in order.
After I’d laid out a mental itinerary for the following day, I worked a few crosswords to let off steam. I had just plugged the iPad in to charge overnight when Lucy stood up, walked over to my chair, and gave me “the look” that meant it was time for her last walk of the evening.
“Okay, girl,” I told her. “Let’s go.”
It was a quick in and out. When we came back, I finished getting ready for bed. By lights-out once again Lucy was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t need to search the whole unit this time, because I knew exactly where she’d be—in the guest room, either next to the crib or under it. So I gathered up Lucy’s bed and carried it from my room into the guest room for her, a variation on a theme of the mountain moving to Muhammad.
Sure enough, there she was, curled up under the crib. When I shoved the bed under the crib with her, she climbed onto it and favored me with a grateful thump of her tail. Most people would tell you dogs can’t talk, but they’re wrong. That tail thump was the equivalent of a verbal thank-you if ever there was one.