Robert Crais - Indigo Slam

'I don't know anything. I don't know what you're talking about.' He shook his head, and the booze smell came stronger.

'Jesus Christ, those kids are alone. All I want to do is find out if Clark 's coming home.' You'd think I wanted to kill the guy.

He held up both hands, palms toward me, shaking his head some more.

'This isn't an earth-shaker, Wilson. Either I'm going to find Clark, or I'm going to turn his kids over to Children's Services, and they're going to take custody away from him. You see what I'm saying here?' I wanted to smack him. I wanted to grab him by the ears and shake him. ' Clark is going to lose his kids unless he talks to me, and you're going to be part of it.' Maybe I could guilt him into cooperating.

Wilson Brownell looked past me, and his eyes widened. The bald guy with the bowling-ball paunch was standing in the swinging doors, frowning at us. Brownell's face hardened and he stepped close to me. 'Do everybody a favor and get your ass out of here. I'd help you if I could, but I can't, and that's that.'

He turned away but I turned with him. 'What do you mean, that's that? Didn't you hear what I said about his kids?'

'I said I can't help you.' Wilson Brownell's voice came out loud enough so that the kid on the floor peeked out at us.

Two men had joined the bald guy in the swinging doors. They were older, with thin gray hair and wind-burned skin and the kind of heavy, going-to-fat builds that said they were probably pretty good hitters twenty years ago. The bald guy pointed our way and one of the new men said something, and then the bald guy started toward us. Brownell grabbed my shoulder like a man grabbing a life preserver. 'Listen to me, goddamnit.' His voice was a harsh whisper, lower now and urgent. 'Don't you mention Clark. Don't even say his goddamn name, you wanna walk outta here alive.' Wilson Brownell suddenly broke into a big laugh and clapped me on the shoulder as if I'd told him the world's funniest joke. He said, 'You tell Lisa I can get my own date, thank you very much! I need any help, I'll give'r a call!' He said it so loud that half of British Columbia could hear.

I stared at him.

The bald guy reached us, the two new guys still in the swinging door, watching through interested eyes. The bald guy said, 'I don't know who this guy is. He just walked in here.'

Brownell kept his hand on my shoulder, letting the laugh fade to a grin. 'Sorry about that, Donnie. I knew this guy was coming by, and I shoulda told you. He's a friend of mine.'

I glanced from Brownell to Donnie, then back to Brownell, wondering just what in hell I had walked into.

Brownell shook his head like, man, this was just the silliest thing. 'This guy's wife has been tryin' to set me up with this friend of hers for three months now. I keep sayin', what on earth am I going to do with a new woman when I'm still in love with my Edna?'

Donnie squinted the ferret eyes at me like he was deciding something. 'What, are you a mute or something? Don't you have anything to say?'

Brownell was looking at me so hard that his eyes felt like lasers. I shook my head. 'Nope.'

Donnie made his decision, then glanced back at the two guys in the swinging door, and shook his head once. The two guys vanished. 'You know better'n this.'

Brownell said, 'I'm sorry, Donnie. Jesus Christ.'

The tiny eyes flicked back to me, and then a smile even smaller than the eyes played at the edges of his mouth. 'C'mon, I'll show you the way out.'

I followed the bald guy out, got into my car, and drove to a Seattle 's Best Coffee, where I bought a double-tall mochachino and sat there feeling confused, a more or less natural state. I had flown to Seattle expecting some difficulty in dealing with Wilson Brownell, but nothing like this. Wilson Brownell seemed stark raving terrified to mention Clark 's name. In fact, Brownell seemed not only terrified of me but also of his fellow employees. Maybe there was something to it, or maybe Brownell was just a goofball suffering from some sort of paranoid psychosis. Goofballs are common. I could sit here and guess, but all I would have are guesses. I needed to ask Wilson Brownell, and there were only two options: I could shoot my way back into New World and pistol-whip the information out of him, or I could wait and ask him when Wilson left work. The C-Span Lady had said that Brownell got home between five-thirty and a quarter to six, which meant that he probably left work between five and five-fifteen. It was now forty-three minutes after two, giving me two hours and twenty minutes to fill, and I decided to visit Rachel Hewitt's grave. If Clark had visited her grave, he might've left flowers. If he left flowers, there might be a florist's tag, and if there was a florist's tag, I might be able to get a line on Clark. A lot of ifs and maybes, but ifs and maybes define my life.

The Seattle 's Best people let me use their Yellow Pages. Twelve cemeteries were listed in the greater Seattle, Mercer Island, and Bellevue area. I copied their numbers on a napkin, traded three dollar bills for quarters, and started dialing. The first four cemeteries I phoned did not have a Rachel Hewitt listed, but a woman who answered the phone at the fifth said, 'Why, yes, we do have a Rachel Hewitt as a client.' Client.

I said, 'Did you know Rachel Hewitt?'

'Oh, goodness, no.'

'You knew she was there without having to look it up.' She had said it that quickly.

'Oh, well, I had to look it up just last week for another gentleman. On a Monday, I believe. Yes, that's right, a Monday.'

'Over the phone, or in person?'

'Oh, he was here.'

I described Clark. 'Did he look like that?'

'Oh, no. Nothing like that. This gentleman was tall and blond, with short hair.'

I got directions, hung up, and eighteen minutes later I pulled through the gate onto the grounds of the Resthaven Views Cemetery and parked at the office. The woman I'd spoken with was older and sweet, and named Mrs. Lawrence. She showed me a large plot map of the grounds, and directed me to Rachel Hewitt's grave site. I said, 'The man last Monday, do you know who he was?'

'Oh, a friend or relative, I imagine. Like you.' Like me.

Rachel Hewitt had been laid to rest on the side of a grassy knoll near the western edge of the cemetery with a clear and pleasant view of Lake Washington. I left my car in the shade of a sycamore tree and walked north counting headstones. Rachel Hewitt's was the fifth headstone in, but the headstone was bare. Guess Clark hadn't been out, or if he had, he'd skipped the flowers.

I said, 'Well, damn.'

No flowers meant no lead.

Three cars were parked below me, and I could see people trudging among the graves, some sitting on the grass, some standing, one older gentleman in a lawn chair he'd brought, visiting old friends or loved ones. Above me, twin mausoleums stood on the crest of the hill with what would be sweeping views of the lake. Trees stood sentry around the mausoleums, lending shade, and a couple of cars were parked among the trees, one a faded tan pickup, the other a black Lexus. Someone was sitting in the Lexus, but they were so far away I couldn't see them clearly. Something flashed, and I thought they must be looking through field glasses. Admiring the view, no doubt. Enjoying another fine day with the dead.

I brushed at the headstone and took out the photograph that I'd taken from Brownell's apartment and again thought how very much Teri looked like her mother. I put the picture away and stared at Lake Washington and tried not to feel sour. No mean feat when you've spent your own money to fly a thousand miles to stand clueless beside a woman's grave. I was still confident that I could find Clark, but the odds that I could do it within a reasonable amount of time were diminishing, and I would need to do something about the kids. Of course, even if I found Clark, I was thinking that I still might have to call Children's Services. Clark wasn't shaping up as the World's Finest Dad. Rachel might not like it, but there you go. Maybe she should've done a better job of selecting their father.