Emerald City Blues Read online

  I stepped lightly off the trolley on Cherry and relaxed into a slow pace heading north. Nice houses around here. Old money. My father probably would have been able to tell me which city councilmen lived where, who the doctors and lawyers were, and which barons of industry owned the various mansions up here on the hill. What was it about rich folk that made them want to look down on everyone?

  The short walk did nothing for my hangover and little enough to clear my thoughts. The wind was cold and raw here on top of the hill. I turned off Madison and stopped cold. A few blocks ahead there were three black-and-whites parked in the street, lights and sirens turned off but still clearly working a crime scene. A crime - up here, among the elites of the city? It seemed unlikely. Burglary, maybe. But part of me asked why they needed three police cars to investigate a mere robbery. I had no answer for that one. The cold wind had gotten inside my trench coat and I struggled not to shiver for three of the longest blocks I had ever walked.

  Then I came to a dead stop. The three police cars were parked outside Tommy's brick Victorian.

  I stared until one of the officers noticed and came out to run off the rubbernecker. Then he recognized Iron Mike's daughter and his gruffness softened into the kind of tired smile I was used to seeing on officers who had been called out of bed long before the sun rose. "Well, if it isn't our very own Maddie Sheehan. Out for a morning constitutional, are we?"

  I smiled. I think. I was still feeling gut-shot. "Something like that, Joe. What's new on the beat?"

  He grunted, blowing a tired chuff of breath through his bristling mustache. "Nothing good, I'm afraid." Officer Joe Malloy was a third-generation beat cop who usually worked the dockside. Most career police officers either become pragmatic or they burn out. Malloy was pragmatic. I was burned out. "A nice young doctor got himself murdered last night. It's a bad piece of business, that's for sure and certain. Nothing for it, but I do hate to see things like this happen. Bad enough when a Nip turns up dead down on the waterfront, but this is a good neighborhood up here. Bad business."

  I tried to sound calm, or at least not horribly guilty. That was hard, since I felt somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred percent responsible at the moment. I swallowed hard. "Any leads?"

  "Oy now and off with you, lass. Just you keep your pretty wee nose out of department business, hey?" Malloy gave a grin to show his bluster was good-natured. "You know I'd not mind you seeing some business come your way, Maddie Sheehan. Just as I'd not mind seeing some justice for poor Mr. Cooke here. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but for old Mike's daughter... I can say it don't seem right, what happened here. There's no obvious murder weapon, no tracks, and not a single witness so far. It's strange, damned strange, if you'll pardon me saying so." He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. "Well now. I'll see if I can't get the Chief to call you in as a consultant. But until then I can't discuss any more details on an open investigation. You know how it is. Regulations." He made a face somewhere between regretful and disgusted. On any other day it would have been comical. Not today.

  "I know how it is." I did know. I'd grown up hearing the regulations often enough from my father. Which was why I also knew when they could be bent, and how. If there really was such a strange absence of the usual kinds of evidence, I might be able to turn up something from more...unusual avenues of investigation. "As it happens, Joe, I knew Thomas Cooke socially. His father was sort of a friend of the family, back when. Would you mind if I took a quick look around? I might have some insights that could help the investigation." I pitched my voice as levelly as I could, but he still lifted one greying eyebrow at me. He was about to speak when another voice came from behind me.

  "You are an admitted associate of the victim, and just happened to be walking by his front door the very morning after he was murdered?" I turned and saw a thin, wiry young police officer approaching, his steel-eyed gaze intense and suspicious. Lieutenant's bars on his uniform explained Malloy's sudden stoic silence. "And now you want to have a look at the scene of the crime. How coincidental. One might even say convenient. Miss...?" His expression had turned sharp, predatory, just short of an accusation. Joe Malloy's face had gone closed and stony. Something told me I was in for a quick lesson in current department politics.

  "Sheehan." I watched carefully but his demeanor didn't change a bit. The name meant nothing to him. He really was new. "The late Detective Lieutenant Michael Sheehan was my father."

  "So you're the flatfoot dame I've been hearing about. And you came sniffing around my crime scene completely by accident, is that it?" He still had yet to introduce himself. Not that I cared. Lieutenant Sneer would do fine. "Well you can turn around and go sniff somewhere else, gumshoe. This site is closed to the public while official detectives do their work. Thank you for your concern, citizen. Now clear out and let us do our work, or I'll have you cooling your heels in a cell downtown for obstruction of justice." He turned on his heel and stalked back towards the third police car.

  Malloy blew out his whiskers and looked apologetic. I shrugged and tried to look indifferent. "Not your fault, Joe. Thanks for putting in a good word with the Chief for me. If I can help, you know I will - retainer or no retainer."

  "You're one of the good ones, Maddie." Malloy gave me an avuncular smile from under his grey wire brush mustache, but his eyes told a troubled tale.

  "Don't remind me," I told him shortly, and walked away from the house where my childhood friend had been murdered just hours before I was supposed to help him out of a tight spot. Damn it, Tommy. You should have come to me sooner. I didn't know what I could have done, but I would have done something. Something? Anything. Anything was better than this hollowness, this searing guilt that damned me for sending him away, terrified and alone, to his death. He was a good man. He had loved me hopelessly since we were young. And he had been killed within hours of talking to me - without any of the usual signs that accompanied a mundane murder. That thought put a chill in my bones that had nothing to do with the cold breeze up here on the hill.

  I looked up at the indifferent grey overcast above and wished I knew how to make it rain, just for a little while. Mother Nature stubbornly refused to accommodate, so I pulled the brim of my father's fedora a little lower. It wouldn't do to let the Lieutenant think I was crying because of him.

  THREE

  I wanted a drink. I needed a drink. But a drink wouldn't bring back the dead. I settled for a long walk, a few tears angrily wiped away, and some seething. It didn't help much.

  By the time I had returned to my apartment a few hours later the sun had given way to a sullen dusk, the grief and the rage had largely settled down to a dull riot, and several realizations had gruffly cleared their throats at me. The first realization was that I had been stupid. Dangerously stupid. If there really was some kind of arcane danger, Tommy was hardly the only or even the most likely of targets for it. He had only a secondary connection to Gerd and the Circle through his father. He was not a practitioner of the Art so far as I knew. He had known just enough to come to me and no more. That meant I had to scratch the theory of whatever-it-was going after rivals or enemies. There was next to no chance something big and scary had it in for Dr. Thomas Cooke.

  The second realization was even worse. If it was some arcane practitioner who could kill without leaving a trace mundane investigators could detect, he or she had power. Serious power. That sort of thing meant real trouble in a city whose best and brightest occultist was an out-of-practice flatfoot who had never been more than a gifted but half-trained initiate of the Art to begin with. I wished I knew who to reach out to on something like this, but there was no one. Gerd's own master was long dead, or so he had intimated. I knew nothing about other practitioners of Gerd's own generation. The only journeymen I knew had died in the Great War ten years ago, and none had had apprentices of their own. What Seattle had, for now, was me. In my current profession, we refer to this sort of thing as hard luck.

  This led
to realization number three. I was meat for the morgue if I tried to meet this killer on his own terms. There wasn't really any more to say about it than that. Gerd didn't teach his initiates to cast undetectable death spells at distant targets, but his lessons on the difficulties and dangers inherent to such a praxis made it clear it was an order of magnitude greater than anything he would ever teach any of us. That meant if Meister Gerhardt himself were still in Seattle, even he might not be equal to whatever was behind this. And me? I had as much chance as the steam ferry Tacoma had of flying over the Smith Tower. Which was to say, none at all. The Tacoma barely made it across Elliot Bay on a regular basis.

  All of this added up to one of two things: either I stowed away on a ship bound for sunny Hong Kong on the morning tide, or I got to work investigating what this killer wanted before he killed any more people. Especially me.

  As was so often the case in my profession, this was easier said than done. But at least I had an idea of where to start. My kitchen cupboards were empty, but there was still a bit of banned Scotch in the liquor cabinet. I poured myself the last two fingers in the bottle, added soda water, and knocked it back. Then I walked down to Pioneer Square and straight into the Horseshoe.

  Jim the doorman knew me well. He had the door open before I even really registered he was working that night. Inside, the Horseshoe Liquor Company was gleaming with chrome and choked with men in suits and fedoras, beautiful women in cocktail dresses, and a trio playing ragtime in the back. It was one of the nicer saloons in the district, helped considerably by the illegal hooch they sold out of the back. I'd done a solid favor for the owner, John Considine, a few years back, and could usually count on a meal and a drink whenever I stopped by. I also had him to thank for keeping my liquor cabinet better-stocked than my pantry. For a hard luck flatfoot, that was more gratitude than I could hope for.

  I took a place toward the end of the bar and waited for one of the waiters to walk by. When one did, I caught him by his tuxedo-white sleeve and spoke over the combined din of crowd and ragtime trio. "I need to talk to Markel." He shook his head and I repeated the name, a little louder this time. Comprehension lit his eyes and he nodded. I let go of his sleeve and relaxed back onto my bar stool while he went back into the kitchens of the saloon to get the man I was here to see.

  It took a good twenty minutes, but soon enough my thin patience was rewarded. Chef Markel D'Aubers was a wiry, spare man with excellent wavy black hair, a Saturnine complexion, and eyes the color of pitch - as was his soul, I was certain. We were not friends. Actually that was a bit of an understatement, and the way he looked at me like I was something unpleasant he had stepped in showed nothing had changed. "You don't look happy to see me," I observed with feigned casualness. Yep. Still had a bit of Scotch in me.

  "Should I be?" He looked me over, unimpressed and making a show of it.

  "It would be a nice change." He snorted and crossed his arms. "All right. I'll get right to it. I need to know what happened to Gerhardt Mueller's estate after the War."

  "Why would I know that?" There was a dangerous glint in his eyes now. His hands had tensed into fists.

  Keep your voice level. Don't let him know how important this is to you. I knew Markel well enough to know he would not hesitate to say no just for the pleasure of denying me what I was after. "Because Erich was closer to Gerhardt than anyone, and I thought since he was your brother, he might have said something about Gerd's next of kin."

  "Why won't you people leave me alone?!" Markel practically shouted, startling a man and a woman next to me at the bar. That was all right, they could complain to the manager about Markel and Considien and I would laugh about it later. Just now I was more interested in his strange vehemence. "I don't know anything about the crazy old Kraut, woman. And if you send one more goon in here trying to grill me about it, I'll have him thrown out on the street, do you hear me?" His voice was low and angry now, the words coming fast and sharp. "Erich is dead. Let him rest in peace, and leave me alone. Whatever it is you and your little gang have planned, I want nothing to do with it. Do you understand me? Nothing."

  He turned to stalk away from me but I caught his arm before he could go back into the kitchens. The white linen of his chef's coat was rough under my fingers. "What do you mean? I don't have anyone working for me. Who else was asking about Erich?"

  "When two different people ask me within days of each other whether Erich told me anything about Mueller's personal effects, I can only assume they are conspirators," he grated. "Your innocent act needs work, Sheehan. The same goes for that blond devil comrade of yours." He shook my hand off his arm and stalked back into the kitchen with what he probably thought of as injured dignity.

  I sat there stunned for a full minute. That cold thing happened in my lower back. Hairs stood on end. He had been here. I knew it even though I didn't know how I knew. Whoever had killed Tommy had been here, in the Horseshoe, might even have sat where I was now seated. My skin felt tight and my limbs heavy. What had Markel said? That blond devil. I shuddered. He was beginning to take shape, and now I found I did not like the look of him at all. I felt horribly exposed, as if unfriendly eyes were watching me right at that very moment.

  I sat there long enough to be noticed. A plate of steak and onions came out from the kitchens, borne by a server in white who smiled politely and told me, "Compliments of the house." John Considine still remembered me. Gratitude rarely lasted long around this city; why was it that dapper crooks and smiling rum-runners who buried a couple of Federal agents every year were so generous, while the law-abiding citizens of the city turned away from me without quite admitting to themselves why they did so?

  There are few philosophies more persuasive than those that fill the belly. I tucked in.

  FOUR

  I awoke to pounding. For once, it was not just inside my head.

  What time was it? I'd gotten to sleep barely an hour before dawn, and sadly without any company to help warm it. The dreams stemming from this state of affairs had been pleasant; being jerked from them so unceremoniously was anything but. I struggled out of bed, realized I'd fallen asleep in my clothes, and shrugged. Anyone who called at whatever ungodly hour it was now either had no idea who I was and what I did, or possessed not one ounce of respect for the hours an investigator worked. In either case, they deserved whatever they got, and I was ready to give it to them with both barrels. I stomped to the door of the apartment and grimly jerked the door open.

  "Miss Sheehan." Lieutenant Sneer gave me a toothy smile that could have stood in for one of those band saws down on the docks where the log jams were floated into the lumber mills to be cut. Behind him, Sergeant Malloy cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. "We would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind." The lieutenant's poisonously sweet tone said he hoped I minded. I did mind. That was clear to him, just as it was clear to me he would be only too happy to take me downtown if I said as much. I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

  I held open the door and let them in. Sneer immediately began to reconnoiter, glancing at every detail as if to imprint it into his memory. I could almost hear him preparing to describe it to a jury. Malloy nodded ruefully to me as he stepped inside and took off his service cap. I let Sneer find his way around and made a point not to ask him if he would sit. Petty, but sometimes that's all you have. I leaned against the wall and watched him undress my apartment with his eyes until finally noticing I was watching him. This seemed to irritate him even more, if that was possible.

  "Miss Sheehan, I'll get right to the point. Why did you attempt to gain access to that crime scene on Capitol Hill yesterday?"

  I let my head fall to one side and adopted a thoughtful expression. "Hmmm. I can't say I completely recall, Officer. I-"

  "Lieutenant."

  "-just don't seem to remember anything in particular that led me up that way. It must have been one of those feminine whims you hear so much about these days." I finished smoothly, ign
oring the way he gritted his teeth while still smiling.

  "You'll find this goes faster and much more pleasantly if you cooperate, Miss Sheehan. What would you say if I knew you had a particular reason to see Mr. Cooke yesterday, and that I have a witness who could place you in his company the night before that?" His band-saw smile resurfaced. He still had not removed his service cap. Maybe he thought it would make him seem more official. Or taller.

  I shrugged. "I don't know. You seem to have all the answers you need, Officer. Now I'm curious. What would I say, since you already know so much about me?"

  Malloy coughed into his fist. Sneer was ready to explode. It made me want to laugh in his face. That was definitely a bad idea unless I wanted to spend a night in the hoosegow, but I've been known to indulge in those upon occasion. Like now. "Don't get up on your hind legs, Officer," I told him sweetly. "Men and women see each other all the time, and terrible things rarely come of it. You might even try it yourself some day, just to see how it feels."

  Sneer took one angry step towards me but Malloy had already put out a hand to forestall him. "Look," Malloy said in a placating tone, making mollifying gestures toward Sneer, who still seemed of half a mind to come knock a few answers out of me. "We're not here to accuse anyone of anything. A man was murdered yesterday, lass. You know that. And you know we have to do our jobs. That's all we're here to do, Maddie. Y'see, Cooke's ledger had a few notes in it and your name came up in the last day before he died. Since you also showed up unexpectedly at the crime scene, we had to look into it. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation." He looked at me with an entreaty, trying to keep Sneer from bursting in to the conversation.