Some grew.
Some failed.
Some simply stagnated, their owners scratching out a living selling everything from crystals to condoms. Inevitably, the Broadway Market became the center of the suddenly bustling neighborhood.
And that afternoon, as Glen wandered from shop to shop and finally settled down to watch the wildly diverse crowd that swirled and eddied around him, he found himself far more fascinated by it all than he would have thought possible.
So fascinated, indeed, that when he finally got home and turned on the television, the local news was just beginning.
Could he really have sat at the market for almost two hours?
It hadn’t seemed like more than an hour.
In fact, it had seemed like even less.
Switching the television off, Glen started up the stairs. Though he’d already slept five extra hours that day, he suddenly felt the need for a nap.
Or at least an escape from the confusion in his mind.
CHAPTER 28
Odds and ends.
It had been an afternoon of odds and ends, just the sort of afternoon Anne Jeffers hated. First, she realized that the most important question she’d intended to ask Mark Blakemoor at lunch had completely slipped her mind when she realized that the detective’s emotions toward her were no longer based purely on business. Then, she wasted twenty minutes vacillating over what message he might get if she called him so soon after their meeting. Finally, she decided to put it off for a while, and went on to other things.
With the rain apparently over for the day, she’d gone in search of Sheila Harrar. At the address Mark Blakemoor had given her, she was told that “Harrar’s on the fourth floor. In the front.” So she trekked up to the fourth floor and found the room, but no trace of Sheila Harrar.
Downstairs, the man behind the desk looked bored when Anne asked if he knew where Sheila Harrar might be. “Look in the square. That’s where they all hang out,” he told her. “She’s an Indian broad,” he added, rolling his eyes, as if his identification of her as a Native American should be enough to explain everything about her.
Saying nothing, Anne left the hotel and walked the two blocks to Pioneer Square, searching for someone who might be Sheila Harrar. Almost to her own surprise, she found Sheila on the second try. Though it was obvious the woman was an alcoholic, it was equally obvious that today she hadn’t been drinking.
“I read your article this morning,” Sheila told her, seeming unsurprised when Anne introduced herself and sat down on the bench next to her. “That’s why I called your house.”
“My house?” Anne asked blankly, wondering if maybe she’d been mistaken and Sheila Harrar was drunk after all.
Sheila appeared puzzled. “Didn’t your husband tell you?” she asked. “Isn’t that why you came looking for me?”
Anne shook her head, explained about the garbled message on her voice mail and how she’d finally tracked Sheila down.
Sheila Harrar’s expression clouded at mention of the police, and her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “The police got no reason to be looking for me,” she said. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“They weren’t looking for you,” Anne reassured her quickly, sensing that the woman was about to bolt. “The detective is a friend of mine, and he was just doing me a favor.”
“’Cause you’re white,” Sheila Harrar grunted.
“I beg your pardon?” Anne asked.
Cynical eyes fixed on her. “He did you a favor ‘cause you’re white. When I wanted them to look for Danny, they didn’t do nothin’.”
Anne knew there was no point in trying to explain to Mrs. Harrar about how many tips had come in on the Kraven killings, how many phone calls there had been from anonymous sources, how many mothers just like Sheila had called the police to report that their children had been murdered by Richard Kraven. There had also been husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers of all sorts, even children calling to report that they were certain Richard Kraven had killed their parents.
“Why do you think Richard Kraven killed your son?” Anne asked instead. At worst, it would give the woman an opportunity finally to tell her story; at best, Sheila Harrar might actually know something that could directly connect Richard Kraven to at least one local murder.
Sheila took Anne back to her room, where she pulled out a worn photo album — one of the last things she still possessed from better days. In the album were yellowing pictures of herself as a girl, then some of her former husband, Manny Harrar. At the end were the pictures of Danny, all of them smudged with fingerprints from the many times Sheila had pulled the album out late at night when she was far into a bottle of fortified wine, and paged through the pictures, touching Danny’s image with as much gentleness as if she were actually stroking his cheek.
What Anne saw was a handsome boy who was always neatly dressed, although the clothes he wore looked nearly worn-out. His hair was always combed, his lips smiling, his eyes sparkling.
Even in the snapshots, Anne could sense the boy’s intelligence. And he didn’t look like the sort who would get involved in drugs or simply take off. Indeed, in the few photographs showing Sheila and Danny together, it was clear that before Danny disappeared, his mother had been a different person. Though they obviously hadn’t had much money, nothing in the photos betrayed anything other than a devoted mother and loving son.
The snapshots alone were enough to convince Anne that Danny Harrar had not run away from home.
“What can you tell me?” she asked. “What happened the last day you saw Danny?”
“He was going fishing,” Sheila told her. “He was going to go fishing with Richard Kraven.”
Fishing.
It was one of Richard Kraven’s passions. He’d had a motor home, and often used it to go up into the mountains, where, according to him, he liked to spend a day in solitude, casting for trout in the roaring streams that poured out of the Cascades. Anne was well aware of how thoroughly that motor home had been searched, for after Kraven had been arrested and charged in Connecticut, the Seattle police had seized the vehicle and nearly torn it apart in a search for evidence that might link Kraven to the long list of murders in which he was the prime suspect.