It was a good thing I volunteered to sit the flight out, because I wouldn’t have discovered until much later how ill-prepared I was for the journey.
So I sat there in the criminally overpriced airport restaurant, nursing my Coke and thinking hard, hoping the slow trickle of sugar and caffeine into my system would jump-start my brain.
I started by asking myself who would know the name of Lauren’s mother. Cyril Parkus certainly would, but I couldn’t ask him. The police probably knew, but I wasn’t brave enough to call them. I was fucked.
If only the LA Times reporter had asked for Lauren’s maiden name when he was writing his story, he could have saved me a lot of trouble.
Thinking about the LA Times made me think about what I read on the can in the guard shack. I mean, what I read besides the paperbacks and the two-year-old copy of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
I found a pay phone, called the Camarillo Star-News, and asked for the city desk. I told the editor I was from The AIDS Crack Baby Rescue Alliance, and that we wanted to send a wreath to Lauren Parkus’ mother, in honor of all the money her daughter had raised to help crack babies with AIDS, and asked if he had a name or address for her. I even started sobbing to drive home my sorrow and genuine desperation.
He gave me the name, Mona Harper, and told me that she lived in Seattle, and that was all he knew. He did ask me why it sounded like I was calling from an airport. I sobbed some more and told him I was on my way to South America, to help all the malnourished, crack babies with AIDS down there. He was so touched, he wanted to make a donation to the A.C.B.R.A. in Lauren’s name. I made up a post office box address and tearfully hung up.
There’s a good reason why an editor ends up at the Camarillo Star-News instead of the LA Times, and that’s why I called him.
I wiped my eyes and went to the newsstand, where I bought a couple Sue Grafton and Robert Crais mysteries. I found a seat and started reading right away. I couldn’t help feeling like I was cramming before my final exams.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time the plane landed at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport early that evening, I’d finished the Grafton book and was almost finished with the Crais. I can’t say I consciously learned anything from the exploits of Kinsey Milhone and Elvis Cole, but I hoped something had sunk in by osmosis.
On my way through the terminal, I stopped at a gift shop and bought some Pepto Bismol and Advils which, in my haste to get going, I’d forgotten to pack. Between the uncomfortable coach seat and my anxiety, my accumulated injuries were flaring up badly.
I washed down five or six Advils with a mouthful of Pepto Bismol, then hobbled over to the Swift Rent-A-Car counter, which was located in the parking structure outside, across from the terminal.
I’d never been to Seattle before, and I didn’t know what kind of trouble I might get into or how far I might have to travel in the course of my investigation. So, I decided to step up from my Kia into something a bit more aggressive. The best they had to offer was a Buick LeSabre Custom. I took it and was careful to choose every insurance option they offered.
The LeSabre was the size of my apartment. The simulated wood-grain interior trim and the decoratively patterned cloth seats gave me a flashback to my mom’s Oldsmobile Cutlass station wagon and the fights my sister and I used to have over who got to sit “in the way-back.” When my mother abandoned us, she gladly left the Cutlass station wagon behind. My father lost it a few months later to pay gambling debts, but we really didn’t miss it.
Anyway, the LeSabre, with its big bench seats, would be comfortable to sleep in if I had to. The engine had some guts, and the power steering was so loose, if I broke every finger except one, I’d still be able to turn the wheel.
That was good to know.
I didn’t have to drive far from Sea-Tac before I came upon a Borders bookstore off the freeway. I didn’t realize then that the only thing that outnumbered bookstores in Seattle were coffee houses or I might have kept on driving. Instead, I stopped there and bought an illustrated city guide and a detailed map book of Seattle-area streets.
I went back to my LeSabre, took out my list of retailers selling those replica Desert Eagle guns, and looked for the nearest store. I got lucky; there was one a few blocks away. It was called The Northwest Sportsman.
The sportsman at the counter was shaped like a Hershey’s Kiss and had one more chin than was absolutely necessary. He wanted to impress me with his encyclopedic knowledge of BB guns, which I was sure was only rivaled by his knowledge of comic books.
The sportsman held the plastic gun loosely in his hand and grinned at it in admiration as he spoke.
“This here is a spring-loaded, single-shot, low-volume air pistol. The real Desert Eagle is manufactured in Israel, but this baby comes to us straight from Tokyo. The styling is nearly indistinguishable from the genuine article,” he said, drawling out the pronunciation of those last two words so they came out as genu-wine art-eekle.
“The body is ABS plastic, the internal parts are metal,” he went on. “It’s got a 113-millimeter barrel and a muzzle velocity of two hundred thirty-five feet per second, firing .2-gram plastic BBs. But the beauty of this piece is the subtle tonal differences in the molding and coloring that?”
I interrupted him.
“I just want to shoot some bottles and look cool doing it,” I said. “I don’t need to know all the details.”
For a minute, I thought he was so offended that he wouldn’t sell it to me, but his commercial instincts easily overcame his personal pride and he finally forked the weapon over. He didn’t say a single word after that.
I bought a belt-clip holster to go with the gun and some BBs, so I’d appear to be a genu-wine enthusiast. The bill came to nearly a hundred bucks. I saved the receipt for my taxes.
On the way out, I spotted a hardware store across the street. I stowed my gun in the trunk, went to the store, and bought a roll of duct tape, a sledgehammer, and a can of black spray paint. I saved that receipt, too.
I was ready for action.
***
Once inside my two-star hotel room a few blocks away, I laid out some newspaper in the bathtub and spray-painted over the bright orange tip of the gun, adding my own subtle, tonal differences to the molding and coloring. I left the gun in the tub to dry.
I could hear the planes rumbling overhead, but it didn’t bother me much. It reminded me how much I was saving on accommodations and made me feel responsible. There’s no reason to spend more than thirty bucks a night for a mattress, a toilet, and a sink, especially for a hardened, professional private eye on assignment.
I sat down at the table, spread the map out in front of me, and located the address near Snohomish where Arlo Pelz lived. I put an X on the spot; then I took out a pen and traced the best route there. It was a small town on the Snohomish River in Snohomish County, about forty miles northeast of Seattle.
I also looked up Mona Harper’s address in the phone book, found it on the map, and put an X there, too. She lived in a Seattle neighborhood called Madison Park, on the shore of Lake Washington, near one of the city’s floating bridges. It sounded like a term a spokesman for the bridge might use to spin things after a disaster. “The bridge hasn’t really collapsed,” he’d say, “it’s just floating.”
I always thought bridges were supposed to go over the water, but what did I know? Up here, they probably called those flying bridges or something.
Now that I’d mastered the terrain, and had a vague idea of what I intended to do, I called Carol and told her my plan. I told her if she didn’t hear from me at the same time tomorrow, to call the Seattle police.
“And tell them what, exactly?” she asked.
“Tell them I’m dead,” I replied.
“That’s not going to do you much good.”
“Okay, so tell them I’m probably dead,” I said, “or I will be if they don’t rescue me.”
“You think the police will care?”
I was in uncharted territory here, since most private eyes I knew about never told anyone where they were going or what they were doing. But they were braver than me, and certainly never pissed themselves in a fistfight.