CHAPTER 15

The rain began as Anne turned into the parking lot of the building Glen had always called Seattle’s ugliest. It wasn’t a point Anne was about to argue, for the building that housed the Herald had been constructed in 1955, smack in the middle of one of the dullest periods in modern architectural history. Utterly devoid of any interesting features, it was a perfectly rectilinear, five-story aluminum-and-glass box, its main facade punctured only by a pair of glass doors. As if understanding that his building was architecturally unsalvageable, the designer had made no attempt to soften the structure with lawns or gardens, and the concept of “one percent for art” had still been years in the future. Anne, like the majority of the Herald’s staff, had long stopped noticing the building at all, and most people who passed it on the street weren’t even aware that it housed one of the city’s major newspapers. If and when the park that would be known as the Commons finally metamorphosed from endless talk into a reality of trees, lawns, and pathways linking Lake Union to the downtown area, the Herald Building would be razed. No one—least of all the newspaper’s employees—would miss it.

Pulling into the only vacant space in the lot, Anne ducked her head against the rain as she locked the car and threaded her way across the parking area, then through the first of two sets of double doors into a tiny foyer. Waving to the guard behind the scarred blond-wood counter that was the inner lobby’s single distinguishing feature, Anne brushed a few drops of water off her jacket, then pushed the second door open when the buzzer sounded. As if terrorists are just waiting to invade us, she thought as she nodded to the guard on her way to the bank of elevators opposite the doors. What makes anyone think we’re that important?

She punched at the elevator button, prepared a sarcastic remark for the guard in the typical event that no car showed up within a minute, and was pleasantly surprised when one of the doors instantly slid open. The usual chaos reigned on the third floor, and it took Anne almost five more minutes just to get to her desk, what with half a dozen people commenting on her column in this morning’s edition, and half a dozen more asking about Glen. When she finally crossed the newsroom to her desk, the monitor of her computer was flashing an accusatory beacon informing her that she had twenty-three unanswered internal messages, and forty-two more in her voice mail from outside.

Square in the center of her desk, where she couldn’t possibly miss it, was a message from her editor. Scrawled in large black letters, the message was no-more-than-usually direct:

SEE ME
—VIV

Pausing only to put her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk and hang her damp jacket on the coat tree she shared with three other reporters, Anne strode into the editor’s office, bypassing the sagging chair with the broken spring that her boss was gesturing her toward even while arguing with someone on the telephone, and helping herself to a cup of coffee. She scanned the papers scattered in front of the editor, her ability to read upside down and backward allowing her to assess that at least there were no formal complaints about her among the clutter on Vivian Andrews’s desk.

“I know what you’re doing, and I think it’s at least rude, if not illegal,” the editor said as she hung up the phone. “Are you going to read everything, or do you want to sit down?”

Anne eyed the rump-sprung chair with distaste, but answered neither question. “Got your newsy little epistle,” she said. “What’s up?”

Vivian Andrews burrowed into the mess on her desk and pulled out a copy of that morning’s paper, neatly opened and folded to expose Anne’s article. Tapping it meaningfully with one brightly polished fingernail, she gazed steadily at Anne. “As you can see, I passed this through exactly as you dictated it last night. Now, given that you’re back from the execution, and given that ‘dead men tell no tales,’ as I believe the saying goes, just how much longer are you planning to chase this particular wild goose, and when may I expect you to begin working on something that might be considered news?” She leaned back in her chair and regarded Anne archly. “Oh, and by using the word ‘news,’ I’m suggesting you might want to find a story that occurred within, say, the last six months?” The questioning inflection at the end of her remark was always a clue that Vivian was not feeling particularly patient.

“How long will you give me?” Anne countered.

Vivian Andrews placed the tips of her fingers together, resting her chin on them as she thought it over. “Not much,” she decided. “They’re cutting budgets again, and we’re stretched tight already.” Then, as her own eyes caught a few of the words Anne had dictated last night, she relented slightly. “Do you really think something’s missing? Something you can find, I mean?”

Anne dropped into the chair, wincing as the broken spring jabbed at her hip. “The execution is over, and there aren’t going to be any more trials,” she reminded her editor. “And Mark Blakemoor says they’re closing the files, which means there’s no reason for them not to let me see everything they’ve got.”

Vivian Andrews weighed the pros and cons quickly. The loss of a few more days of Anne’s time was far outweighed by the number of papers they’d sell if the reporter actually came up with something new. “Okay,” she agreed. “A few days. But if you don’t come up with something, it’s over. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Anne was already halfway out the door when Vivian Andrews spoke again. “Anne? How’s Glen doing?”

Anne turned back. “Pretty well, I guess, all things considered.”

“I heard they almost lost him.”

Anne tried to put up a facade of bravado, but didn’t quite succeed. “The important thing is that they didn’t. He’s going to be okay. It’s just going to take some time.”

Vivian nodded in sympathy. “If you need a leave—” she began, but Anne quickly shook her head.

“I don’t think so. At least I don’t right now. But I’ll keep it in mind. When Glen comes home from the hospital, I might just take a few days. Okay?”

“Okay,” Vivian agreed. “And keep me informed, Anne. About your story, and about Glen, too.”

“Thanks, Viv,” Anne replied. “I’ll do that.”

Back at her desk, Anne began going through the internal messages, most of which could safely be ignored. After she’d responded to the last of those requiring an answer, she picked up her phone and punched in the access to her voice mail.

Most of what she heard was just as inconsequential as the stuff that had been in her electronic mail—suggestions for stories, questions about things she’d written, pleas for her to give a mention to one cause or another, some of them good, some of them not so good.

Toward the end of the long series of recordings, there were several responses to her article this morning.

Again, some of them good, some not so good.

One, the last one, was disturbing.

It was a woman’s voice, and it sounded strained.

“I got to talk to you,” it said. “He killed my son! I know he did, but nobody listens! ’Cause we’re Indians, no one listens!”

There was a name and a garbled address, but though she played it over and over, Anne couldn’t quite make it out.

She spent the rest of the day at the police department, beginning her search through the boxes of files that Mark Blakemoor and Lois Ackerly brought to the storage rooms even while she worked.

To her surprise, Mark Blakemoor came downstairs in mid-morning to find out how she was doing, then showed up again at noon, this time with sandwiches and a couple of Cokes.

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” he asked as Anne tore the wrapper off a pastrami on rye and hungrily bit into the thick sandwich.

Chewing hard, Anne shrugged and signaled him to wait until she’d swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said. Then, remembering the garbled message on her voice mail that morning, she frowned again. “Do you remember any reports of a Native American boy?” With the skills she’d honed in her years of reporting, she repeated the message verbatim.

Mark Blakemoor gazed at her. “That’s all? Just ‘He killed my son, but nobody listens’?”

“That’s all.”

A resigned sigh emerged from Mark Blakemoor’s chest as he recalled the hundreds—thousands—of calls he’d fielded over the years of investigating the Richard Kraven murders. How was he supposed to remember just one? Still, if it would help Anne out … “Tell you what,” he offered. “I’ve got some time this evening. Maybe if I go through the logs, something will jog my memory.”

“You don’t have to do that—” Anne began, but Mark silenced her with a gesture.

“If I don’t do it, you will, and at least I know where the logs are and what to look for.” Before Anne could respond, he spoke again: “Hell, at least it’ll keep my beer intake down for a night, right?”

There was a plaintive ring to his voice that made the last of Anne’s polite objections to his working overtime die on her lips. If he wanted to do it for her, why not? “I’d offer to give you a hand, but with Glen in the hospital—”

“It’s okay,” Blakemoor assured her. “In fact, why don’t I get started right now?”

For the rest of the hour the two of them searched through boxes, Mark Blakemoor hunting for the telephone logs, Anne scanning the file folders for a name, a notation—whatever might catch her eye.

When he finally emerged from the storage area at one-thirty, covered with dust and sneezing more than he had since he’d left the Midwest twenty-two years before, Mark realized he’d enjoyed his sandwich in the basement with Anne Jeffers more than any other lunch he’d had in recent memory.

Anne, on the other hand, didn’t give the lunch another thought. She hadn’t noticed that all the time they were together, going through the boxes, the detective had kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, just like some high school kid with a crush on the prom queen.