Friday Harbor, page 21
Unless the wreck has been found, Miles thought, and isn't that deep after all.
THIRTY-SEVEN
"You think Hauer might be holding out on us?" Miles asked as he and Floyd headed for Seattle Police Headquarters.
"I suppose it's possible. He seemed like a straight shooter though. Forthright."
Police Headquarters was in the Seattle Public Safety Building—a six-floor, triangular Beaux Arts style structure fronting Yesler Way. A near replica of New York's famous Flatiron Building, but in miniature. The research section was headed by a wiry, gray-haired but bright-eyed Sergeant named Robert Clark. He was the force's lone sexagenarian, born in Seattle in 1859—a time when Duwamish Indian villages still dotted the shores of Elliott Bay—to parents who were members of the pioneer Denny Party. The department kept Clark on, despite his age, because the man had an unparalleled knowledge of the city and its inhabitants. And though as a sergeant he was outranked by many men half his age, they all deferred to him.
"Young Detective Floyd," Clark said in welcome as Floyd and Miles came through the door of his poorly lit basement office. "I was expecting you a bit earlier."
"My apologies. We jumped at an opportunity to interview the owner of Deepwater Salvage."
"Ah, Gustav Hauer. Haven't heard much about that old villain in a few years."
"Villain?" Floyd said. "We found him rather affable."
"Ha. Don't let his Rainier Club manner fool you. He's a rogue, albeit a clever one."
"How so?"
"About fifteen years ago, he was a claim jumper in the Cascade foothills north of Ellensburg. Cut the throat of a competing gold miner and squatted on his placer claim on Williams Creek for more than a year before the law finally caught up with him."
"And now, fifteen years later, he's a thriving marine salvager?" Miles asked. "They didn't lock him up for good or hang him?"
"Illiterate Ellensburg jury acquitted him, heaven knows why. But take my word, he did it. Yes, he did. And you are?"
"Oh, my apologies again," Floyd said. "This is Sheriff Miles Scott from San Juan Island, which, as you know, I was dispatched to in order to help with a murder investigation."
"Yes, of course. Welcome, Sheriff Scott."
"Please, call me Miles."
"Welcome, Miles."
"Have any new bits for us?" Floyd asked.
"Matter of fact, I do. Concerning those triangular fragments you sent down—the ones with the burned edges that looked like remnants of money or official documents—turns out they're the upper left-hand corners of certificates of naturalization used by the U.S. Department of Labor. Put simply, they're immigration documents. But get this: they're forgeries."
"Forgeries?"
"What we have of their serial numbers don't match up with any genuine immigration records at the Department of Labor."
"Forged immigration documents?" Miles muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Why on earth would the Jensens have those?"
Clark waited until it became clear that Miles had nothing else to say. "Anyway, that's all I have for you gentlemen at the moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Miles said, giving Clark a rundown of their suspicions about two possible tong highbinders being on the island.
"Then I'm guessing you want a meeting with one of the tongs," Clark said with a huge grin.
"Yes, but we have no idea which one."
"Oh, that's even better."
"You sound amused."
"Trying to get a meeting with a tong is like trying to get a meeting with Santa Claus. They're rarely willing to speak with anyone, let alone acknowledge their own existence. And if, by some miracle, they grant you a meeting, you'd learn more by talking to the nearest fir tree."
"I see."
"Still, they might agree to meet with you if they think they can get something out of it. Like information. Like an idea of how far your investigation has progressed. Put another way, if they do agree to a meeting, you can bet they're involved, on some level, with the subject of your investigation. So if you meet with them, pay extremely close attention. They'll play disinterested good Samaritans. But they might accidentally give you a tiny clue as to their true interest or involvement."
"Understood."
"Now then, the fact that you don't suspect a particular tong adds another level of complexity. I think the best course of action would be to request a meeting with the Chinese Peace Society. It's a sort of board of directors, if you will, comprised of the leaders of each of the tongs. In theory, it's there to arbitrate disputes between the tongs, thereby avoiding bloodshed. Needless to say, it hasn't been terribly effective on that front. Regardless, if one of the tongs is involved, or if your case involves a feud between tongs, they will know as much as anyone. I'll pass your request for a meeting along to our so-called Chinese community liaison upstairs. Fella named Gong Gee. Supposedly, he has a contact at the Chinese Peace Society. Probably belongs to a tong himself, for all we know."
"We're also looking for Otto Stenersen," Miles said.
Clark gave him a long, hard look. "Is that right?" He exhaled. "As young Floyd here probably told you, Stenersen is a popular man in these parts. And by these parts, I mean the police department. Has a lot of friends high up."
"He isn't a suspect," Miles said. "But the captain of the revenue cutter up our way says the men who disappeared off the Lucky Lena were a couple of Stenersen's guys."
"I see. In that case, I suppose you could try to convince him that you're only trying to bring the killers of his men to justice. Given how loyal he is to his men, he might approve of your efforts. Might even help. But he's wary of folks he doesn't know. Has this skulking, obsessed local revenue agent after him right now, name of Clifford Charles. A stumpy, ungentlemanly little creep. Fingernails always dirty. Lips always wet. His wife's a raving loon."
"Do you know where we might find him?" Miles said.
"Agent Charles? Probably lurking in the bushes outside the windows of the YWCA."
"No, I mean where we might find Otto Stenersen," Miles said, suspecting that Clark was being deliberately obtuse.
Clark looked reluctant.
"Sergeant, I'll swear on a stack of Bibles that Stenersen isn't anything remotely resembling a suspect. We just think he might have information we can use."
Before continuing, Clark glanced at Floyd, who nodded in reassurance. "He has an office in Smith Tower, just down the street. His company is called Amalgamated Imports."
"What about after-work hours?"
"There's no such thing for him. But he usually stops by to see a couple of his best customers at their establishments each evening. Ever the chummy salesman, Stenersen. Always with the smile and the glad hand. Tonight, I'd recommend trying the Bucket of Blood first. After 9 p.m., move to the Rose Room."
"How do you know where he'll be at any given time?" Miles asked.
"I don't know to a certainty. But those are his tendencies. How do I know his tendencies? Because those are the places where I drink!" He laughed. "Just pulling your leg, Miles. Stenersen's a very public figure. You might even call him a media darling. He's careful, but he doesn't hide. Anyway, the nice thing is, if you are going to imbibe, if you go to one of the juice joints Stenersen supplies, you know you're getting good stuff. Top-quality booze. Nothing watered down by greasy wop bartenders. Nothing tainted with methanol compliments of carless hillbilly moonshiners out in Bellevue."
"Don't you need a password to get into the Bucket of Blood?" Floyd asked.
"Ah! I'm glad you asked. No. No password. You need a membership card," he said, opening and rifling through one of his desk drawers until he found two pale green cards. "Here." He handed them to Floyd. "Now your names are William Downing and Lee Scranton. Don't ask where I got those cards. Bit of a macabre story. Anyway, you'll knock and then hand those cards through a slot at the front door."
"What about for the Rose Room?"
"No. No membership card. No password. The Rose Room takes a different approach, hiding its real purpose in plain sight. You'll understand when you get there."
THIRTY-EIGHT
Miles and Floyd exited police headquarters and turned down Yesler way toward Smith Tower, where the offices of Otto Stenersen's ambiguously named company, Amalgamated Imports, were located.
"'I'll swear on a stack of Bibles,' says the agnostic," Floyd said.
"Did you like that?"
"It got you what you wanted. Then again, wasn't it Dante who said the eighth circle of hell is reserved for pretenders?"
"I'll be in good company."
"I'm sure."
*****
Miles swung open one of the heavy bronze doors at the main entrance to Smith Tower—the fourth tallest building in the world, at 484 feet. The lobby was remarkably cool, and remarkably opulent for Seattle, with marble walls, ornate light fixtures, and highly decorated, highly polished elevator doors.
"Ever been in here before?" Floyd asked.
"Never."
"It's a bit of a wonder, isn't it? Supposedly, on the 35th floor, there's a hall called the Chinese Room that was designed and decorated by Cíxī Tàihòu, the late Dowager Empress of China. Supposed to be all carved teak walls, gold paint, Chinese lanterns and whatnot. My mother says it's like something out of a dream."
"Your mother who you still live with?"
"Hardy-har-har. Yes, Miles. My mother who I still live with. Just like you."
They took a quick look at the backlit building directory, found that the offices of Amalgamated Imports were on the 38th floor, and stepped into the nearest elevator.
"Which floor, sirs?" the uniformed operator asked.
"Thirty-eight, please," Floyd said.
"I'm sorry, sirs. This elevator only serves the 22nd through 33rd floors. Elevator to 38 is the last one down the hall to your right."
When the men went down the hall to their right, they encountered a cordon and desk with a security officer blocking public access to the elevator they wanted.
"Headed to 38," Floyd said.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"We do not."
"Floor 38 consists of private offices. Only visitors listed in the appointment book are allowed beyond this point."
"Of course," Floyd said, showing his detectives badge.
"Ah."
"We just need a quick word," Miles said.
"Still, sirs, with respect, I can't allow you to pass unless you have an appointment or a, uh—"
"A warrant," Miles muttered, looking at Floyd with a smile. "You're supposed to have a warrant, Floyd. How many times do I have to tell you?"
"It isn't at all that kind of visit," Floyd said to the man. "Still, we don't want to get you into hot water with your employer."
"No hard feelings," Miles added.
THIRTY-NINE
"Know a good place for lunch?" Miles asked Floyd as they exited Smith Tower. "The speakeasies don't open until after dark, right? We have some time to kill."
"As a matter of fact, my mother has invited us to lunch. Cold sandwiches, if that suits you."
"Sounds great."
They set off across downtown, heading for the trolley line that would take them north, to Queen Anne Hill. But before they got more than a block, they walked smack into a group of picketers, half of them wearing sandwich board signs. They stood in a fidgety cluster in front of a small deli.
"The Anti-Japanese League and the Seattle Culinary Union ask that you not eat here, sirs," one of the picketers said, blocking their way down the sidewalk. He was a short, fat man with red bulging eyes of the sort Miles associated with thyroid problems, his face contorted in a hateful sneer. Miles found him repulsive for more reasons than he could count.
"What's this all about?" Miles asked, looking at the man's sign. It read: No Japs! No Chinks!
"This restaurant employs Orientals."
"To wash dishes and mop the floor? So what?"
"It's on the Central Labor Council's blacklist. We're demanding that the owner quit his unfair labor practices, fire the Japs and Chinks, and hire whites to take their places."
"What's the issue?"
"The issue?" the man echoed, leaning forward and looking up into Miles's eyes. "The issue is that they'll work for nothing while the rest of us starve. The issue is that they're heathen animals."
You aren't in any danger of starving, tubby, Miles thought.
The man stood there staring with his angry, bulging eyes, as if daring Miles to offer a different opinion. Perhaps hoping Miles would. Miles had known several such men in the Army—men who just had to tell everyone what they thought. He found them a tiresome breed and tended to assume they hadn't gotten enough attention as children.
"Step aside," Floyd said as he and Miles pushed their way through the picket line and continued on their way, eventually jumping aboard a trolley as it crossed Cherry Street. Floyd sat down, seemingly disinterested. But Miles, who didn't come to Seattle all that frequently, stood by a window, craning his neck to see damn near every building, car, or person they passed along the way. It might have been his belief that cities bred ambition, greed, corruption, and crime. But it didn't mean he wasn't fascinated by them.
After a few minutes, the trolley began its long, steep climb up Queen Anne Hill, drawn by a heavy moving cable that ran under the road. About two-thirds of the way up, it came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the street.
"Everyone please remain seated," the trolleyman said, not offering further explanation.
Miles, who was now in a seat that faced backward, found himself staring straight down the very steep hill they'd been climbing and having to brace his feet to keep from sliding forward and falling to the floor. It was an unnerving sensation. His grip on the handrail next to him tightened as he began to wonder how often the clamps holding the trolleys to the underground cables failed—began to wonder what would happen if one did. Would the trolley go careening hundreds of feet back down the hill to sure destruction, its passengers torn and smashed into bloody debris? He glanced over at Floyd, who didn't look the least bit concerned.
"Floyd."
"What?"
"What's the problem?"
"With what?"
"Why have we stopped? What was all that jerky shuddering?"
"Cable probably popped off a pulley or something."
"Popped off?" he said, trying to mask his surging fear. Happily, a fancy yellow sports car roared past the trolley on its way up the hill, momentarily distracting Miles from his anxiety. "Floyd, get a look at that."
"Wow. That's a sight to behold."
"It's a Stutz Bearcat," Miles said. "Supposed to be able to go more than 70 miles per hour."
"You're joking."
"Probably costs more than you or I make in a year."
*****
It was more than ten minutes before the trolley resumed its climb and at last emerged atop Queen Anne Hill. They hopped off at Galer Street and walked a few blocks east, to the well-cared-for bungalow where Floyd lived with his widowed mother. A cedar trellis covered in old grapevines framed the entrance to the short walk to the front door. The walk itself was flanked by narrow beds of purple and white salvia. A tall maple shaded the house and its manicured yard from the afternoon sun. Behind the house, through gaps in the trees, Miles could make out the distant snowcapped peaks of the Cascade Mountain Range.
"I have to warn you," Floyd said, "my mother can be a bit preachy."
"Please. My mother was a schoolteacher for 32 years. Her baseline conversational style is to talk to you like you don't know how to wash your own backside. I'll be fine."
The dark hardwood front door opened before Floyd could knock. An elfin yet somehow imposing woman in an apron stood in the gap.
"I was expecting you some time ago," Beatrice Floyd said by way of a greeting. "The sandwiches are getting stale."
"I'm sure the sandwiches are fine, Mother. Trolley cable slipped a wheel or some such thing."
"Well, never mind."
Floyd introduced Miles, then Beatrice took them straight to the kitchen table. It sat in an alcove below a bay window looking down on a honeybee hive in the backyard. The air in the house smelled of baked pastry. With little in the way of preliminaries, they got straight to eating. A tower at the end of the table held three platters, each with half a dozen tiny sandwiches—cucumber, smoked salmon, and egg salad. There was also a large pot of Darjeeling tea and a tray of tiny seed cakes.
"Are you married, Miles?" she asked right out of the gate.
"Alas, no."
"At your age? Well. Ashton tells me you were in the war."
"Yes, ma'am."
"What a terrible waste."
"Mother, you shouldn't disparage anyone's military service," Floyd said.
"I don't refer to his service and sacrifice as an individual," Beatrice said. "I mean the war as a whole."
"It was the war to end all wars," Floyd protested.
"No, she's absolutely right," Miles said. "It was a waste. And if it was the war to end all wars, then I'm the King of Siam."
"I imagine you don't care to talk about your experiences over there," Beatrice said.
"Well, I wouldn't want to be rude at your table when you've—"
"Nonsense. We'll speak of other things. How are you liking your visit to the city?"
"It's a wonder. Someone mentioned that the population of the greater Seattle area just topped 300,000."
"We'll run out of room soon," Floyd said. "People will have to start living all the way out in Bellevue, among the cows and hillbillies."
"I suppose it's exciting, in a way," Miles said. "Having people moving here from all different places—bringing their own styles of food and art and music. Though I will say that I was a bit taken aback by the anti-Asian restaurant worker picket line we ran into on the way here."
