The Deader the Better Read online

  THE DEADER THE BETTER

  A LEO WATERMAN MYSTERY

  G. M. FORD

  To Merla…when it was good, it was good.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  1

  NOWADAYS, HE WAS JUST A PIMP WITH A LIMP. A WIRY specimen with a head too big for his body and a string of two dozen call girls he ran out of a limousine service in south Seattle. The girls called him Baby G, but I remembered a time when he was plain old Tyrone Gill, a playground legend who could take you off the dribble and stick it in the hole with the best of them. The Rocket Man, we’d called him…after that old Elton John song. That was back before he made what he now liked to call “a series of unfortunate self-medication choices.” Back before a rival procurer tried to amputate his foot in a Belltown alley. Back before a lot of things. For both of us.

  “Gonna call it Ho-Fest Two Thousand.”

  He nudged me hard in the ribs. “Can you see it, man? The tents. The banners. The food stands.”

  “Food stands?”

  I caught his feigned astonishment from the corner of my eye. “Man do not live by pussy alone,” he said gravely. When I reckoned how he might be right, he went on.

  “Culturally coordinated, too, my man.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know, man, like we got one tent set up for the regular trade. Missionary position types. Right next store we got some comfort food. Strictly meat and potatoes. Grits and gravy. That kinda shit.”

  “Oh?”

  He cut a swath with his hand. “’Cross the way we got the Greek tent. You know…for the backwards types.”

  I pulled one hand from the wheel and held it up. “No. No. Let me guess. Dolmas, kabobs, and rice pilaf.”

  He grinned and nudged me again. His big head bobbed up and down like one of those spring-loaded dolls. “I knew you was a man of vision, Leo.”

  Vision was precisely what I didn’t have. The Explorer needed new wipers. Despite slapping back and forth at breakneck speed, the worn blades merely flattened the intermittent rain across the glass, smearing the muck into pulsating blobs of form and color that reminded me of long-ago light shows and psychedelic drugs. The unwanted memory tightened my lower jaw and sent a shiver sliding down my spine. I clapped my free hand back onto the wheel and scrunched down in the seat, peering out at the thick traffic through a small, unsullied crescent of glass at the bottom of the windshield.

  Baby G snapped me back.

  “That’s why you got to help me out wid this,” he said.

  “Ain’t nobody else could do it but you, man.”

  I shook my head. “You got to get real here, G. No way anybody is going to give you a city permit to stage…” I looked over at him. “What did you say you wanted to call it?”

  He wore a blue silk suit. Three-piece. Tailored to him like it was made of iron. And a bright yellow tie.

  “Ho-Fest Two Thousand,” he said.

  “Not gonna happen in any city park, man. No point even talking about it.”

  As G opened his mouth to protest, I leveled him with the coupe de grace. “Even my old man couldn’t have pulled that shit off,” I said.

  He recognized this as a serious rejoinder, indeed. His face clouded. He closed his mouth so hard he looked like a large-mouth bass and then began staring sullenly out through the windshield.

  My old man had parlayed an early career as a union thug into eleven terms on the Seattle City Council. In the course of his storied thirty-year career of public service. Wild Bill Waterman had tilled previously unimagined ground in the fertile fields of influence peddling, insider trading and familial hiring preferences. When I turned forty-five, I was in line to inherit a bundle of ill-gotten downtown real estate, and to this day, twenty-five years after my father’s death, nearly every city department is still being run by somebody related to me either by blood or by marriage.

  That’s how come G had spent the ride from downtown filling my ear with his nonsense about wanting me to use my connections to help him get a permit to use Discovery Park for some kind of a superbowl of suction. Mostly, though, he was just talking to hear himself talk. He was nervous about our errand tonight. He wasn’t letting on, but I could tell. Those huge hands were twitchy.

  “There’s Darlene,” she said.

  First time she’d spoken. G had introduced her as Narva. The professional makeup job made it hard to tell, but I made her to be about thirty. Better than six feet, light green contact lenses, short blond hair, smooth and curled under. Impeccable in a blue microfiber raincoat, she sat in the center of the backseat, her perfect face as smooth and unmoving as a figurine’s. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have made her for a corporate type. Big-time Ivy League. Stocks and bonds. Maybe a junior partner attorney. Never for a hooker. No way.

  Up ahead on the right, wedged between Watson’s Plumbing Supply and a boarded-up beauty college, the Pine Tree Diner lurked in its own shadows, like one of those Edward Hopper paintings. At once welcoming and onerous, a classic silver diner, back before they added on and became“family restaurants.” From a distance, the rounded silver edges and the solid band of light along the front facade made it looklike a jukebox buried to its neck in asphalt. I moved the Explorer into the right lane. Just as you’d never make Narva for a whore, you’d never make Darlene for anything else. The girl had the look down. Texas teased hair, a white fur bolero jacket over what appeared to be a red rubber dress. Knee-high white boots that laced up the side.

  I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot. Sliding along the front of the building to the far end, I turned the car back toward the highway, killed the lights and shut off the engine. The silence was broken only by the soft ticking of the motor as it began to cool.

  G pulled a fresh photograph of Misty McMahon from an envelope and passed it over the seat to Narva.

  “Show her this,” he said. “And make goddamn sure that crack-smokin’ bitch knows what the hell she’s talkin’ about, too.”

  Narva made no move to take the picture. Her gaze was level. “You want to make an anti-drug speech to her, G, you go on out there and you talk to her.”

  He scowled and began waving the picture about. “You know goddamn well she ain’t gonna talk to me.”

  Only her eyebrows moved. “Perhaps, if you’d didn’t beat people up, you’d create more long-term goodwill,” she said affably.

  “You tellin’ me how to run my business?”

  “I’m merely suggesting that when one uses beatings as exit interviews, one severely compromises one’s future credibility.”

  “Hey.” He waved the picture again. “You hold that college girl c
rap of yours, you hear me? I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Just trying to help,” she said.

  The way Darlene was wobbling across the lot toward us, you’d have sworn the heels weren’t attached to the boots. G turned in his seat and met Narva’s gaze. “She was holding out on me,” he said. “And you know, baby…that just can’t be. You let one ho hold out on you and the next thing you know, they lose all respect. Two weeks”—he snapped his long fingers—“you got no girls. You sellin’ yo own ass out on Jackson Street.”

  Narva favored him with a small smile. “What do you charge for that bony little butt of yours, G…three, four bucks a pop?”

  A vein bulged in his temple like a thick brown worm. I unhooked my seatbelt and got my hip out from under the steering wheel…G didn’t take much shit from his girls. Way I figured it, he was going to go over the seat after her and I was going to have to stop him, and no matter what happened after that, finding Misty McMahon and returning her to her grandmother was going to get a whole lot harder. To my amazement, however, he merely smiled back, matching her tooth for tooth. His voice was calm. “Please,”

  he said. “Just show her the damn picture.”

  She shot me a quick victory glance and then plucked the photograph from his stiff fingers. We sat in silence as she got out of the car and ambled away with one of those languid one-foot-in-front-of-the-other walks designed to pop coffin lids open. She met Darlene out in the center of the lot. As the women embraced, Darlene kept her wide eyes locked on the car. Sensing the woman’s discomfort, Narva threw us a quick look, took Darlene firmly by the elbow and moved her away from the car, back toward the rusted chain-link fence running along the north side, talking as she walked, moving the woman back behind the Explorer, into the deepest recesses of the gloom. G read my mind. “She ain’t like the others. I got a different arrangement wid her than wid the regular girls.”

  “So I see,” I offered.

  He couldn’t let it go. “Her and I work a straight percentage. She do her business, slide me ten percent for keepin’ the riffraff off her ass. That’s all. Nice and clean.”

  “Nice and clean,” I repeated.

  He folded his arms across his chest, lifted his chin and made his surprised face. “I showed her that other picture you give me, and lo and behold if she don’t jump all over it. I mean, this honey ain’t exactly the whore wid the heart of gold, if you catch my drift, Leo, so when she says she’ll get some copies out to the street girls, I figure, you know…she wants to go to a bunch of trouble…you know…what the hell, let her. ’Sides”—he looked around furtively—“that way nobody know it comin’ from me. Figured we might get better results that way.”

  “On account of that credibility problem of yours that Narva was talking about?” I inquired.

  He sneered at me but didn’t answer. I sat staring out the side window into the gloom, squinting my eyes at the abstract pattern of leaves plastered to the fence and ruminating about how the problem with missing kids is that you’ve got to find them in a hurry. The street eats them up. You leave them out there too long and there’s nothing to bring home. At least nothing Grandma was gonna want around the house. I had met Constance Hart in the coffee shop of the Westin Hotel. Her message on my voice mail said she was going to be in town for the day and wanted to meet me for lunch to discuss me finding her granddaughter for her. Finding runaway kids is among the most frustrating and heartbreaking assignments a private investigator can take on. Most of the time I make up reasons why I’m too busy, but since she hadn’t left a number where I could call her back, I felt like I had an obligation to show up and give her the bad news in person.

  I put on a nice pair of gray gabardine trousers, a blue silk shirt and my best black blazer. Poised and professional, five minutes early. Figured to get myself settled with a cup of coffee on the upper level, looking down onto Fifth Avenue. Firmly in charge of the high ground, moral and otherwise.

  She was already there when I arrived. Drinking tea at the exact table where I’d envisioned myself turning her down. She rose as I ascended the final pair of steps. I checked her shoes. Flats. One tall woman, six-two if she was an inch, with thick salt and pepper hair, wound into an elegant braid that circled her head and then ran down her back. A black wool dress, understated but classy. Diamond as big as the Ritz worn on the right hand. Staying at the hotel. No coat…no purse. She extended the hand with the rock and I took it. Her palm was callused and her grip strong.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  I told her not to mention it, settled into the chair across from her and ordered coffee. We traded pleasantries until the waiter delivered my order, inquired as to the state of my immediate needs and then left.

  The secret of turning down a case is not to give the prospective client a chance to tell their story, so I brought my big guns out right away. “You said on the phone that it was your granddaughter you wanted me to find. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said she was thirteen years old.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you the girl’s legal guardian?”

  I figured this would be the end of it. She’d tell me that she wasn’t, and then I’d tell her that working for anybody other than the legal guardian was considered extremely poor form by the local constabulary and generally resulted in things like kidnapping charges. Wham bam, no thank you, mama.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  Before I could close my mouth, she reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a folded piece of paper. I took it. A copy of a court document. Indeed she was the kid’s legal guardian. Peninsula County, September fifth this year. Constance Pierce Hart was awarded full-time permanent custody of Misty Ann McMahon, her granddaughter. Now I really didn’t want to hear the story. The state of Washington exercises the greatest reluctance—some say entirely too much—in separating children from their parents, and on those rare occasions when they deem the child’s welfare to be better off elsewhere, they are far more likely to remand the child to the foster care system than they are to award custody to a relative. I groped for an excuse as I slid the paper across the table to her.

  It’s like any lawyer will tell you. Don’t ask questions that you don’t already know the answer to. Curiosity got the best of me.

  “What’s with the parents?” I asked.

  I slouched in my seat, waiting for the painful dance that inevitably precedes a person admitting that the seed of his or her loins is the scum of the earth. Tales of how he’d always been a difficult child. Of how he’d always been far too sensitive for the other children to understand. How maybe that unfortunate incident with Mrs. Zahniser’s cat and the electric charcoal lighter should have alerted them all. I’d heard it all before. In my business, denial isn’t exactly a river in Egypt.

  Constance Hart, however, was made of far sterner stuff. Instead of making excuses, she pulled herself erect, looked me hard in the eye and said, “My son Mark is a pederast, Mr. Waterman. He molested his own daughter, Misty”—she averted her eyes—“probably since birth.”

  The air between us felt magnetized, as if the leaden weight of her sudden admission was now partially mine. It’s a feeling I get when people are forced to let me further into their lives than either of us would prefer. I changed the subject.

  “And the mother?”

  Her black eyes rolled back my way.

  “Mona’s weak. She’s whoever and whatever Mark tells her she is, and nothing more.”

  She could tell I understood. Back before no-fault divorce, I used to meet a lot of people like that. People who had some how gotten the threads of their identities tied up with those of their mates. People who’d spent twenty years driving minivans and beginning sentences with “we,” as if they had tapeworms, only to awaken one middle-aged morning to find the fabric of their lives unraveling before their puffy eyes. Divorce work had been steady, but somehow I didn’t miss it a bit.

  “Did s
he know?”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “She was right there in the house. How can she say she didn’t know?”

  When I didn’t respond, she went on.

  “Which is why Misty has to be told that she’s not going to have to go back home. Ever,” she added. “That she will stay with me for as long as she chooses. If she thinks you’re taking her back home, she won’t come with you. You’d have to—”

  I held up a palm. “Whoa, now…I haven’t said anything about taking on the case.”

  She didn’t argue or plead. She simply said, “You must.”

  I knew what I was letting myself in for, but I asked her anyway.

  “Why’s that?”

  She told me her story. Mark McMahon was her son by her first marriage. Raised by his father after the divorce. Over in eastern Washington. He and Mona had been married for nearly fifteen years. Three years ago, Mark had been transferred to the Seattle area, affording Constance Hart an opportunity to get to know the granddaughter she’d hardly met. From the beginning, she’d sensed something was terribly wrong.

  Misty had always been a timid, withdrawn child, seemingly more content to play alone indoors than to be outside with the other kids. A poor student. Unable to concentrate on anything for very long, she was adjudged to have a learning disability and was assigned to classes for the differently abled. And it might have ended that way, too. She might have just been another misdiagnosed kid who slipped through the cracks in the system and was never seen again. Three months into the fifth grade, all students at Westwood Middle School are shown a videotape designed to inform them as to what is and is not appropriate touching on the part of grown-ups. The tape is no big deal. Mostly drawings and arrows. Most of the kids have seen it twice a year since second grade. Many nap.

  This time, however, when the lights were turned back on, something was amiss. Misty’s seat was empty. The halls and restrooms were checked. Then the school grounds. The police were called. Nearly an hour after her teacher reported her missing, Misty was found huddled and nearly comatose in a supply closet at the back of the maintenance room. Subsequent sessions with the district psychologist revealed a pattern of sexual abuse dating back to Misty’s earliest memories. Unfortunately, while the girl was able to speak quite cogently of her father’s abuse within the confines of therapy, Misty proved unable to handle cross-examination in open court and eventually, despite three criminal trials, the protests of the school district and the best efforts of Constance Hart’s attorneys, the girl was remanded back into the custody of her parents, from whom she then proceeded to run away at every opportunity.