Page 8

CHAPTER 8

S O THE MAN WAS OFFERING information in return for cash—was that the way it played out?” said Detective Stephen Braddock, who was with the Seattle PD.

Devine nodded as both men eyed the body of the late Perry Rollins, aka Fred, whose identity had been positively confirmed with the driver’s license tucked inside his wallet. That and forty wrinkled bucks and two quarters, and one expired credit card, along with a recent receipt from a local hardware store for drywall joint compound, some paint, batteries, and a mousetrap.

Braddock was beefy and of middle height. His chin had a couple days’ worth of stubble. The man possessed a pair of penetrating eyes, which lurched around in their sockets in an apparent attempt to miss nothing going on around the vicinity of their owner. He had chewed down four sticks of gum while talking to Devine.

“That’s pretty much it,” agreed Devine. He had stayed behind to meet with the first responders, identified his federal agent status to them, and then hung around to speak to Braddock. The CSI team was all over the premises performing their forensic dance with the available evidence. The bar goers, at least those who had not fled prior to the cops’ arrival, had been shocked out of their drunkenness, and were cloistered in an upstairs room for processing and questioning.

“He have any family?” asked Devine.

“None that we know of. FYI, Rollins has crossed our path before. I believe he came out here over a decade or so ago. He did some time in the local lockups. Just petty crap. But he kept his eyes and ears attuned to stuff. He actually provided us info on a couple of cases that helped us out.”

“He knew more about my situation than he should have.”

“He apparently made a meager living out of knowing things he shouldn’t.”

“So if he was a cop snitch, maybe whoever he ratted out took their revenge?”

“Maybe,” said Braddock cautiously.

“But you’re thinking the timing is too coincidental?” noted Devine.

“You’re tracking him after he offers to sell you something, and then, bam, he bites it?” Braddock eyed him. “Couple of witnesses said Rollins might have spoken to you before he shut his eyes for the last time?”

“He did. But I couldn’t make it out. It was garbled. Guy was gushing blood, maybe delirious.”

Braddock nodded. “Okay, but if the garbled becomes less garbled, let me know.”

“Will do,” said Devine. He’d actually made out some words, but they made no sense, and he decided not to disclose them yet.

“So he wanted to sell you info. What about exactly?”

“That would require a call to the East Coast, Detective Braddock. And at this time of night, no one would answer.”

Braddock looked put off. “And here I was thinking you feds, with all those budget dollars, were a twenty-four-seven op.”

“Popular myth.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

Devine stared at Rollins’s torn shirt. “Looks to be two knife strikes to the gut? Painful way to die. Might mean something.”

“Maybe only that it’s quieter than a gunshot in a crowded bar.”

“Right. Well, you have my contact info.”

“You make that call back East tomorrow morning . I’ll expect to hear from you right after. And I don’t care how early it is here. With my line of work, I don’t really expect to sleep much anymore.”

“See what I can do, Detective.”

Braddock shook his head. “I don’t know how you feds live with yourselves, screwing over local law enforcement.”

Devine didn’t know if the man was being serious or sarcastic, or somehow both.

He left Braddock hovering over the bloodied body of the late Perry Rollins. But he didn’t leave the premises. Devine followed the spatter trail down the hall and to its point of origin in the men’s john. The other people working away had evidently seen him talking to Braddock and thus didn’t challenge his movements into the heart of their investigation.

Inside the restroom two young female techs were dusting, photographing, measuring, and scouring for microscopic detritus with the aid of sophisticated instruments and no doubt years of training and on-site experience.

“Stabbed in here, I take it?” he said. When they looked up at him suspiciously, he flashed his creds.

“I’m working with Braddock on this,” he white-lied.

“Inside the last stall,” said one of the women, jerking her head that way.

“Looked to be knife strikes to his gut,” noted Devine.

“Fairly long blade,” said the other woman. “Puncturing but not severing the aorta most likely; otherwise he never would have made it out of the bathroom. Still, the bleed out would have been relatively fast. Post will confirm.”

“Anyone see anything?”

“Still processing and getting witness statements. At least those who weren’t drunk.”

Devine leaned out the door and eyed the camera bolted to a corner of the ceiling just down the hall.

“That security camera capture anything useful?”

“Processing,” said the first tech again. She gave him a wary look, which he returned with a lopsided smile, and then, thinking he had probably overstayed his welcome, he walked out the rear door. Devine stood there breathing in the smell of the ocean and feeling light drizzle falling from the thickened clouds.

He looked down the alleyway and wondered if it was possible that Big Hair or Baldy could have done the deed before meeting with Devine. Timing-wise it would have been tight. Maybe too tight. And neither man had any blood on him. And they couldn’t have done it after they left Devine. He’d gone straight back to the bar, while they had headed off in the opposite direction.

He walked to his hotel; luckily the rain didn’t really start pounding until he had a roof over his head. He stripped off his coat and spent five minutes at the bathroom sink trying to grind Rollins’s blood off his jacket sleeve, but he was only partially successful. He hung it up to dry, undressed, and slipped into bed. Sleep usually came easy for him, but not tonight. Too much had happened in too short a period of time to give his mind the time and space it needed to fully shut down.

He finally rose and went over to the window and looked out onto the damp and windswept streets. Devine checked his watch. In eight-and-a-half hours he would be picking up Betsy Odom and delivering the twelve-year-old, maybe to the devil. And that devil might have had a man with damaging information on him gutted in a men’s room.

That thought did not make Devine’s sleep come any easier.