Isabel's Run (9 page)

Which is a long-winded way of explaining why I train year-round. The training keeps me in great shape all the time. Of course, the training also has the side benefit of allowing me to eat pretty much whatever I want without having to worry about it, and this is pretty cool, too. Maybe someday that will change—but for now, it’s working.

My training schedule is carefully structured to have me reach my athletic peak at various times in the year that coincide with the biggest races. It varies by time of year and by day of the week, but the pattern is similar year-round—I run shorter and harder on Tuesdays and Thursdays, longer and slower on Wednesdays. Fridays and Sundays are easy days. Saturdays are a bear—long and hard both. And Mondays—blessed Mondays—are a day of rest with no running at all. Today being Wednesday, the workout was a longish run at a moderate pace. For me—at this time in the season—this meant about ten miles in about an hour and fifteen minutes or so. I finished by 7:20, showered, and hit the office at eight o’clock on the dot. I walked straight into the conference room for our morning staff meeting.

After everyone was seated, I looked around the table. Kenny was there. I nodded to him. Then I turned to the tall, dark-haired man with shoulder-length black hair seated next to him. “How’s it goin’, Doc?” I asked.

He looked at me, smiled and then gave me a single nod—a fine answer for Doc—no words required.

Joaquin “Doc” Kiahtel is a Chiricahua Apache—claims to be a direct descendant of Cochise. I met Doc while we were both stationed at Fort Lewis just outside Tacoma when I worked to clear him from a little misunderstanding with some patrons of a local drinking establishment. We proved that Doc was acting purely in self-defense—even if all four of the guys who attacked him ended up in the hospital. Knowing what I know now about Doc’s background in the Army Rangers, I understand Doc actually exercised considerable restraint in the altercation: he didn’t kill a single one of ’em. Later, I got to really know him, and we became friends. Doc’s Special Forces background led me to offer him a position as director of security at our firm after he was discharged. I’m lucky that he accepted.

For the longest time, Doc was a solitary guy. It literally took him years to recover from the loss of his girlfriend who was killed by a hit-and-run driver in Fort Lewis in 2006. We got used to seeing Doc by himself. Then, two months ago, Toni and I met him at one of our favorite camping spots on the Olympic Peninsula and to our complete surprise, we found that he was accompanied by a woman! And a beautiful one at that! Toni and I were both struck nearly speechless when Doc introduced us to his “girlfriend,” Doctor Prita Dekhlikiseh—he just called her “Pri.” Unlike Doc—I mean Joaquin—Pri’s a
real
doc—a USC medical school grad and emergency doctor at Harborview Medical Center. Doc met her when the paramedics delivered me there after I was hit in the head with my own baseball bat. He never said a word about Pri until that camping trip.

If I hadn’t been unconscious at the time, I’d have noticed Pri myself—she’s hard to miss at six feet tall. Like Doc, she’s also a Chiricahua Apache, although she’s from Oklahoma, and Doc is from New Mexico. Because of her, the last couple of months may have been the happiest I’ve ever seen Doc. When it comes to Pri, I’m a fan. I’d like her anyway, but I especially like her for what she means to Doc.

Also seated at the table was Richard Taylor. Richard’s a tall, lanky man in his early seventies. He’s a former Seattle Police Department detective who, twenty-four years ago, retired and opened a private investigation agency called Taylor Private Investigations. Toni and I met him when he was a guest lecturer at a police procedural course in our last year at U-Dub. When Richard told us he wanted to retire at the end of 2007, my wheels had started to turn. I made him an offer to buy him out when we graduated in December 2007. Three months later, Taylor Private Investigations became Logan Private Investigations.

With twenty-eight years at the Seattle PD, and with another twenty-four years in private practice (the last four with us), Richard is a walking Seattle criminal justice encyclopedia. I mean, the man knows everybody. He knows the history and background of every bar and nightclub in the area. He knows secrets: who owes what to whom, who slept with whom, where skeletons are buried—you name it. As an accurate information source, he’s completely irreplaceable.

And the really cool thing? Even though he’s officially retired and thus, done with the pressures of owning a business, he still likes to sit in on our cases and give us the benefit of his experience—for free! He says it keeps his mind active. I say, great. All I have to do is give him an office, a desk, and a phone. We’re a whole lot stronger with Richard on our side. Not to mention the fact that he’s also become a great friend.

“How’d the qualifying go?” he asked.

“It went great,” I said. “Matter of fact, we both shot perfect scores.”

“Then he beat me in the tiebreaker,” Toni said. “Again.”

I smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out at me.

“Does Gunny Owens still run the qualifying?” Richard asked.

“Sure does,” I said. “Speaking of which, you ought to be due pretty soon, aren’t you?”

“July. I’ve got to go down there in July.”

“Piece of cake, right?”

He smiled, his blue eyes sparkling. “Is there any doubt in your mind?”

I shook my head. “Nope. None at all.” I turned to the group. “Everybody’s here. We’ll just get right into it,” I said. “Let me start by saying that I was going through the books yesterday and, as you may know, the coffers are getting a little thin around here. We haven’t had a good-sized job in a while. That’s the bad news. The good news is that I don’t think I’m going to have to dip into reserves because I think there are two nice jobs coming right up. I’ve got an appointment next Wednesday with Ferguson and Sons.”

“With whom?” Kenny asked.

“Ferguson and Sons is the largest restaurant-supply distributor in the Puget Sound,” Richard said. “They’ve been around for about a hundred years. The name should probably be Ferguson and Sons and Grandsons and Nephews and Nieces and whatnot.” He turned to me. “What’s their problem?”

Suddenly, Toni gave a little scream. She shoved herself back from the table.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “A spider just dropped down and landed on my damn notebook.”

Everyone looked. A small spider—less than half an inch across—sat on her notebook, unsure of what to do next.

Kenny leaned over to look. He started laughing. “That?” he said. “You’re afraid of that?”

She turned and fixed him with an evil glare. “I. Don’t. Like. Spiders.” Each word was carefully enunciated.

Kenny laughed again.

Doc was sitting closest to the balcony door. “Doc,” I said. “Put that little dude outside, will ya?”

He got up and scooped up the notebook, spider and all.

“Don’t kill it,” Toni said, suddenly concerned.

Doc glanced at her. “I don’t kill spiders.”

“No,” Toni said. “No, you don’t. Sorry.”

Doc walked outside onto the balcony where he tipped the notebook up onto the balcony rail. The spider, now clear as to which way it should go, calmly walked off the notebook onto the rail. As if satisfied of its surroundings, it walked slowly over the edge of the rail, down the side and then, upside down, along the bottom, where it stopped—most likely surveying the site for a new web.

“There. Everyone satisfied?” I asked.

Toni nodded.

“Good,” I said. “Let’s continue. Where were we?”

“I was asking about what kind of problems Ferguson and Sons were having,” Richard said.

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s the usual stuff. Apparently, they have inventory walking out of their warehouse. They want us to set up hidden cameras and monitor their warehouse staff. We’ll go in late at night when they’re closed and wire the place up. We might even need to order new vinyl panels for one of the vans so we can do a little undercover work.”

“Pretend we’re some kind of restaurant-supply outfit?” Kenny said.

“Exactly.”

“Sounds like it could be a nice job,” Richard said.

“Very nice,” I agreed. “Pretty good-sized project.”

“You mentioned two cases?” Richard said.

“Right. The other item is my dad said he has a case he’s working on, and he’s going to need us to look into some stuff—but he was his usual vague self and wouldn’t be more specific than that.”

“It’s probably a high-profile case, and he just doesn’t want to get ahead of himself disclosure-wise,” Richard said.

“Could be,” I said. “You know my dad—strictly by the book.”

“This is true,” Richard said.

I continued. “Meanwhile, we’ve had something else pop up that might keep us busy for a week or so while we wait for the Ferguson job to get started.”

This got everyone’s attention. We typically go over all new cases as a group. These are all smart people, and I value their opinions. I wouldn’t quite go so far as to say we’re a democracy around here—final decisions are my domain—but I definitely take group input, and I listen to what these guys say.

“You all know Kelli Blair? Toni’s little sister?” Everyone nodded. “Yesterday after we finished qualifying, she asked if we’d meet her here at the office. She told us a friend of hers—Isabel Delgado—had run away from home.” I recounted Kelli’s story to the group, leaving nothing out, including the claim that Isabel’s stepfather had raped her.

“
Pinche cabrón
,” Doc said.

“Agreed,” I said. “So based on what Kelli said that Isabel said, Toni and I drove up to Lynnwood late yesterday afternoon. We talked to Isabel’s mom and then, later, her stepfather showed up as well.”

“Really? How’d that go?” Doc said.

“The mom’s okay,” I said. “She seems pretty much a classic case of ‘Battered Person Syndrome.’ You all familiar with that?”

“No,” Kenny said.

“Basically, BPS is when a person who should otherwise know better and be able to defend themselves doesn’t, basically because they’re afraid of or intimidated by the person doing the abusing. In this case, Marisol Webber is afraid of her husband, Tracey Webber. He’s beat her in the past, but she hasn’t done anything. Why? She’s afraid, and she’s intimidated. Battered Person Syndrome.”

“What about now that he’s raped her daughter?” Doc asked.

“She says she didn’t know about that, but it also didn’t seem to surprise her much,” Toni answered.

“Right,” I said. “But even not counting that—just focusing on the fact that her husband beats on her—still, she does nothing. She can probably be helped with intervention and with counseling and guidance. But short of that, she’s stuck—at least for the moment.”

“By the way, the stepfather is a complete douche,” Toni said. “I felt like I needed a shower after he got there.”

“He ogled Toni pretty good until I snapped him out of it,” I said.

“You hit him?” Doc asked, hopefully.

“No. I snapped him out of it.” I recounted the “snapping the fingers” episode. Toni jumped in and took credit for saving the day.

“Yeah,” Toni said, “I didn’t want to have to bail him out of the Lynnwood jail. But let’s get back to Isabel. Apparently, she doesn’t suffer from the same problem as her mom. She’s obviously not paralyzed into inaction. Looks like she said, ‘screw that, I’m out of here’ after Webber raped her. She ran.”

“I think it would be interesting to hear from Isabel,” Richard said. “In my experience, when a child is abused—raped in this case—there’s often been a long history of abuse at play. It’s hardly ever an isolated case.”

I hadn’t paused to consider the notion that Isabel’s rape might have been more than just a one-time event. “The idea that that little girl had to live in the same hell-house as that monster, with her mom at work and unable to protect her, is fucking staggering,” I said.

Toni nodded.

“How long have her parents been married?” Richard asked.

“Five years, give or take,” I said.

“And she just turned sixteen?”

I nodded.

“What do you want to bet that poor little girl was abused the whole time?”

It was silent for a few moments as we all considered this.

I shook my head. “That almost makes me ill. I’d like nothing more than to see this guy rot in prison for rape, child abuse, domestic violence—anything else they can pin on him.”

Everyone nodded. “But in order to get him there,” Richard said, “we have to find Isabel and convince her to testify. And frankly, even then it could be sketchy. It could end up being his word against hers. When they understand the courtroom ordeal that they’re about to subject themselves to, a lot of victims decide they don’t want to put themselves through it. They refuse to testify.”

I nodded. “I know. But before we get too concerned about that, I think we should focus on the most important thing, which is finding Isabel and seeing that she’s well taken care of. Getting her stepfather busted would also be nice, but I’m afraid that will have to be the icing on the cake.”

“Agreed,” Toni said.

I said, “And our more immediate problem is that it seems like when Isabel left, she may have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.”