Part 11 (1/2)
”I asked him, but he was pretty vague. He has this trick of not hearing questions he doesn't want to answer.”
”I know that trick,” I said. ”Well, I'm seeing Aaron tonight, and he's got sources in the SPD. Maybe he knows something.”
”You don't want me along this time, I take it?”
”No offense, Lily, but I think I better handle this one myself.”
”None taken. Have fun.”
But fun was not in the forecast. Aaron picked me up in his banana-mobile, commented appreciatively on my winter-white wool outfit, and then proceeded to scoff at my theory about Skull all the way downtown. I found myself defending the idea, even though I'd almost given up on it anyway.
”I don't care if you think it's far-fetched,” I grumbled.
”Honestly, if looks could kill, I'd be lying dead on the sidewalk in front of Stephanie's Styles.”
”Well, it must have been humiliating, a tough character like him getting busted by a bunch of bridesmaids. He runs into you on the street, remembers where he saw you last, and glares at you. Big deal. Where should I park?”
”Right here on Fifth. We're taking the monorail.” I'd billed tonight's dinner as a mystery destination, my treat. We continued to argue for the short journey to the Seattle Center, then, as we emerged into the open air, I tried to s.h.i.+ft gears. I wanted a calm, friendly atmosphere for the conversation I was planning.
”We're dining in the clouds tonight!” I pointed overhead at the s.p.a.ce Needle, with its gla.s.s elevators rising 500 feet up the tapering shaft to the circular observation deck and the SkyCity restaurant, lit up like a flying saucer against the overcast sky.
But Aaron didn't follow my script. Frowning, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket and said, ”Up there? I heard it's overpriced, strictly for tourists. You don't want to go there.”
”Yes I do, as a matter-of-fact. They revamped the restaurant quite a while ago, and I've been meaning to check it out. My clients keep asking about it. Besides, I've got a dinner-for-two gift certificate my mom sent me for my birthday.”
”Look, if you're short of cash, I'll pick up the tab tonight,” he said stubbornly. ”Let's go to that cafe at the EMP.”
This was bordering on rudeness, and we both knew it.
”Aaron, what's going on? It's just dinner, and I need to do this for Made in Heaven.”
”Nothing's going on!” he snapped. ”Whatever you want. Let's go get in line.”
Sure enough, there was a line of tourists at the Needle, even on a Thursday night in November, but with restaurant reservations, we were ushered right into an elevator. Aaron kept his back to the gla.s.s during the stomach-swooping ride to the top, missing out on the gradually widening view of downtown and Elliott Bay. This was a new side of Aaron, this petulance at not getting his way. I hate men who sulk.
Inside SkyCity things got worse. We lucked into a window table and ordered drinks, but Aaron barely glanced out at the spectacular nighttime scene of city lights strung along Puget Sound like jewels on black velvet. Instead, he looked fixedly over my shoulder, across the room. I tried to regain his attention.
”Aaron, how's Tommy doing?”
”What? Oh, no change. Paul's been calling the hospital a couple times a day and keeping us all posted.” Then he went back to staring past me.
”Look, if you're that unhappy here, maybe we should just call it a night.”
Aaron shook his head as if to clear it and forced a smile. ”Sorry, I'm being a boor. I was just distracted. By him.”
He nodded and I turned to look. Syd Soper, Death himself, was sitting at a table full of c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses with three other men in business suits, laughing loudly and kidding the waitress who had just brought us our steamed clams. She didn't look pleased.
Neither did Aaron. He stared at Soper and tapped his cigarette lighter against the tablecloth, flipping the little steel rectangle end over end after each furious tap. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it. ”That's the son of a b.i.t.c.h who killed Mercedes, not your creep with the tattoos. And he'll probably get away with it.”
”The police didn't listen to you?”
He waited till the waitress came and went, bearing our order for one seared ahi with wasabi mashed potatoes, and one prime rib, rare. Thanks, Mom.
”They listened, but they can't prove anything. n.o.body saw her go down that corridor, and the party was so big that it's hard to piece together everyone's whereabouts or even who saw her last.”
”But Aaron, the police aren't going about it the right way!”
”What do you mean?”
”They should be looking for the man who attacked Mercedes and Corinne. I know, you don't trust Corinne's story, but what if it's true? It gives us much more to go on.”
He smiled again, a genuine smile this time. ”Us?”
”Well, you're going to help me figure this out, aren't you? Remember, Corinne was smothered with a black cloak, and Soper was wearing one.”
He nodded, intrigued in spite of himself. ”So if we ask people whether they saw Soper go down the pier to where Corinne was-”
”Not just Soper, though. Anyone in a black cloak. I've got the guest list, and I can get the costume list from Characters, Inc. We can eliminate the people in black capes who couldn't have done it because they left the party before eleven o'clock-”
”Or because they're you and me.”
”Oh, that's right, isn't it? We both had black capes. Well, we know we didn't do it, so that cuts the list down right there. Soper was Death, and someone was a magician-”
”That was Harry from Cla.s.sifieds. He wouldn't hurt the rabbit in his top hat, let alone kill anybody.”
”Let's think about motive later, OK? Who else wore a black cloak?”
”OK. There was a Batman, I remember, and Darth Vader...”
”... and the Three Musketeers!”
It was almost like a game, and I began to forgive his earlier bad manners, especially after dinner arrived. The food was better than I expected, even if I'd been paying for it. Joe might have curled his lip, but I was feeling well fed, right down to the slice of praline apple tart that we split between us. I paid the check, then sat back, replete, and closed my eyes to replay scenes at the Aquarium: the martini bar, the buffet tables, the dance floor...
”Rick,” I said. ”Rick the Rocket, the DJ, he was a medieval monk and his robes were black. There was someone else, too, in some kind of religious-oh, Angela Sims. She was a nun in black. She doesn't count.”
”Why not?”
”You don't think she'd attack other women?”
”You said to leave motive out of it, Stretch. Angela's big and strong.”
”Corinne was pretty sure it was a man,” I said doubtfully. ”But OK, we'll consider Angela. Who else?”
”That Dracula, the one who kept quiet all night so no one could identify him. Who was he?”
”I don't know, but Characters, Inc. can tell me. I'll call the shop in the morning. Oof, I'm half-asleep with all this food. Let's go out on the deck and look at the lights.”