Part 19 (2/2)

”I told you,” I said, not in tune with Vida's excitement, ”when it happened to me Sunday, I thought it might be the killer, trying to figure out what I was up to.”

Vida was still looking behind us. ”The killer! Now, wouldn't that be something? Should we stop to let whoever it is go by so we can see?”

”The windows are tinted,” I said. ”Can you make out the license plate?”

”No,” Vida said with regret. ”Only that it's a Was.h.i.+ngton plate. Why don't you slow down so I can get a better look?”

But there's no dawdling on busy Aurora with its forty-mile-an-hour speed limit.

”What shall we do?” Vida asked after I'd explained the predicament.

”Lose whoever it is,” I replied. ”Besides, I could be wrong. It may be a coincidence.”

Apparently, it wasn't. The car kept to our route, though sometimes falling a vehicle or two behind. I drove due north to Eighty-fifth, not only the logical turn for Crown Hill, but also for Carol's apartment building. I pulled into the lot and turned off the lights. No one approached. The Ford Taurus, which I'd managed to identify at a stoplight even though it was one car back, was undoubtedly waiting a block or so away.

Vida and I sat there for almost five minutes. Finally, without turning the lights back on, I edged out through the alley that led to the side street. The Lexus crept along for a full block. Luckily, there was no other traffic. I put the lights back on and tore off in the direction of Crown Hill.

”Did we lose our pest?” I asked Vida.

”I don't see anyone,” she replied, craning her neck.

”Good.” I noticed that I was doing fifty-five and eased up on the accelerator. I didn't need to get picked up for speeding and land in jail with Ronnie.

The senior Chans lived in a well-tended two-story house on a side street that overlooked Puget Sound. Being a landlord served Mr. Chan well. I suspected that he owned several small apartment houses around the city. Over the years real estate had been a means for many Asian immigrants to prosper.

Mr. Chan came to the door. He was small, almost bald, and was wearing a sweats.h.i.+rt that said, RENO-THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD.

We identified ourselves, but received only an indifferent stare from Mr. Chan. I elaborated. Carol's murder, Ronnie's arrest, Budweiser's whereabouts-nothing seemed to pique his interest.

”I manage,” he finally said when I'd run out of steam and was considering lighting a fire to get his attention. ”I take monies.”

”Now see here,” Vida said, elbowing me out of the way, ”you must know the people who rent from you. The people with the monies. You took Ronnie Mallett's dog away and gave it to your grandchildren. They're charming little boys, but they said that the dog had...”

Vida rattled on. Mr. Chan remained unmoved. I was about to give up when a small, plump woman whose black hair was streaked with silver came into the entry hall. She appeared so swiftly and so silently that I was certain she had been listening around the side of the open door that apparently led into the living room.

”Beat it,” she said to Mr. Chan. ”Go watch stupid baseball. I manage this.”

Without any change of expression, Mr. Chan disappeared from the entry hall.

”I Mrs. Chan,” the woman said with a frown. ”Mr. Chan never talk when watching baseball. Break concentration, he say. Lose track of count. You want stupid dog?”

”Is the dog here?” I asked, a faint hope surfacing.

Mrs. Chan shook her head, then glanced at Vida. ”You right. Dog run away from grandsons. Not back yet. I talk to son just one hour ago. Grandsons very sad.”

The faint hope was extinguished. ”Where did Mr. Chan find the dog the night of the murder?”

Mrs. Chan's frown grew deeper. ”Didn't find dog then. Didn't know about murder until next day. Dog was at apartment-house door, howling. Police give dog to Mr. Chan. Dog dig up peonies.” Her small plump hand gestured toward the front yard. ”Give dog to grandsons.”

I nodded. ”So he's not come back,” I murmured. ”Thank you, Mrs. Chan.” I started to turn away.

Vida, however, wasn't finished. ”Peonies are difficult to grow. I have to dig mine up every year and replant them. We have such cold winters in Alpine. Dahlias have to be taken up, too, right at the end of September. Often, they're still blooming. It seems a shame.”

Something sparked in Mrs. Chan's dark eyes. ”Alpine no good for gardens. Too much snow, frost, cold. We live first on farm, at Sultan. Not so cold as Alpine.”

”Sultan!” Vida beamed at Mrs. Chan. ”Why, we must have been practically neighbors. Did you know the Carna-bys or the Johnsons-the Elmer Johnsons-or the...”

I backed off as Vida and Mrs. Chan reviewed their mutual acquaintances. In a deft conversational move, Vida returned to the apartment house and Carol's murder.

”So much harder to make friends in the city,” she said, shaking her head. ”Of course you and Mr. Chan have the apartment complexes, but people tend to come and go. Did you ever meet Carol Stokes? She was from Alpine, you know.”

”She was?” Mrs. Chan seemed intrigued. ”I meet her only twice. She your friend?”

Vida caught the dubious note in Mrs. Chan's voice. ”No, I barely knew her. But she'd had a hard life. What was your impression?”

Mrs. Chan frowned some more. ”Not good. Bad manners. I tell Mr. Chan, make her beat it. Not good tenant. But Mr. Chan softhearted. He let her stay. Big mistake. Mr. Chan spend too much time watching baseball.”

Vida nodded solemnly. ”Sports often take priority in some men's lives.”

Mrs. Chan also nodded. ”Not woman's. We smarter than men.”

”Exactly.” This time Vida's smile practically reached her ears. ”I hope Carol and her boyfriend didn't do much damage to the unit.”

Mrs. Chan sniffed. ”They do plenty bad things. Dog ruin rug, tear drapes, chew furniture. People burn holes, spill, break toilet. Always, Mr. Chan must fix. Damage deposit not enough. We keep.”

”I should think so,” Vida said, no longer smiling, but oozing sympathy. ”Managing an apartment house is very demanding work.”

With a solemn nod, Mrs. Chan agreed. ”People next door just as bad. Men trade units, men trade women. Much drink. Many fights. Neighbors complain. Not sorry to see 1-B people go.”

On that self-serving note, Vida and I made our farewells.

”Take me to the Addisons,” Vida commanded as if I were a chauffeur. ”I must pay a call on Kathy.”

”How are you going to explain a ten o'clock visit?” I inquired, checking the rearview mirror just in case the Taurus had found us.

”I told you,” Vida replied. ”I already set the stage. Kathy virtually invited me to stop in. She should be home by now.”

It could be helpful for Vida to have an extended conversation with Kathy Addison. It certainly wouldn't hurt, as long as I stayed in the shadows.

There was an alley in back of the house on Ashworth. I dropped Vida off in front but pulled around out back. I'd keep the Lexus hidden by the Addison garage for twenty minutes. Then I'd start circling the block until Vida showed up at the corner. She would pretend to have walked down the street to her imaginary car.

The single-car garage was shut and a Cyclone fence enclosed the property. There was just enough room by the garbage cans and recycling baskets so that anyone coming through the alley could get past me. n.o.body did, however, so I sat there in the dark, trying to see into the backyard. There were several trees, possibly a lilac and a couple of ornamental cherries. I a.s.sumed that the flower beds in back were as well maintained as the ones in front.

The lights in the rear of the house were faint, which meant that Vida and Kathy must be in the living room. I debated whether to risk peeking in the Dumpster and the garbage cans. If memory served, on this side of the s.h.i.+p Ca.n.a.l the recycling pickup was every week. Cautiously, I stepped out of the car, then peered into the trio of baskets. The one for paper products was full, with newspapers on top. I dug deeper. There were some hunting-and-fis.h.i.+ng magazines, no doubt discarded by Sam Addison before he moved out. Another basket held a few gla.s.s jars and one empty wine bottle. The third, presumably for aluminum, was empty.

Just as I straightened up, something brushed against my legs. I jumped, struck one of the baskets with my foot, and stifled a cry. A tabby cat stared up at me, its golden eyes glowing in the dark. Reaching down to stroke its fur, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the basket I'd knocked out of place. Gently, I tugged the paper free.

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