Predators

I looked at the words carved on the guy's belly and shook my head, then walked back into the bedroom with my back to her laughter. "Very punny," I said over my shoulder as I disappeared around a corner.

I looked around the bedroom again and poked around the head of the bed; a pillow was stained and still wet with what looked like some sort of clear fluid, and not semen from what I could smell. Urine? There was a length of discarded rope on the floor, and in the corner a pair of pantyhose: "Johansen! Did you get these yet?" I called out to the photographer shooting in the bathroom.

"What? The rope and stuff?"

"Yeah. The pantyhose. Did you get those?"

"Yeah. You ready for me to bag 'em?"

"Let the M.E. have 'em, see if they can get some hair or fluid. Maybe we'll get some DNA."

"You got something in there for me, Woody?" Mary-Jo asked suggestively as she came into the room. There are days when I wish my last name wasn't Woodward, and this was one of them. When I heard Johansen snickering in the bathroom I'd have gladly settled for Smith. I guess I should be grateful my folks didn't name me Richard. Dick Woody. Yeah. That would have been just the thing on a night like this.

+++++

The sun was coming up, the rain had tapered to a drizzle and paramedics were loading bodies in a large coroner's van; they'd be transported to the lab, get logged-in for autopsy. Forensics had a pile of evidence to log-in at Central and I had a headache -- like I'd just come out of a bad slasher movie and eaten way too much buttered popcorn. I rubbed my eyes while Mary-Jo joked with one of the patrolmen, then groaned when I saw her headed my way. I rolled down my window as she walked up.

"You hungry?" she said.

"You're like, kidding, right?"

"No, not at all. Seeing a guy's severed cock stuffed in his mouth like that always makes me hungry."

"Brings out the man-eater in you, does it?"

She looked down after that, turned serious. "Woody, I need to ask you something. Some serious shit."

"I could use some coffee," I said, nodding. "If you'll stop with all the creepy shit for a while."

"Right. Pike Place?"

"Sure. The alley? There ought to be a place to park on Pine or Stewart this early in the morning. Oh, and be sure to park that heap in front of a good restaurant. Good PR. Know they'll thank you for it."

"Gee, Woody -- that's nice," she said, looking at her Medical Examiner's van. "And you call me creepy?"

+++++

I beat her there, made my way to Post Alley then followed the scent of roasting beans and got a table inside; rain had given way to fast-scudding clouds over the sound, and now the tops of the Olympics were all aglow in the sunrise.

Cool, clean air, roasting coffee, fresh pastry...life suddenly felt good again, and Mary-Jo showed up a few minutes later. I got a couple of two-liter quadruple-shot espressos and she waited at the table.

Nothing like a slight buzz to start the day, I always say.

"Geesh, I didn't know they made 'em that big," she said while she stared at the cup, considering the implications of so much caffeine.

"Oh, sure. Gets the main pump throbbing."

"Really? My guess is your heart's going to explode one of these days." She looked nervous, like she didn't know how to say what she had to say.

"You know, I find it best to just spit it out, M-J."

"What?"

"You had a question? Some serious shit, I think you said?"

"I got divorced, you know," she began, "a few years back..."

"Well no, M-J, I didn't know that. In fact, just to set the record straight, I'm pretty sure I didn't know you were married. Come to think of it, I don't even know your last name."

"What? Oh, shit," she said as she laughed. "Right. Kopecki. Maria Josephina Kopecki."

I held out my hand: "Ed Woodward. Nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry," she continued, "I just took it for granted, ya know, having worked around you all this time..."

"No problem. Now, what's up?"

"Well, see, I've been trying to hook up with someone for a while, like, through the internet. Well, see, I did, sort of, but it didn't really work out. Turns out the guy, the last one, was kind of creepy. I mean really creepy."

"Is that, like, 'really, really creepy'?"

"Don't make fun of me, alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Right, well, see, the problem is, the dude's a cop."

"Uh-huh. Define creepy."

"Well, see, he wanted to meet the first time at this club. A swingers' club."

"And?"

"Yeah, well, see, I did, and he had already hooked up with another couple by the time I got there. He wanted to go back to their place and I don't know why, but, well, see, I did."

"Really? Why?"

She looked down, just shrugged. "I dunno," was all she could say -- yet everything she said, even the way she said it -- looked a little like an act to me.

"So, what's the problem?"

"Well, the guy has shown up a couple of times, like, see, at things where I was."

"Things?"

"Clubs."

"Clubs? You mean like..."

"Yeah, swingers' clubs."

"This is, well, see, your thing, then?" I was trying my damnedest not to laugh, or even smile for that matter, but the stupidity of young people sometimes leaves me breathless. And if she said 'well, see' one more time I was going to have to hurt her. Strangling her came to mind.

"I've done it a few times, yeah." She was speaking quietly now, very self-consciously. "It's fun."

"Yeah, well, whatever floats your boat."

"Well, see, I wasn't sure if he was following me, or if it was just, like, a coincidence..."

"Well, see, I'm still not seeing the big problem?"

"Well, see, he's got a big tattoo on his chest. 'Love me.' That's what it says."

Now she had my attention. "Uh-huh. What's his name?" I asked as I took a notepad out of my shirt pocket.

"I don't know, for sure."

"Oh?"

"Well, see, like I only know his internet address and his screen name."

"And how do you know he's a cop?"

"He, like, told me so."

"Uh-huh. Did he like show you a badge or anything?"

"No," she said.

Sometimes I wonder how people so fucking stupid could possibly live long enough to reproduce. Then again, maybe more than a few don't. "Can you describe him?"

"Tall. Six feet, maybe a little more. Not fat but like really buff..."

"Buff?"

"Muscular. Like a weight-lifter."

"How old?"

"Late-forties, maybe fifty. Red hair and freckles. You know, he's got like a faint scar on his right cheek."

She had just described Mark Tottenham, one of the department's assistant chiefs, to a T; Tottenham had been in charge of Internal Affairs for years, and while I'd heard rumors he was flaky, this was off the charts.

"Got an email address?"

She gave it to me.

"When's the last time you saw the guy?"

"Night before last." but her eyes darted to the left when she said that, always a sure sign of deceit. Hiding something. A lie.

Hinkey. Cops call it that, but don't ask me why.

I looked over my glasses at her, tried not to judge the kid too unkindly. "I'll see what I can find out. Where can I get in touch?" She gave me a number.

"Thanks, Woody. Maybe I could buy you dinner?"

"Yeah. Maybe." I flipped my notebook over and made a few more notes then put it away. "Well, see, like I got to go now. Do like some cop shit. I'll give you a call this afternoon." I made my way to the Ford, felt a little sick to my stomach. I checked in with dispatch, then drove over to Tate's office.

Richard Tate had been a detective for almost thirty years; now he was doing the PI gig, doing sensitive background checks for corporations and taking photographs of cheating spouses. For the past ten years we had been best friends -- I had his back and he had mine -- that kind of thing, and Tate has been the only friend I've ever had who I'd trust with my life. Now I wanted him to run down the internet stuff for me because I didn't want any traces of a search on department computers, or my private one for that matter. I gave him the run-down on what Mary-Jo had told me and he whistled, leaned back in a squeaky leather chair and steepled his fingers.

"You ain't gonna believe this," he said, "but this ain't the first time Tottenham has been in the shits for something like this. The tattoo thing, the wife-swapping shit; he's been into some pretty creepy shit over the years. He supposedly likes, or used to, anyway, to rough-up girls. I heard once he was into kids, too?"

"Kids? And?"

"Nobody found anything, but I'm not sure how hard they looked."

"What about guys?"

"Guys? What do you mean? Gay shit?"

I told him about the murder scene this morning and he whistled again. "No shit?"

"That's a fact. No shit, but maybe a little piss -- on the bed."

"Crap. I can get a friend in Tacoma to run down the IP. Can you get a picture of Tottenham to show to the girl? Just to confirm things?"

"I dunno. Might be better to get someone outside the department. Maybe a reporter," I said, grinning.

"Are you kidding?" he said. "Then what? They'd want some inside angle or some other tit-for-tat, or fuck, they could get hold of something you'd missed and then what the hell would you do?!"

"Fuck, I don't know, Tate. I'm tired, been at it all night. And this one took something out of me. I need a change -- I can feel it now."

"Yeah, I know. I'll see what I can do." He steepled his hands again and sighed. "Shit, it's probably nothing anyway. No telling how many people have that tattoo."

I nodded. "Yeah. Who knows? But it couldn't be that common, could it?"

+++++

I drove back to Central and went up to my office in CID, called dispatch, asked them to run-off the NCIC data I'd called in earlier. I wanted to know more about the background of the guy in the living room, because I had a really bad feeling about that one. The voice on the phone told me to come down to her office.

"He's clean, Woody," Trisha Wickham told me when I walked in. "You won't believe how clean." She was the lead dispatcher on duty that morning, and an old friend.

"FBI?" I said, now really on edge.

She looked at me, shook her head. "How'd you know? White-collar crime unit, mainly computer crime. Talked to the SAC a while ago; he filled me in. The guy's as clean as they come, too; fifteen year veteran, wife, two kids, straight as a razor."

"Shit. Anyone told his family yet?"

"Nope. SAC wanted to talk to you first."

"Got a number handy?" She read it off to me. "Thanks, Trish. Appreciate it."

"Woody?"

"Yeah?"

"Something big is going on, maybe. You be careful, okay?"

Now just what the fuck was going on? How the hell did she know something big was going on? Something she heard from her call to the FBI?

This was beginning to feel a little like I'd just been shoved down the rabbit hole, but where was Alice leading me?

I went back to my office, wanting to look through recent intel reports, see if we'd picked up any new pedophile stuff, but first, I had to call the FBI.

+++++

Peter Brennan was the SAC, or the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's SeaTac office; I'd known him for years and he was generally a straight-shooter, a no nonsense, old school kind of Irish-American cop, the kind of guy who has your back when the chips were down.

He was waiting for my call, too, and he sounded anxious.

"Woody, what can you tell me? Any suspects?"

I gave him the basics but left out the grittier details. "Hell, Pete, we haven't confirmed anything yet, don't even have the other fingerprints processed. Was your guy supposed to come in this morning?"

"Yeah. He was a no show, his wife said he went out early last evening on a call, never came back. She called in about six-thirty this morning, worried."

"Sounds about right."

"Yeah. Anything you can tell me now?"

"Let me pull the prints and I'll run 'em over in a bit. Got any time this morning?"

"I'll make time."

"Okay, Pete. Seeya later." I hung up, walked down to the locker room and picked-up my mail, then dropped by dispatch to pick up the NCIC and DL print-outs that would have to be attached to my preliminary report. Trish was not there so I turned and walked back to the elevator.

And Tottenham walked into to the elevator right after I did.

"Hey Woody, how's it going?"

"Fine, Chief. You?"

"Can't complain. You still livin' on the boat?"

I laughed to avoid the question. "Well, it worked for a while but it got real small, real quick."

"I can imagine. Brennan called me a while ago. You got the case?"

"Yessir."

"Any leads?"

"Not a thing, Chief." The elevator binged and the door opened.

"Well, keep me posted."

"Right, Chief."

"Seeya later."

"You bet."

The door closed and lurched up to the next floor; I walked to my office and got my coat, then called forensics and told them to fax a copy of the fingerprints to Brennan. My other line lit up and I took the call: it was Dick Tate.

"Hey Woody! Long time no see, amigo. Wondered if you'd like to have lunch and swap lies."

"Hey there yourself! What the hell have you been up to? You still chasin' lyin' husbands and cheatin' wives?"

"Only when I'm not screwing their wives!"

"Yeah. Ain't Viagra a wonderful thing?" We laughed. "Listen, I have to drop by and see Pete Brennan for a minute, but how 'bout I meet you for a bowl of chowder at Betty Lincoln's?"

"Be good; like old times. Say about noon?"

"That'll be fine."

"Okay, buddy. Can't wait. Be good to catch up on things." He hung up; I'd managed to tell him of FBI interest in the case and told him to meet me near Ballard Locks, and he'd told me he had something important to discuss. Hopefully, if anyone was monitoring the line they'd not get too suspicious.

I drove over to the main FBI office by the Wa-Mu building and talked with Brennan; he told me they'd handle the notification and I thanked him.

"Any leads yet?" he asked.

"Nothing yet. I'll let you know as soon as something breaks. I assume you'll start your own investigation?"

"Already have."

I nodded.

"You got a private number?"

"No, sir."

He squinted, sat down and wrote out two numbers: "The first is unlisted, anytime. The second is my home number."

"Understood."

"You got something, don't you?" he asked.

"Nothing definitive, more like a hunch, need to make a few calls."

He nodded. "You need me, just call."

"Pete, if I need you it'll be too goddamn late to call."

"That bad?" he said, sitting down.

"Worse," I said, looking out the window.

He leaned back, looked me in the eye. "You sure you don't want to fill me in?"

I shook my head. "Not there yet,."

"Okay," he said, but I could see the gears turning now.

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't put a tail on me, okay? I'm halfway expecting someone to try, and I don't want you to run 'em off."

"Fuck."

"Promise, Pete?"

He stood, held his hand out. "Scout's honor, Woody," but his eyes darted to the left.

I smiled. Like I said, Pete was 'good cop' -- and by that I mean -- predictable.

I drove down to my boat on Lake Union and put the Zodiac in the water, then took off toward the locks. So far I hadn't seen anyone on my tail, either on the ground or in the air, but the game is best played by people who know how to blend in. It's a hard game to play well, and the stakes are highest when the feds get in on the action.

Tate was standing on a dock about a hundred yards shy of the locks and I pulled over, let him hop on; if anyone had followed him they'd have to hustle to follow us now -- but he hadn't seen a thing either -- and that worried me. I puttered over to the south side of the channel and we both watched the shore as we trolled along.

"Victim was an FBI agent, supposedly clean."

"His name Dan Harvey?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. How'd you find that out?"

"Through IPs of Mary-Jo's contact. It's Tottenham alright, and there's been a lot of activity between him and this Harvey fellow over the past few months. A lot of meets at a code name, some place they refer to as the Hole in the Wall."

"My. How original." I'd need to look at my notes, but MJ hadn't mentioned that name.

"So Harvey was FBI, huh?"

"Yeah, and supposedly clean. White collar crime."

"Think maybe he got onto someone, maybe Mark?"

"Possible, but I doubt it. Why all the contact?"

"Maybe they were working a joint task force? Undercover?"

"Maybe. Ran into Mark this morning; he didn't let on he knew the guy. Any luck on a photo?"

"Yeah. Pulled one off the net, from the Post-Intelligencer; about a year old, so it ought to do."

"Good deal."

"So Mark knew the guy and didn't own up to it? And the tattoo? You think the girl might know the name of the club?"

I smiled. "Yeah, I think so, but she's acting a little hinky, too."

"Say, think we could grab a bowl while we're out?"

"Yeah. You know, that actually sounds pretty good." I rolled on the throttle and scooted up channel toward Fisherman's Terminal and tied-off below Chinook's. With any luck we'd miss the lunch crowd; we got lucky and sat way back from the entrance, looking out over the fishing boats, and from this vantage Tate could cover the entrance while I watched the docks. We ordered clam chowder and coffee and had just begun to relax when Dick sat upright and coughed attention.

"Tottenham," he said under his breath. "At the desk, trying not to look this way."

"Fuck."

"What the fuck have you gotten me into, Woody?"

"Your guess is as good as mine?"

"Well, here he comes..."

The waitress came by and dropped off two huge bowls of chowder -- and a gallon jug of Tabasco. "Damn, that looks good!" Tottenham said as he walked up. "Tate! What are you doing here? Where's your Nikon?"

I turned and looked up at Tottenham.

"Sheesh! Well, looky who's here!" Tate said. "Surprise, surprise."

"Hey Chief," said yours truly, feigning a little surprise of my own.

"Shit. This is like old times, huh?"

"You alone, Mark?" Dick asked. "Can you join us?"

"Kind of you to ask, but no. I'm meeting Pete Brennan, should be here any minute."

My heart lurched. So, he had me tailed -- surprise, surprise.

"Well, good to see you Dick. Woody, check in with me this afternoon, would you?"

"Right, Chief."

Brennan walked in and they took a table across the restaurant from us.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Tate said.

"At these prices? Better go find it, and fast."

He laughed. "Too bad you're on duty."

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Nothing like a real cold one with hot chowder."

"So. What the fuck do you think's going on?"

"I have no clue, Amigo. Maybe Harvey found something on Tottenham, or maybe they were just into the same shit and met up with Cruella de Vil in that apartment. Anyway, I asked Pete not to throw a tail on me. I didn't think he was lying when he said he wouldn't, but guess what?"

"Really? I wouldn't count on that prick to not sell out his mother." He sighed, looked out over the water for a minute, then looked at me. "Well, anyway, Woody, you're missing something. Something big. Why the hell would Tottenham and Brennan both be here? Right now? I hate to say it, but it sure feels like someone's following you. Someone's really uptight, too."

"Besides us?" I chuckled.

"Right. Besides us." He coughed, looked over at Brennan. "Thanks, I think, for coming over this morning."

"Doesn't matter. Food's good, sun's out... what else is there?"

"A pretty girl with a warm mouth?" Tate sighed and looked away. "Yeah, I guess, Woody." He shook his head, and I really couldn't blame him for feeling put-upon. "You'd better think about lining something up with the girl soon."

"Yeah. Name is Mary Jo, works for the ME. You working anything major right now?"

"Nope. Not even anything minor."

"Things that slow?"

"Slower. In a recession nobody gives a damn if their spouse is cheating 'cause nobody has any money. I'd sure hate to be a divorce lawyer these days."