Contract Killer Page 6

  “A good detective, they say, but quirky.”

  “Depends on what you think is normal.” I zipped my fly with a flourish; I was dressed.

  Janine remained cool. “That’s true,” she said. She was analytical, careful. She regarded me with interest, as though I were a curious but harmless lunatic.

  “Orderly room, tight mind,” I said. I gestured for her to sit in my chair. I took the love seat. “I suppose Willie told you our problem. Melinda’s been gone for five days now. The cops are watching Mike Stark, so there’s not much we can do except wait …”

  “… or see if Melinda’s disappearance has anything to do with the Cowlitz salmon lawsuit.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Could it have anything to do with Moby Rappaport?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  Janine Hallen put a trim fingernail on her lower lip. “If something’s happened to Moby Rappaport we’ll draw Awdrey — did Willie tell you that?”

  “No, he didn’t,” I lied. “Who’s Awdrey? Do I call you Ms. Hallen? Janine? What? Willie said you were a Mensa and I’m kind of scared.”

  She knew how to laugh, which was reassuring. “Call me Janine. Judge Louise Awdrey hates Indians, did Willie tell you that?”

  “He said lawyers call her John Wayne because she likes to blow Indians off their ponies.”

  Hallen turned her knees a little more away from my angle. “If we draw Awdrey I’ll have to start from scratch. Maybe you’ll find them both, Melinda and Rappaport.”

  “That’s possible. To ask the right questions, I have to learn a little more about this salmon quarrel. I learned some from Mike Stark the other day, but Willie says I should talk to you.”

  “The sport fishermen and the commercial fishermen have both filed briefs as friends of the court — that’d be Foxx Jensen and Doug Egan. You should probably start with them.”

  “I have to know motives. What they stand to gain or lose in this lawsuit, for example.”

  Janine Hallen adjusted her jacket. “Salmon are what’s called a ‘common good,’ Mr. Denson — a resource available to everybody. This case all boils down to who gets how much of the fish. Salmon spawn in fresh water, swim out to the ocean, and come back as adults to spawn again. Part of the time they’re in international waters, subject to Japanese or Canadian or Russian fishermen, and so out of our control.”

  “The courts divvy the catch,” I said.

  “Yes, they do. Dividing a fish run is harder than allocating timber harvests. If you catch too many fish this year, there’ll be fewer next year. The state regulates the catch so that the runs aren’t destroyed. The Indians have always understood that they had to let some of the fish pass one year so they’d have something to catch the next.”

  “Clever Redskins.”

  “The closer to the rivers you get, the larger the salmon are; they’re concentrated in the rivers. At sea they’re scattered, small, and expensive to find.”

  “What happened to Willie’s ancestors?”

  “Some of the Indians swapped their timber for the right to catch half the fish at the rivers where they fished. Most of the tribes signed agreements with the state of Washington in 1854 and 1855. These were Washington rivers. Unfortunately, the Cowlitz, the Wahkiakum, and the Chinook fished tributaries of the Columbia.”

  “The lower Columbia being the border between Oregon and Washington.”

  “That’s right, making it a federal dispute. The Columbia tribes signed treaties with the government, but Congress never got around to ratifying them. Not that the treaty tribes did much better. In 1914, non-Indian fishermen started stretching seine nets in front of the Indian fish traps.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yes. Then came the gillnets. They’re not as good as seine nets, but they can be used farther out to sea.”

  “Smaller fish.”

  “That wasn’t the end of it. The trollers were willing to accept even immature fish to beat the gilinets. Not only that, but the runs were being depleted by hydroelectric dams and industrial pollution that the state made no effort to control. Then in 1974 a federal judge named George Boldt said the Indians were in fact entitled to half the salmon entering their accustomed fishing places — just like it said in their treaties with the state of Washington.”

  “Oh, boy!”

  “He said the state had to restore the salmon runs and to see to it that the treaty Indians got their fish.”

  “Good for them,” I said.

  “The only problem was that commercial fishermen went about business as usual.”

  “They ignored the decision?”

  “Yep. But the Supreme Court upheld Boldt in 1979. The treaty Indians get half, plus an amount for subsistence and ceremonial purposes. If the Indians eat a fish at home, they have to fill out a card and turn it in to the state.”

  “Have they run over their fifty percent share?”

  “In the first years after Boldt they were running about ten percent; lately that’s gone up to about thirty percent. The people at the Washington State Fish and Wildlife Commission have to watch this carefully; they’re getting better at it because every side has its own biologists. If non-Indians stray too far over their allotted share, Indian lawyers will take them to court. It’s tough, Mr. Denson. State biologists have to make decisions very quickly, often based on insufficient data. If they grant too much time, they risk harming the run. If they’re too restrictive they hurt the fishing industry, and the price to the consumer rises. All of this, Mr. Denson, ignores the foreign fishermen — Japanese, Canadians, and Soviets — who fish international waters. Salmon runs crisscross at sea. They’re hard to follow, much less monitor.”

  “Listen, I’d like some coffee,” I said. “Do you mind if I make a pot of coffee while we talk?”

  “If you include legal fees and the cost of boosting the runs with hatchery fish, each fish can cost Washington State two or three hundred dollars. Depends on who you talk to. Raising hatchery fish isn’t easy. In 1981 a Weyerhauser ocean ranching firm managed to release 2.8 million fingerlings that were blind.”

  “What?”

  “A company in Oregon hatched a batch that turned right at the Columbia instead of left, went upstream instead of down.” Hallen smiled at the kicker of her anecdote.

  I said, “What happened to the commercial fishermen whose take was reduced?”

  “Congress was pressured into appropriating $3.4 million to buy licensed boats from fishermen facing bankruptcy. The idea was to reduce the size of the commercial fleet so those left could earn a decent living.”

  I dumped some generic coffee into the filter of my machine. “How did that work out?”

  “A licensed salmon boat wasn’t worth much after Boldt, but prices rose when there was federal money in the pot. Some fishermen sold a few of their boats at inflated prices and used the profit to buy more efficient gear for the rest of their fleet. Others went to Alaska, where there were no treaty Indians. The commercial fishermen say they’re being pushed out of business. The trouble is their statistics are muddied by part-timers and school teachers who fish in the summer and claim tax losses to pay for a boat that’s recreational the rest of the year.”

  “What about the sport fishermen?” I poured us both a cup of coffee.

  “The sport fishermen are the most powerful today. There are more of them, and many of them are in positions of power in both government and private industry. They get a lot of attention in the newspapers and on television. The sport fishermen are the least efficient, which the state likes. The fact is they’re so inefficient that if we banned commercial fishing there could be too many salmon for the rivers.”

  I said, “Heavens, we wouldn’t want that.”

  “The gillnetters and seiners get their income from chums, pinks, and sockeye, but the hatcheries have to breed chinook and coho, the only varieties that will hit an artificial lure. Sports licensing doesn’t come close to paying for state-hatched fish — t
he taxpayer springs for that.”

  “Sure, subsidize them. Why not? Some people turn a little loony at the thought of high bucks. Do Foxx Jensen and Doug Egan strike you as the kind of people who would do violence to Melinda Prettybird to have their way in this mess? I want to know what you think, gut feelings, no hedges.”

  Janine Hallen took a sip of coffee before she got down to the nitty-gritty. She leaned forward, considering. She was a lawyer. She was a judicious, careful woman. She said, “If the circumstances were right, I think either one of those two would be capable of harming Melinda Prettybird.”

  11 - LIARS AND LISTENING DEVICES

  It turned out that nobody had harmed Melinda Prettybird — yet — not Mike Stark, not Foxx Jensen, not Doug Egan. Willie and I were ready to drive to Scappoose the next morning, when Melinda called him at the Doie. Willie talked to her on Juantar’s telephone, mouthing “Melinda” to me as he listened to her story. His face turned from surprise, to anger, to bewilderment, to disgust, roughly in that order.

  “Women!” he said, when he had finished.

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine, except now the guy says he’s gonna kill her.”

  “What?”

  “She got a note in the mail.”

  “What happened?”

  “You want it from the beginning?”

  “Might as well,” I said.

  “Melinda says she had the feeling she was being watched after I called her the other night. She thought she might be in danger and didn’t want to wait there by herself, so she left me a note and took off to see her friend in Scappoose. She says she stopped twice to call me on her way to Oregon — once at Olympia, once at Chehalis.”

  “But you were spending our last night at the Pig’s.”

  “Next to the last, I think. When she got to Scappoose she and her friend thought it would be safest to go someplace where they couldn’t be traced. They decided to go to the Oregon coast for a couple of days to hunt blue agates on the beach. On their way to Seaside they stopped off at Rodney’s in Astoria to call me. No answer. Rodney says no problem, he’ll let me know she’s okay.”

  “Only brother Rodney doesn’t bother.”

  “The asshole!” Little brother was going to be in for it when Willie caught up with him.

  “So what did the note say?”

  “The guy says he’s killed once, she’s next. She tried the Pig’s first, and when it was closed, she called your answering service.”

  “Does she know where Rodney is?”

  “No. And she’s scared to death. She wants to go back to Scappoose. I told her we want to talk to her first. She says to hurry. She’s got Prib there for protection, but she wants to get going.”

  “Prib?”

  “Remember me mentioning my bricklayer friend, Prib Ostrow? Rodney and I grew up with him down in Mossyrock. We were inseparable. Hell, one time …” Willie shook his head at the memory “… we even made him a blood brother. You know what I mean — wrist to wrist stuff, mixing red man’s blood with a white man’s. We got the idea from watching an old Jeff Chandler movie. Anyway, Prib’s up in Seattle for a few months on a job. Melinda is special to him. Prib’ll want to help.”

  “Let’s get going, then. I agree that she should hustle back to Scappoose.”

  Willie was halfway to the door before I could finish the sentence.

  When Willie opened the door to his sister’s apartment, Melinda met him with a long, hard hug. “I’m sorry, Willie. You must have been worried sick. Rodney said he’d take care of letting you know we were okay. He said we should go, enjoy ourselves.”

  “Everything’s okay now,” Willie said.

  “The kids just loved it down there, Willie. You should have seen them.”

  I don’t think I’d ever seen a man disarmed as easily as Willie Prettybird. “It was nothing, sis. Really. What we have to do now is get on with running this guy down.”

  “Oh, thank you, Willie,” she said.

  Willie said, “But from now on you have to let me know where you are. No relying on Rodney — you know him. With a screwball running around threatening you, I have to know.”

  “I promise, Willie.” A little boy with Melinda’s look about his face tugged at her leg. She hoisted him up on her forearm.

  A large-bellied man was sitting on an overstuffed sofa watching a television game show. He took a swig out of a stubby of Rainier and rose as Melinda introduced him and her two small sons.

  “This is Gary. This is Bert.” Melinda bounced the child on her forearm by way of indicating he was Bert. “And that’s Michael.” She nodded toward a boy of two or three who peered from around the corner. Michael headed for his Uncle Willie.

  The game-show host, a man named Richard, kissed a fat lady standing with her family. Gary said, “Jesus, they must pay that guy a lot of money. How’d you like to kiss something like that? So you’re the detective Melinda an’ Willie’s been talkin’ about. Willie’s dart-throwing friend.” He grinned. He was impressed. “The detective!” he said. He stood, shoulders back, surveying his stomach. He had the girth of Friar Tuck or Falstaff. He embraced Willie. “By God, you can count on me, Willie. We’ll get the son of a bitch. No problem.” He released Willie from his grip and said to me, “Willie ‘n Rodney ‘n me’re blood brothers. Willie tell you that?”

  “Sure did,” I said.

  “I may have a few pounds in the gut, but I can move if I have to. Ain’t that right, Willie?”

  “Prib used to be quick on his feet,” Willie said.

  Gary gave Willie a scornful look. “Whaddya mean, used to be quick?” Gary demonstrated his quickness by shifting rapidly from side to side on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter about to be introduced. “Listen, I want you to call me Prib like Willie does. A friend of his is a friend of mine.” Prib turned off the game show with Richard the host in the middle of kissing another matronly lady. Prib extended his hand.

  “Prib it is,” I said. We pumped with much sincerity.

  “Me’n Willie played football together in high school. Ain’t that right, Willie?” Prib didn’t wait for an answer. He turned his stomach toward Melinda. “Go ahead, sis.” Melinda glanced at me and gave Prib a hard uppercut in the stomach. He looked at me, pleased. “Do it again!” She gave him a right cross the second time, swinging from her heels. “Again. Pretend I’m that little pervert fucker.” Melinda unloaded on him a third time. I couldn’t have taken a blow like that. “That ain’t just flab,” Prib said.

  “Looks like a tank of Rainier to me.” Willie winked at me and hoisted his nephew onto his shoulders.

  “Shit, too,” Prib said. “I got this gut settin’ choke out of Centralia.” Prib rammed his stomach against the top of the couch, sumo-style, and tipped it over, sending cushions flying. Little Bert and Michael watched in awe. Melinda and Willie were amused. Prib, having proven his point, set about putting the couch back together.

  “You big fart,” Melinda said.

  “I’d like to work with you’n Willie to flush that little pinch of shit out of his hole,” Prib said.

  “This kind of thing usually requires a lot of legwork. Pretty boring,” I said.

  Prib grabbed my hand again and squeezed hard. “I’ll do what has to be done,” he murmured. “Mike Stark! I seen that guy.”

  Melinda took little Bert and Michael to bed so they wouldn’t hear any more truth than they already knew about their father. Prib opened bottles of Rainier for everybody, and we settled around the formica top of the kitchen table to figure out how to track our man. Melinda gave us the note she had received and we considered it over our Rainiers. It was handwritten in block letters, just like the one that had been handed to her the night her last boyfriend was beaten. This message was a bit more pointed than the first one:

  I HAVE KILLED ONCE. YOU’RE NEXT.

  “Whoa!” Willie said. Melinda had told him about the note on the phone, but seeing it was somehow more shocking.

&nbs
p; “So what did he look like, Melinda?” I said.

  Melinda put her small hands flat on the table, palms down. “He’s maybe five nine or ten, something like that. Medium build, I guess. I can’t say much beyond that. He always wears a ski mask over his head, so I can’t see his face. He wears gloves, so I can’t see his hands.”

  “Mike Stark’s size?”

  “Yes, roughly. All of a sudden he’s there in my bedroom assaulting whoever’s with me. At first I thought it was a nut, but now I think it’s Mike or someone working for him. He has to be behind it, has to be. He said he’d never let another man have me, never. All kinds of people heard him threaten me, all kinds. What I can’t understand is why the cops don’t do something about him?”

  “The police have got him under surveillance. They can’t do anything until they have some proof.”

  “If he’s got money enough to hire a thug,” Willie said, “he’s got enough money to buy an alibi.”

  Melinda said, “He sits up there at the university, a big-deal professor living off his family’s money. I’ve got two kids to take care of by myself. Two kids and he won’t let me have another man. A scholar. Hah!” Melinda’s face tightened.

  “Let me ask you this,” I said. “How is it, do you suppose, that Mike knows you’re going to spend a night with a man? I mean, how is it that he even knows when you have a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know, John, I just don’t know. He knows. He just knows. It’s like he’s following me or something — it’s spooky. Mike Stark’s got enough money, he probably does have somebody following me.”

  “He doesn’t want you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to either.”

  “That’s precisely it,” she said. “Big-deal professor. Big-deal friend of the Indians.” She looked scornful. “He has everybody fooled — even Willie. Such a nice guy, they think. They should see what he’s doing to me.”

  Willie said, “The son of a bitch.”

  “Just let me get ahold of him,” Prib muttered. He was furious. The latent sumo in him took over again; he gave the table a nudge with his stomach.