Friday Harbor by D.C. Alexander

Author:D.C. Alexander [Alexander, D.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: murder mystery, Seattle, washington state, Human trafficking, corrupt police, Puget Sound, Bootlegger, chinese american, Speakeasy, rumrunner
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-SEVEN

"You think Hauer might be holding out on us?" Miles asked as he and Floyd headed for Seattle Police Headquarters.

"I suppose it's possible. He seemed like a straight shooter though. Forthright."

Police Headquarters was in the Seattle Public Safety Building—a six-floor, triangular Beaux Arts style structure fronting Yesler Way. A near replica of New York's famous Flatiron Building, but in miniature. The research section was headed by a wiry, gray-haired but bright-eyed Sergeant named Robert Clark. He was the force's lone sexagenarian, born in Seattle in 1859—a time when Duwamish Indian villages still dotted the shores of Elliott Bay—to parents who were members of the pioneer Denny Party. The department kept Clark on, despite his age, because the man had an unparalleled knowledge of the city and its inhabitants. And though as a sergeant he was outranked by many men half his age, they all deferred to him.

"Young Detective Floyd," Clark said in welcome as Floyd and Miles came through the door of his poorly lit basement office. "I was expecting you a bit earlier."

"My apologies. We jumped at an opportunity to interview the owner of Deepwater Salvage."

"Ah, Gustav Hauer. Haven't heard much about that old villain in a few years."

"Villain?" Floyd said. "We found him rather affable."

"Ha. Don't let his Rainier Club manner fool you. He's a rogue, albeit a clever one."

"How so?"

"About fifteen years ago, he was a claim jumper in the Cascade foothills north of Ellensburg. Cut the throat of a competing gold miner and squatted on his placer claim on Williams Creek for more than a year before the law finally caught up with him."

"And now, fifteen years later, he's a thriving marine salvager?" Miles asked. "They didn't lock him up for good or hang him?"

"Illiterate Ellensburg jury acquitted him, heaven knows why. But take my word, he did it. Yes, he did. And you are?"

"Oh, my apologies again," Floyd said. "This is Sheriff Miles Scott from San Juan Island, which, as you know, I was dispatched to in order to help with a murder investigation."

"Yes, of course. Welcome, Sheriff Scott."

"Please, call me Miles."

"Welcome, Miles."

"Have any new bits for us?" Floyd asked.

"Matter of fact, I do. Concerning those triangular fragments you sent down—the ones with the burned edges that looked like remnants of money or official documents—turns out they're the upper left-hand corners of certificates of naturalization used by the U.S. Department of Labor. Put simply, they're immigration documents. But get this: they're forgeries."

"Forgeries?"

"What we have of their serial numbers don't match up with any genuine immigration records at the Department of Labor."

"Forged immigration documents?" Miles muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Why on earth would the Jensens have those?"

Clark waited until it became clear that Miles had nothing else to say. "Anyway, that's all I have for you gentlemen at the moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Miles said, giving Clark a rundown of their suspicions about two possible tong highbinders being on the island.

"Then I'm guessing you want a meeting with one of the tongs," Clark said with a huge grin.

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