Salvation Lake by G. M. Ford

Author:G. M. Ford
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: BluA
ISBN: 9781503936850
Publisher: Thomas
Published: 2016-07-11T23:00:00+00:00

She wanted to meet at Vito’s. Made me feel like I’d somehow come full circle. Back in the sixties and seventies, Vito’s had been the social center for Seattle’s movers and shakers. Most of my old man’s nefarious day-to-day activities were conducted within the friendly confines of Vito’s Madison Grill. Vito’s was the kind of joint where the walls have ears.

I stifled a chuckle as I walked in the door. It had been closed for a while and had changed hands a couple of times since 2008, when a couple of gang members staged a full-scale gun battle in the lounge, but otherwise it looked just like it always had . . . dark, dank, and dirty. The kind of place where you kept expecting to see Luca Brasi and a mackerel holding court in one of the studded Naugahyde booths.

Rebecca had commandeered a booth along the front wall. She’d changed out of her scrubs and was hiding under a silk head scarf and a pair of sunglasses the size of hubcaps. All very Melina Mercouri, 1963.

I slid in opposite her. “You develop a sudden urge for bad Italian food?” I asked.

“What I developed was a sudden urge for deniability,” she said in a low voice.

“How so?”

She reached down into her purse and pulled out a manila envelope with an FBI logo adorning the flap. She slid it across the table at me. And then leaned in close.

“When I sent your Mrs. Townsend’s aluminum foil to IAFIS, I used Sue Orris’s name.” She waved a finger in my face. “Which, as it turns out, was one of the best ideas I ever had.”

“How so?”

“Before this ever got back to me, she had three private party queries and a response request from the Las Vegas PD.”

“Sue gonna be all right with this?”

“Sue quit last month. Married an Arab guy. Renounced her Christian past. Changed her name to something three feet long and Arabic. Moved to Qatar and is presently aboard his yacht on a world cruise. I’ve been checking her computer to make sure we didn’t have any loose ends.”

I picked up the envelope. “They get a match?”

“I didn’t open it.”

“Really?”

“I’m an officer of the court. Anybody asks me about that IAFIS request I need to be able to say I have no idea who sent it or what the response, if any, might have contained.”

“I understand,” I said.

She got to her feet. “Be careful,” she said.

“Aren’t I always?”

Her eyes rolled behind the shades. I sat and listened to the sound of her heels clicking on the floor, until the door opened and closed and all I could hear was Jimmy Roselli singing “Am I Blue?”

The prints belonged to somebody named Tuesday Jo Hollister. Born 1980, in Elko, Nevada. Orphaned at six. Raised by her grandmother. By the time she was sixteen, she’d also been known as Betty Blew, Cherry Pie, Martha Sweet, and about a dozen other equally clever monikers. Nine prostitution busts before she graduated to extortion at twenty. Did seventeen months for being part of a ring that was rolling tourists in their hotel rooms.

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