Grady and Tiffany might have talked more, but the doors were open, and people were pouring in, and Grady no longer had an official bartender/priest dedicated to his own personal problems. He took his Coke, saluted her with it, and retreated from the bar.
Grady held his phone down on his palm faceup, so he could stare at it—willing it to produce good news. As if he, too, were developing mental powers, a text alert from Lieutenant Carter appeared.
He seized the phone.
Found suspect’s car. Officers on the scene saw items from Janette Copeland’s office in the back seat. Getting a warrant for his apartment.
Immediately, he texted back. No sign of him? Where’s the car?
No, but the car will be headed for impound. Found it near Pike and 12th.
His stomach sank. He knew it. The son of a bitch was headed here.
He picked up a flyer that had fallen to the floor. It was bright pink with a picture of Leda behind the microphone along with showtimes, some silly advertising copy with too many exclamation points, and the address for Castaways—no more than four blocks away from the corner of Pike and Twelfth.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
He scanned the room. He spotted Niki first and pushed through the crowd to reach her, ducking around the tables and chairs and squeezing in behind the table full of sound equipment at the base of the stage, where Niki and Matt were getting ready for the show to come.
“Hey, have you seen Leda?”
Niki and Matt looked at each other. Niki said, “No, but Ben said something about her going to get the costumes out of her car. She said she’d had trouble finding a spot to park, and there was no place free out back. She might’ve settled for one of the pay lots.”
“Any idea which one?” Grady asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“Not a clue. She’ll be back soon, man,” Matt said with a reassuring smile.
Niki asked, “Why? Is something wrong?”
Grady looked over his shoulder, trying to catalog the whole room and everyone in it—but it was too dark, too crowded, with too much motion. “Niki, you remember what Mr. Murder looks like, right?”
“Sure. Why do you—Oh my God.”
“No, no. Stay cool,” he said. “But keep your eyes open.” Then he tapped his phone in his pocket to make sure he still had it. His gun and badge were back in his car.
Just before he dipped back into the crowd, he said, “Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, and don’t say anything to freak anybody out. I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t know if he meant it.
27.
Leda let the back door slam behind her as she ran out into the early night. The tiny travel umbrella was rarely used, and when she popped it open she was greeted with a cloud of dust that turned to mud as soon as the rain hit it. It dripped down her sleeves as she fled the alley.
She paused beneath an awning just outside the back alley. A gutter sent a pool of roof water down onto the sidewalk, and she used this to rinse the umbrella before holding it over her head again. That was better, yes. Now all she had to do was remember where she’d parked.
Oh yeah, the lot near the bookstore.
She looked back toward Castaways and saw a young couple laughing and splashing through the rain, dressed like Elvis and Elvira. It was still a little early for Halloween—so they must be headed to the bar to see Leda’s show. Which she was not at. Because she had left her outfit in the car. Like a dumbass.
She walked leaning forward, keeping the umbrella low over her head and staring down at the sidewalk to avoid puddles and trash and other people’s feet. The hill was hopping, even though it was a weeknight and it was barely seven o’clock. The community college had let out most of its classes, people were heading out to dinner, and it was late enough to drink without feeling awkward about it. Before long, Castaways would be packed.
It only made her more anxious. She was increasingly comfortable performing in front of others—even a lot of others—but she hated to keep people waiting.
She stepped off the curb and found herself ankle-deep in a cold, dark puddle. With a shriek she hopped out. A car was turning her way, so she darted into a small jaywalking infraction that no one would notice.
Wait. Was she going the right direction?
Leda paused.
She’d gotten turned around. She looked around, searching for a sign that might tell her something useful. Instead, she saw Abbot Keyes. Scott Keyes. Whoever the hell he was.
Mr. Murder.
He was standing on the far street corner, doing the same thing she was—seeking landmarks with which to orient himself. He held a bright pink piece of paper that was disintegrating into the consistency of a damp washcloth. Ben’s latest flyer.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. He was looking for Castaways. He was looking for her.
But he hadn’t seen her yet.
She swiveled on one soaked foot and began a casual, not-at-all-frantic stroll back toward the bar so she could warn her friends. That’s what she should do, right? She hadn’t brought her phone; she’d taken only her keys.
Keys. Keyes. Abbot Scott Keyes, or Scott Abbot Keyes? She couldn’t remember.
The light behind her eye was an ice pick through her skull. She smashed her hands to her face, as if she could rub the brightness and pain away.
She went from a saunter to a stagger, then back to a saunter again. Had to act cool. Had to be just another normal black-wearing Seattleite on the hill, wandering toward a drink or some other distraction. If she kept her face down, no one would notice her.
As badly as she wanted to, she didn’t look back. She wouldn’t let herself—not until she reached the nearest corner and ducked past it. She pressed herself against a cold stone wall and lowered the umbrella. She peeked around the side of the building to see if he was still there, or if he’d followed her.
He was gone.
No.
There he was—walking toward the bar. He was closer than she was. Even if she made a run for it, she probably wouldn’t beat him. But she had to warn her friends. Could she come back in through the rear door? Only if it wasn’t locked. She tried to remember if she’d heard it latch when it’d swung behind her, but she couldn’t. It probably had. It always did.
Her heart vibrated between her ribs.
She needed to get a message to Grady. Maybe some random person would let her use their cell phone? She’d left hers in her purse, back at the bar. If she couldn’t beat Keyes to the bar, maybe she could call somebody and tell them he was coming.
Her eyes darted left to right, and suddenly the street felt very empty—when only a moment before it had felt so crowded. She was off the main drag, tucked away beneath an overhang that kept her mostly dry. Her black umbrella wouldn’t draw any attention, unless she started going up to folks and asking for help.
She thought of Amanda Crombie, blind and afraid, lurking at the edges of a gas station island and praying that the killer wouldn’t see her.
Was she thinking of Amanda, or feeling her?
The vivid white light rendered her left eye useless, and the halo of the migraine was creeping toward her right eye. “No, no, no…” She rubbed them, for all the good it did. She blinked hard, forced herself to concentrate, and saw no one in immediate hailing distance except for a couple of homeless guys and a pair of teenage girls with vape pens that probably weren’t holding nicotine cartridges.