Free Emerald City by Chris Nickson Page B

Bainbridge ferry, passing the time listening to KJET’s modern music. It was Thursday and only a few small cars and produce trucks were waiting to head out to the island.
    The green and white ferries were part of the fabric of Seattle, and the waters of Puget Sound just another Northwest highway, heading out to the other world of the Olympic Peninsula. You could drive through the mountains there, where there was still snow on the peaks, then down through the rainforest and come to endless miles of Pacific Ocean beach, so firm that the locals raced cars on the sand.
    Bainbridge was only a short trip, with barely a chance for coffee and some salt air on deck before diving back down into the gas fumes of the car hold as people waited to drive off again.
    The ferry reached its berth and I drove up the short hill into Winslow. It wasa small, prettified town where a dollar didn’t buy much property any more, now that yuppies on the run from city life had purchased all the charm and history. There was only a single main drag, and what was on offer in the stores said everything about the place – restaurants offering wild greens and things I’d never heard of as their specials, boutiques with kitsch for the moneyed, and a general store that had moved up to selling groceries. Just beyond all that, set apart as if it didn’t quite meet the standards the rich new residents demanded, was the garage.
    It had a couple gas pumps, but repair was the main business; the parking area was dominated by BMWs, Alfas, and some vintage Volvos and Saabs that had been expensively restored. I parked the Pinto a discreet distance away on the street and walked over. I’d dressed for the trip in sweatshirt, jeans and boots, as neutral as possible.
    It didn’t stop one of the mechanics running his eye over me as he directed me to Craig’s brother. He was changing the oil on a Cadillac, standing under the hoist to fix a new filter in place.
    â€œYou’re Jimmy?” I asked.
    â€œHold on,” he replied, and a few seconds later he ducked out from under the vehicle. He was what Craig might have looked like in a few years, the same face and coloring, the thin shape of his mouth almost identical. The only difference was the short hair, almost a Marine buzz cut, and a livid scar that zig-zagged down his cheek. He looked at me, trying to figure out what score out of ten he’d give me.
    â€œCarla suggested I look you up,” I told him, fixing him straight in the eye.
    He was confused for a moment, then moved his gaze up from my chest. His face cleared and he smiled. “You mean Carla Pierce?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œJeez, I haven’t thought of her in years,” he said. “How’s she doing?”
    â€œShe’s good. I’m Laura Benton.” I extended my hand; he held his up to show the grease and oil.
    â€œJimmy Adler. But I guess you know that.”
    â€œYeah. Carla’s a friend of mine.” I hesitated. “I’m a journalist, I’d better tell you that now.” I saw his face darken with suspicion. “I’m a music journalist,” I added. “I’m doing a piece on Craig.”
    â€œI didn’t know chicks wrote about that.”
    â€œYeah. This one does, anyway.” I bit my tongue on anything more and smiled.
    â€œAnd you want to talk to me?”
    â€œYes.”
    He moved a step closer to me, nothing pleasant in his grin. “But I’m not sure I want to talk to you,” he said, the threat clear beneath his words.
    I didn’t move back; I wasn’t going to let him feel he could make me cower. “I can understand that,” I said seriously. “He was your brother, he’s just died. Would it help if I told you I wrote about him before, when his band was starting out, and I liked what he did?”
    â€œMaybe a little.” I saw his eyes start to soften.
    I had a way in and I was determined