Free Rainy City by Earl Emerson Page A

she said. “I think.”
    “You were great.”
    “Now what? The Crowell place?”
    “I don’t know what good it will do, but here we go.”
    No matter how long I live in Seattle, I am constantly amazed at the variety of the city. The Crowells resided on the waterfront in West Seattle. It took five minutes and a good map to pinpoint the precise location. It took another twenty minutes of prowling around on pitch black, rain-spattered streets before we found it.
    Melissa’s parents lived on a numbered street smack dab on the water. The road came down off a hill, dropping a good hundred and fifty feet in elevation as it approached the select community. We descended through three-quarters of a mile of virgin woods inside the city limits before we found it. The dead-end road was narrow and pitted, mired in spots, partially blocked by small mud slides, doubling back upon itself twice.
    We discovered five houses on the beach. Guard dogs yapped at our headlights. One streetlight wobbled on a pole in the wind. None of the houses looked as if they could even be discussed for less than a million.
    Angus Crowell’s place was a sprawling stucco ranch-style house, baroque iron grillwork barring all the street-side windows and doorways. What was he expecting? The Nez Perce had been peaceful for more than a century. The grillwork alone undoubtedly cost more than my entire house.
    My best guess was that the nearest house, except for the four others on the beach, was about half a mile away, through the moss-covered trees and up the slimy hill.
    The last storm off the sound had toppled a maple at the end of the block. Some industrious soul had chainsawed it into pieces and carted most of it away.
    “Maybe I’ll just sit in the truck,” volunteered Kathy, peering out at the dark house as she listened to the throaty guard dogs up the street. “Besides, I look like a strumpet.”
    “Yes,” I said. “But your heart is pure gold.”
    I wheeled the truck around so that it was pointed toward civilization and parked it in front of a single-story garage sixty feet long. I could see the roofs of at least three autos inside. A Mercedes two-seater. The Cadillac we’d almost collided with on Sunday. A new Bronco.
    “What do you want me to say to this bozo?”
    “First of all, don’t call him a bozo,” warned Kathy. “Don’t antagonize the man. Remember, this is on behalf of Burton and Angel. We want them back together. Okay? Just ask him if he’ll return his granddaughter. And if he won’t, ask him under what circumstances he would.”
    “Got it.”
    Before I traipsed up to the front door, I went over to the windows in the long garage and peeked inside. Crowell had collected five cars, a lawn tractor, several bicycles, a row of motorcycles and a dune buggy. The man liked his toys. Through windows on the opposite side of the garage, I could see the marbled reflections from a lighted swimming pool.
    At first, I took the stooped hag who swung open the door for a servant. It was only later that I realized it must have been Mrs. Crowell. In the army, they used to say shit rolls downhill. Mrs. Crowell was at the bottom of the hill and she knew it.
    She said she would fetch her husband and then she shuffled through the living room and ragged at the little girl, warning her of the dire consequences should she happen to spill her milk. She bossed with the sad vengeance of one who is rarely allowed the privilege.
    “Not again, Angie! You’ve made too many messes today. That’s my favorite flavor,” she added, as an afterthought, when she saw the scowl on my face.
    I sidled around the corner and spotted Angel Nadisky sitting dejectedly at an ornate table in front of a coloring book and a tall glass of milk, too tall and bulky for her little hands. A bowl of butter brickle ice cream was melting in front of her. Any fool could see she was about as happy as a spider in a jar.
    The house was dead silent. No music. No TV. Not even a parakeet I