Last Ditch Read Free

could
breathe again, we got back to work.
    From
what Wales
and Balderama told me later, they went from my house right to the
shelter. The
other woman's name was Jill Clark. She was a volunteer. A couple of
days later,
when the Seattle Times ran a different picture of her, I realized that
she was
one of the women who'd been in the room while I interviewed Felicia
Mendoza.
    The
two women
had gone to a movie together. The seven o'clock showing of My Best
Friend's
Wedding at the Uptown Cinema. A sixteen-year-old usher named Shantiqua
Harris
remembered seeing the women leave together at the end of the show.
Shantiqua
had noticed how protective Jill Clark seemed to be of the smaller woman
and had
wondered if they were lesbians. That was the last time either woman was
seen
alive. Two kids looking for a lost kitty found the bodies.
    Wales and Balderama interviewed
the rest of
the shelter staff and the doctor who had examined her. They interviewed
both
Felicia Mendoza's priest and her attorney. Then they consulted their
direct
superior, took three deep breaths, said three Hail Marys and requested
a Murder
One warrant for Washington State Supreme Court justice Douglas J.
Brennan.
    Local
legal
wisdom made the case against the judge to be pretty much a dead heat. A
mountain of circumstantial evidence and hearsay, all pointing at His
Honor, but
nothing to connect the judge directly to the murders. When the judge
hired Dan
Hennessey, most legal pundits figured he had better than a fifty-fifty
chance
of walking. Apparently, however, the judge was not similarly convinced.
    STILLMAN
FINISHED UP for me. "And after telling the police your story, the rest,
as
they say, was history. Is that correct, Mr. Waterman?"
    "Yes,
it
is," I said. "Until ..."
    "Until
what, Mr. Waterman?"
    "Until
about six weeks ago, when one of my ..." I groped for a word. "...
contacts told me that somebody had a contract out on my life."
    "And
you
believed this person?"
    "Absolutely."
    FRANKIE
ORTIZ
SITTING at my backyard patio table drinking iced cappuccino with
Rebecca was
the equivalent of Charlie Manson sipping tea in the Rose Garden with
Hillary
Clinton. Frankie was a little guy. No more than five-six or so. I'd
always thought
he looked like the old-time bandleader Cab Calloway. Thick, processed
hair
combed straight back. A bold, wide mouth accented by a pencil-thin
mustache
which clung precisely to the outline of his prominent upper lip. He had
a
penchant for lightcolored suits and two-tone shoes. Frankie worked for
Tim
Flood.
    Tim
Flood and
my father had started out together working for Dave Beck and the
Teamsters. At
the time, their official title had been "labor organizers."
Revisionist history now labeled them as thugs, but neither of them
minded. My
father had parlayed his local notoriety into eleven terms on the
Seattle City
Council. He'd run for mayor four times, suffering a narrow defeat on
each
occasion. Tim Rood had gone on to become Seattle's
homegrown version of organized crime. Tim Flood had his fingers in
every pie.
My old man had his relatives in every city and county department. The
way I
figured it, six of one, half a dozen of the other.
    Rebecca
was
beaming. "Oh, Leo . . . Mr. Ortiz tells the most outrageous stories,"
she said.' "I can't believe it."
    "I'll
bet," I said.
    I
figured
Frankie was probably skipping the one about how he'd shot Sal Abbruzio
in the
spine for skimming the numbers take. And you sure wouldn't want to tell
the one
about cutting off Nicky Knight's fingers in the back booth at Vito's.
Especially not the part about Big Hazel freshening their drinks between
fingers. Not before dark anyway.
    "Frankie,"
I said, and offered my hand. He took it
    I
dragged a
chair over next to Rebecca and put a hand on her knee. She crossed her
legs and
gave my hand a pat.
    Frankie
took a
sip of his cappuccino. "You know, the kid's gonna graduate this
June," he said. "June eighth."
    The
kid was
Tim's granddaughter Caroline Nobel. A few years back, I'd