Trial by Fury (9780061754715) Read Free

told him. “Over on Fairview. They towed eight cars out of the lot over the weekend. Maybe one of them belongs to the victim.”
    Peters put the car in gear, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come off it, Beau. Doc Baker said he was dumped here. After he died. Why would his car be left in the lot?”
    â€œHumor me. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
    He didn’t. We drove through what Seattlites jokingly refer to as the Mercer Mess, a city planner’s worst nightmare of how to stall traffic getting off and on a freeway. It’s a tangle of one-way streets that circle this way and that without any clear direction.
    Lincoln Towing actually sits directly in front of traffic exiting Interstate 5 and coming into the city. At the Fairview stoplight, Lincoln Towing’s Toe Truck, a tow truck fitted out as a gigantic foot complete with bright pink toes four feet tall, may very well be the first sight some visitors see as they drop off the freeway to enter Seattle.
    Lincoln’s Toe Truck lends a whimsical bit of humor. As long as you’re not one of Lincoln Towing’s unwilling customers. Then it’s no laughing matter.
    The man who got out of a taxi and stomped his way into the Lincoln Towing office directly ahead of us wasn’t laughing. He was ready to knock heads.
    â€œWhat the hell do you mean towing me from a church parking lot! It isn’t Sunday. I was just having breakfast down the street.”
    A girl with a wholesome, scrubbed appearance greeted his tirade with a sympathetic smile. “The lot is clearly marked, sir. It’s private property. We’ve been directed to tow all unauthorized vehicles.”
    He blustered and fumed, but he paid. By the time he got his keys back, it was probably one of the most expensive breakfasts of his life. He stormed out of the office. The clerk, who had continued to be perfectly polite and noncommittally sympathetic the whole time she was taking his money, turned to us. “May I help you?”
    I opened my ID and placed it on the counter in front of her along with the list of license plate numbers from our surly parking lot attendant. “We understand you towed these cars over the weekend. They’re all from the Bailey’s Foods lot on Queen Anne Hill.”
    She picked up the list and looked it over. “What about them?”
    â€œCould you check them against your records. See if there was anything unusual about any of them?”
    She went to a computer terminal and typed the license numbers into it. A few minutes later she returned to the counter, shaking her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary about any of them, except one.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œA Buick. It came in early Saturday morning.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIt’s still here.”
    â€œThat’s unusual?”
    She smiled. “Sure. Most of them are like that guy who just left. They get here by taxi half an hour to an hour after the car. They can’t wait to bail it out.”
    â€œBut the Buick’s still here, and that’s unusual?”
    â€œNot that unusual,” she replied. “Sometimes you run into a drunk who takes a couple of days to sober up and figure out where he left the car. That’s probably what happened here.”
    â€œWhich Buick?” I asked.
    She pointed. “The blue one. The Century. Over in the corner.”
    â€œMind if we take a look?”
    â€œI don’t know why not.” She shrugged and called over the intercom for someone to escort us. A young fellow in green Lincoln Towing coveralls led us to the car. We peered in through the windows. An athletic bag sat on the floor of the backseat. An airline identification tag was still attached to the handle. It was turned in the wrong direction for us to read it.
    â€œWould it be possible for you to open it up so we could see the name on that tag?”
    â€œWell…” The young man