“Go to the chat room,” Archie said.
Susan looked over at him. He was engaged now, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. She navigated to the chat room. There were dozens of posts, most with accompanying icons that were in some way Gretchen-related. Her picture.A cartoon heart.A scalpel.
“When the Earth Liberation Front was really active,” Archie said, “their members communicated through chat rooms. That way they didn’t have to use e-mail addresses. They just went to an agreed-upon Web site. And used the chat room to set up meetings.” He reached over her and began to scroll down through the posts. “Here,” he said. He reached forward, touching the screen.
Susan read the post aloud: “Produce. Midnight.Tonight.” She looked at him. “Produce what?”
“Produce,” Archie said. “As in fruit and vegetables.As in the Produce District. We found one of Gretchen’s victims in the basement of a warehouse there. Good place for a Beauty Killer Elks Club meeting. Want to go?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Susan said.
C H A P T E R 38
Susan spent the rest of the day working. She even knocked on the doors of the orderly’s neighbors. He always seemed so nice. And cold-called Courtenay Taggart’s family. She was such a lovely girl. That night, Susan ate a vegan lasagna with her mother, waited until eleven-thirty, and then went back to pick up Archie.
He met her around the block, at the point they had arranged. She didn’t know if he’d sneaked out a back window while Henry was asleep, and she didn’t ask.
There was no traffic that time of night and they made it to the Produce District in fifteen minutes. Susan parked under the MorrisonStreetBridge. The tangle of highways overhead made that part of town seem especially gritty and urban. There was usually more car noise, but it was late and only the occasional semi roared past over their heads. Archie emptied his pockets, putting two cell phones in the glove box of her car, and then untucked his shirt, tucked the gun that Jack Reynolds had given him in the back of his pants, and arranged the shirt back over it. Susan inventoried her
mace. It was dark in the Produce District at night. And the wide streets and concrete loading docks made the place seem especially empty.
“This way,” Archie said. Susan followed him down the street and around the corner to an enormous old warehouse. Inner industrial Southeast Portland was full of them. But this one, at five stories, was especially looming.
Archie hopped up onto the loading dock and went to an unmarked fire door.
“I went to a show here once in high school,” Susan said, as Archie closed the fire door behind them. “They used to have an all-ages club upstairs.”
“Fascinating,” Archie said.
The warehouse didn’t store produce anymore. Instead it seemed to be filled mostly with Asian furniture, reeking of orange-oil furniture polish and tatami. A few fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating great stacks of glossy ornate cabinets, Chinese lamps, trunks, Buddha statues, plant stands. Susan didn’t see any security cameras. If they’d been futon thieves, there’d have been nothing to stop them.
“This way,” Archie said. He walked through another door and flipped on a light switch. A series of bare compact fluorescent bulbs stuttered to life in a hallway. The wood floors were warped, providing a facsimile of vertigo to Susan as she followed Archie down the hallway. The walls were covered with colorful airbrushed images and scrawled spray-painted signatures.
“At least the graffiti’s interesting,” said Archie.
Susan took a closer look at the walls. Next to some of the images were unmistakable round red stickers. “It’s art,” Susan said.
Archie didn’t answer.
“Really,” Susan insisted. “See the red dots? It’s a gallery.”
“It’s a dank hallway,” Archie said.
“Slash gallery,” Susan said. “Low overhead. A lot of these old warehouses cater to the underground art scene.”
She thought she heard Archie sigh.
“This city really needs to start enforcing fire codes,” he said.
“You know what causes the most house fires?” Susan said. “Cooking. It’s why I don’t do it.”
“Down here,” Archie said, opening another door and flipping another light switch.
The door revealed a set of wide fire stairs that led to a concrete floor and another door. Another scary basement.Of course. “You know what I’d like to see?” Susan asked. “More crime involving airy aboveground spaces.”