Traffic, both cars and pedestrians, got heavier as they neared the historic market. It was nothing like a sunny summer afternoon, however, when the chance of winning the state lottery was better than finding a parking spot. Pike Place was the nation's oldest continuously operating farmers market, and with as many as forty thousand visitors daily it was to many the heart and soul of Seattle. The twoand-half-block stretch was prime for people watching, or it was just as fun to explore the many old buildings that had been strung together over the years by ramps, alleys and stairways. The city council had forbade singing by market vendors since 1947, but that didn't dampen the loud and continuous hawking of everything from Guatemalan cigars and Turkish pastries to African violets and Pacific Northwest salmon. No chain stores or franchises were allowed, which made it a true bazaar, not another mall.
Andie headed toward the main arcade, a semi-open area facing the street. About half of the fresh-produce stalls were there, side by side with the gleaming rows of fresh crab and halibut in angled, iced beds. The crowds weren't peak, but there was still a steady stream of shoppers. A magician performed tricks beneath the big market clock. A guitarist on. the corner sang an old Jimmy Buffett tune. A fishmonger hurried by with a very recently deceased eel draped over each shoulder. Andie's eye was on the live Maine lobsters at the bottom of the big glass tank, but Isaac was still talking business.
"How are you and my old buddies at Seattle P. D. getting along?"
"Good, I think." She stopped at Arcade No. 8 to check out the homegrown Asian vegetables, one of the sure signs that spring was coming to Seattle. "You hear differently?"
"I had lunch with Detective Kessler yesterday. Tells me you learned a valuable lesson with that leak to the newspapers about the bookend theory."
"Yeah. Never again do I tell him anything that isn't fit to print."
"Actually, he thought you two had reached an understanding. If there's something you don't want in the papers, you'll tell him upfront in no uncertain terms. No more assumptions about what's confidential and what isn't. You remember what I used to tell you about assumptions, don't you? The minute you start making assumptions--"
"You make an ass out of U and umption." She smiled. "I remember."
"Good."
"I just wish Kessler hadn't put quite so much umption into making an ass out of me. Especially the very day Victoria Santos comes into town. I have an uneasy, bad feeling about that guy."
"That's funny. He thinks highly of you."
"Really?"
"He was impressed the way you came up with that bookend theory so quickly, even if it does turn out to be wrong."
"He never let me know he was impressed."
"He never would. Dick's kind of a pain. Even a bit of a whiner. But overall he's a damn fine detective. And if you're good he respects you. Even if he doesn't show it."
Andie. bought some speckled Chinese eggplant and stalks of lemongrass, then wandered farther down the arcade, toward a stall filled with fresh and dried flowers. Isaac had stopped next door for a bag of pistachios. Her phone rang. She stepped behind a tall stack of wicker baskets and answered. It was Kessler. Speaking of the devil.
"You asked me to call as soon as we got anything on Jane Doe. Well, we got an ID."
Andie pressed a finger to her free ear to block out the market noise. "Who is she?"
"Name's Paula Jablinski. Just moved here from Wisconsin three weeks ago. She didn't even have a job yet. No friends or family in the area, which explains why nobody filed a missing-persons report on her. Her mother in Milwaukee notified us today. Said her daughter hadn't returned her phone calls in over a week. From the description and dental records she faxed, looks like a fairly positive ID.
"Smart choice of victim:' said Andie. "No connections to the area, nobody misses her."
"Ideal victim. Especially if you're looking for a match for Colleen Easterbrook."
"Colleen didn't just move here."
"That's not what I meant. Get this. Paula Jablinski used to work for a Holiday Inn in Milwaukee. She was looking for work in Seattle in hotel management. Just like Colleen Easterbrook."
"Just like Beth Wheatley," said Andie.
"So, you think Jablinski and Easterbrook are a lone pair of bookends? Or are we just missing another cold one named Wheatley?"
"I don't know."
"I'm not a gambler," he said. "But my money's on the trifecta."
"Hate to say it," she said as she stared blankly at a bundle of crumbling dried flowers. "But I'm afraid mine is, too."
Chapter Twenty-Three.
He was dressed entirely in black, a sleek silhouette in the early evening darkness. The rear -basement window was the obvious point of entry. There was no alarm, no dog. The light burning in the kitchen was the same light she routinely left on whenever she left the house, a beacon of welcome for any would-be intruder. He covered the window with duct tape, then tapped it quietly, shattering the pane. The glass peeled away with the tape. He unlocked the window and entered in seconds.