Across the lake in Bellevue, Dave and I begin at a Best Buy, our best shot of tracing the blocked number on my phone. After that second text came in—Someone who knows what you’re looking for, and it’s not in Seattle—the errand shimmied up to top priority. Neither of us misses the irony. If Will were here, he’d unearth the number in thirty seconds flat.
The kid behind the Geek Squad counter looks to be about twenty or so, the type of guy who Will always claimed gave techies a bad name. Greasy hair. Pimply face. Bushy eyebrows and a prominent overbite. Behind his Coke-bottle glasses, his eyes go comically wide.
“You’re asking me to hack another person’s phone number?” the geek says, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Can’t—” Dave gives him a charming smile “—or won’t?”
“Irrelevant. I’m only allowed to repair and install.”
My brother peels five twenties from his wallet and fans them across the countertop. “Are you sure about that?”
The kid’s not sure. His gaze flicks from us to the cash, and the struggle is real. A hundred bucks can buy a lot of gigabytes. He whips his head left and right, taking note of a colleague ringing up a purchase at the register, another hunched over a MacBook at the far end of the counter. When neither of them looks his way, he swipes the bills and my phone from the counter, pocketing both. “BRB,” he says, and then he disappears through a door marked Employees Only.
While he’s gone, I head over to the computer display and pull up the internet. “What was it Coach Miller called that neighborhood where he lived? Rainier something.”
“View? No, that’s not right.” Dave thinks for a second or two, then snaps. “Vista! Rainier Vista.”
“That’s it.” I look up the neighborhood and scribble a couple cross streets in a notebook I carry in my bag, then do the same with the nearest FedEx and police department.
“While you’re at it, find us a decent restaurant. I haven’t eaten since Atlanta, and I’m starved.”
For my brother, decent means complicated dishes and wine pairings, both of which means dinner takes forever. I shake my head. “We can stop at the first drive-through we come to, but I want to keep moving.”
He wrinkles his nose. “You’re seriously suggesting we order food at a window and eat it out of a paper bag?”
“Yes, because I still want to see Will’s old neighborhood and talk to somebody at the police department before the day’s over, and we can’t do that if you order the seven-course chef’s tasting menu, which I know you will.”
“Seriously, Iris. I have to eat something. The low blood sugar is making me light-headed.”
“Would you stop being such a drama queen? I already told you, we can—”
“Um, sir?” We look over, and it’s the kid, my iPhone in one of his fists. “The text was sent from a messaging app.”
“Okay,” Dave and I say in unison, and in exactly the same tone. Not okay as in we’re done here, but okay as in go on.
The geek assumes the former. He plunks down my phone and turns to go.
“Wait,” I say. “What about the number?”
“The app encrypts and then destroys the text, as well as where the text originated.” He shoves his glasses up his nose with a knuckle. “Think of it as a Snapchat for text messaging. Only, you don’t have to reveal any identifying information in order to begin a conversation.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s impossible to trace the number. Sorry.” He moves down the counter to help an old lady clutching a laptop to her chest.
Disappointment, sharp and instant, stabs me between the ribs. “Now what?” I say, turning to my brother.
Dave sighs, watching the geek go. “Now you owe me a hundred bucks.”
*
I bribe Dave with the rest of my Chex Mix and an eight-thirty reservation at Atmosphere, which, according to Zagat, is one of Seattle’s best French restaurants overlooking the Puget Sound. With minimal griping, he steers the rental back across the lake to Rainier Vista.
“Are you sure this is it?” he says, slowing in the middle of the street. “The way Coach Miller described it, I was expecting something much slummier.”
I check the street sign against the address in my notebook. “This is the right place, but you’re right. It’s way nicer than I thought it would be.”
Rainier Vista is not Beverly Hills, but it’s no slum, either. To our right are small but colorful houses with sweeping front porches; to our left are townhomes and a block-sized park, empty but for a pristine basketball court and a long line of trees. The setting sun lights them up from behind, bare limbs reaching into the leaden sky. I twist on my seat, searching for the promised view, but if Mount Rainier is visible from here, it’s tucked behind a thick layer of red-tinged clouds.
Dave pulls over, hitting the button to roll down my window.
“Hi, there,” he says, leaning across me to speak to the young couple on the sidewalk. Two kids, barely out of high school, their features hidden under thick hoods. His arm is slung around her shoulders in a gesture that hits me as more possessive than protective. “Do you guys live around here?”
They don’t stop walking, don’t even turn their heads our way. The girl flicks her eyes in my direction, but her boyfriend hustles her along.
Dave eases the car forward, dialing up the dazzle on his smile. “We’re new to the area, and we were hoping you could give us a little bit of direc—” The pair makes a sharp right, veering away from us down a footpath bordering an empty park. “Or maybe not.”
“Friendly neighborhood.”
Dave puffs an ironic laugh, then looks around, taking in the neighborhood. He points past me, out the passenger-side window and beyond, to a hulking block of what looks to be apartments. “See that simple design and cheap materials? How much you want to bet that’s HUD housing, and this neighborhood is a HUD redevelopment?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if I’m right, HUD would have made provisions for the former residents, either to move them to a new neighborhood or guarantee them a spot in the low-income housing here. We’ve got a fairly decent chance of finding someone who was here before the redevelopment.”
“Okay, smarty-pants. So where do we begin?”
“One of those apartment buildings would be our best bet, but judging by the reception those kids just gave us, I’m guessing residents won’t take kindly to strangers coming in and asking questions. We’d be better off starting at some sort of community center. If we make friends with the staff, they might be able to tell us who’s lived here since before the developers came to town. We can funnel our questions through them.”
Dave drives on, making a slow loop through the neighborhood. We pass more of the same, houses of all sizes pressed between parks and playgrounds, with an occasional high-rise jutting out over the rooftops. He points out a sign for the city’s light-rail system. “Proximity to public transit, plenty of ramps and open space, and have you noticed all the urban artwork? Definitely a mixed-income neighborhood.”
“So where’s the community center?”