Chapter Three

Garcia took the long way getting from the Reporter's office to the Pig Pen, his preferred term for any police station. He zig-zagged up and down the named streets which run perpendicular to numbered streets downtown and tried to figure out any connections between Colt, Oprestig, and orchids. Never trust a coincidence he learned long ago. But he couldn't see any connections.

Garcia ended up at the little triangle park catty-corner from the Good Shepard at Yesler and First. He sat on a bench and contemplated the Mission, a three story hunk of brick with gracefully arched windows and a twin-pillared corner entrance. The Public Safety Building, an ugly concrete and steel edifice with a horrendously tacky blue tile facade is a scant two blocks away. There were times Garcia swore that he and Sarah had worn a groove between the two buildings.

Outside a tavern, in the park, a large group of tourists were being lectured by a very academic-looking young man. He wore a light brown corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches and sported a wispy beard. Pointing to the Good Shepard and using it as an example in his discourse on the architectural history of the area, the young man was saying, "It was constructed in 1890 after the great Seattle fire that consumed 30 central-city blocks from the Madison business district, on the north end, to the red light district in the south."

A hand rose in the center of the group and a voice drawled, "Why'd they use so many gol-darned bricks 'roundt cheer?"

The tour guide displayed his patented smile and said, "Brick was chosen because, in an expansive mood, and since it wasn't their money, the city council had decreed that downtown be rebuilt out of something that wouldn't burn. Some historians believe that brick was chosen solely because the Mayor's brother-in-law owned the only brick works on Puget Sound."

"Well," the questioner drawled again, "Lookit them ugly municipal thangs up the hill. Can't convince me they's gonna last a hundirt years."

The same smile from the guide. "Good point," he said. "The Public Safety Building at the intersection of Cherry and Third is an excellent example. Built cheaply, and on the fly," the guide recited, "in the 1970s by a budget-conscious city council, it has hardly lasted a quarter of the time as the brick, 1890, jailhouse it replaced. The drunks, petty criminals, and people who work there fear the whole affair will come tumbling down on their heads one day." The crowd, having seen the building in question, gave its agreement by a collective nodding of heads.

Garcia got up to leave; he had heard it all many times before. He'd heard it from the tour guides, from Sarah, the downtown neighborhood council, and everybody in the city with an opinion. The current mayor and police chief, Fred Yorley and James Jamison, have cajoled the community for four years to float a bond and rebuild the police station. The bond issue crashes and burns each year by an ever growing margin. Yorley and Jamison have one solace if you can call it that: the downtown library, also built cheaply and on the fly, is in even worse shape and the voters won't fix it either, not to mention the schools, roads, and sidewalks. But, Seattle does have a new sports stadium, despite Garcia's best efforts to publicize the corruption and graft that went into it.

Both Sarah and he preferred to remain as far away as possible from the Pig Pen, having been infected with the occupant's paranoia. And there were also times when Garcia felt they saw more of each other there than at home. Sarah was constantly bailing out various of the homeless men who were picked up for vagrancy or blocking doorways in the business district. At one time, when Garcia had first moved in, he feared that Sarah didn't show any common sense in who she chose to help. After a month of observing, and holding his tongue lest it be chopped off, he realized that Sarah came to the aid of the people she trusted to employ with odd jobs at the Mission. She drew the line at habitual drunks, druggies, and the aggressively crazy.

Garcia camped out in various offices of the Pen milking his sources. He had a few favorites on the police force, the more humane of the cops who did their job for reasons other than pushing people around or exercising authority. He had done the same kind of journalism work for a tabloid, The Weekly Purge, in Los Angeles and knew LAPD for what it really was. Nothing in the recent news about racism from down there had been a surprise to Richard Garcia.

He slowly climbed the hill to the Pig Pen, casually checking the sidewalk concrete for the groove he knew to be there. He entered the Pen through the basement door and proceeded towards the office of Lt. Dan Fields. Fields is on the Mayor's drug abuse task force. He got stuck with it after someone reviewed his resume and discovered Dan had 12 years under his belt with the DEA in Florida. He'd quit and come to Seattle to escape that scene and now City Hall had him playing Miami Vice all over again. Garcia was using Dan as a primary source for his piece on the school drug scene. It was Fields who had intimated that a member of the school board was involved. They had first met when Garcia worked on a story about high schoolers selling drugs to teachers and the current story assignment had grown out of that initial meeting.

Garcia waited for Dan Fields to arrive at his cubicle in the basement offices of the task force. Gaping holes in the false ceiling corresponded with two chunks of acoustic ceiling tile which lay haphazardly on Dan's standard issue metal public servant's desk.

The secretary had said that Fields was in a meeting, which in cop lingo meant the bathroom. After 15 minutes, a big man with a hairline receding into his neck, bristly black mustache, and black plastic-rimmed glasses arrived toting a double tall latte.

"Drugs kill," Garcia said, eyeing the latte.

Fields considered the tiles on his desk but avoided making a comment. Instead, he replied, "Caffeine is legal, Garcia. So's nicotine," and he lit up a Camel from a fresh pack.

"Can't you read?" Garcia pointed with his chin at a hand-lettered sign on city stationary which said, "Keep your butts outside: No smoking in City buildings."

Dan sat his ample rear down on a thickly padded office chair. The latte went up and down across his moon face. He took a deep drag on the Camel and blew it out at the sign. He belched; smiled. "Can't read. It's not part of my job."

They chatted a few minutes about the task force and their raid the previous week on a crack house in the University District. Eventually, Garcia segued into his reasons for dropping in on Fields: Charles Llewellyn Colt II, the pharmaceutical industry, stolen orchids, and why so many Colts died from an overdose of drugs.

"Beats me," Dan said. "'H' would have been the abuse of choice in those days. Late 50s, early 60s: right?"

"Except the grandson: 1978."

"What about the second wife? Died in '47, right? What's the causes?"

"You're a suspicious man, Dan." Fields smiled and waited for Garcia to answer. "Drugs, like the others?"

"I'll call D.C. and see what the drug czar has and give you a call when I have something. That suit you?"

"Perfect."

"Any leads on the plant?"

"Depends. Can I use your phone?"

Fields indicated the desk phone, partially hidden by a corner of ceiling tile, with a gracious wave of his hand and made as if he would get up and leave.

"Don't bother," Garcia said. "This won't take long." He dialed a number he wished he didn't know so well, spoke a few words and set up an appointment.

Dan watched Garcia's face during the short conversation. He saw things that most people would miss because they hadn't spent years trying to figure people out from the way they acted rather than from what they said. He filed the information away and made a mental note to ask some questions some time when the two of them had had too much to drink. Fields had never known anyone so worth knowing as Garcia who could be alternately caring and crude or sensitive and indifferent to other people. For now, he inquired, "What about the diplomat's escort?"

"I thought I'd call X." The X-Lady, a sex-changed woman, booked all the high class talent for Seattle's effete elite. X was also well known to the police, basically because they resented having their hands tied in being unable to shut down an escort service working right out in the open in one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods. With patronage that filled the halls of power throughout the state, X was untouchable. If anyone knew the woman with the corsage, s/he would. Garcia and X went back to previous lives and previous times. Garcia was the only person in Seattle who knew X's true identity.

"I'll get on the drug history pronto, amigo. That's Mexican for P.D.Q."

Like everyone else Garcia knew in Washington and out of California, Fields didn't understand why anyone with a Latin name couldn't speak Spanish. So, Fields was always trying out what little Spanish vocabulary he had picked up from John Wayne movies. Garcia replied, "Gracias," which was one of the few words he knew, gleaned from the same source.

"Don't sweat it. Anything else your most public of servants can do for you?"

"Probably not. I kind of think I've gotten the most out of my tax dollars for the day." Garcia stood up to leave then feigned consideration and sat down. "There is something I'm curious about, though."

"Oh?"

"Don't look at me with that tone of voice," Garcia teased. "What do you mean, 'Oh?'"

"You forget that cops watch TV too."

"So?"

"So?" Fields imitated Garcia. "You have everything except the cigar and trench coat. What's wrong, Peter Falk's retiring and you're trying out for the part?"

Garcia tried not to blush because when he did the red extended from his neck to the top of his head. People with hair can always hide behind their hands but a bald man lacks that luxury. "It's probably none of my business," he began.

"Most of what you want to know isn't your business," Dan rejoined with a grin. He loved catching Garcia being deceptive. It didn't diminish his affection for the man, only made him wonder why Garcia tried it at all. After all the years Fields had fed Garcia information, he couldn't understand why the guy just didn't come out and ask.

"Know anything about the Oprestig homicide?"

Fields leaned back in his chair and said, "Hmm," in a knowing way. He looked around for something to play with, considered his empty Styrofoam latte cup, and glanced up at Garcia. Having embarrassed himself once, it looked like Garcia was going to be patient this time.

"Assistant Superintendent of Schools," Garcia finally prompted. "Found dead this morning."

"Well," Dan drew out the word. "Not much except for what the papers said. Funny looking guy though."

"Yeah. I know."

"Ever meet him?"

"No. Why?"

"How'd you know?"

"I saw his photo in the paper this morning. You're not the only one with heightened levels of observation, oh great Sherlock of the police force." Garcia waited. Dan would tell him what he needed to know, if Dan knew anything.

"Not for publication."

"Can I quote you on that?"

Dan looked pained. "That some kind of journalist joke?" He didn't wait for a reply but continued. "Our department is handling it with the homicide detectives because there's some indication that drugs are an issue."

"Anything you can share with me?"

"Not yet. Lots of speculation though."

"Such as?"

"The usual. Nothing worthy of the fourth estate."

"Any bearing on that other issue we've been dealing with?" Garcia automatically lowered his voice. As far as he knew, Dan hadn't told anyone in his department about feeding Garcia information on the investigation.

Fields picked his head up and looked around the office like a robin searching for worms. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Might be. Bound to be hush-hush, you know. Lots of official butts on the burner. I'll let you know as soon as there's anything concrete."

"I'm not proud. I'll take unsubstantiated rumors too."

Dan grinned and belched.

"I'll take that as an affirmative."

"Give my greetings to the little woman."

From the Public Safety Building, Garcia took the #43 bus to the University and paid a call on Dr. Laura Bernsen in the biology department. He and Sarah had named their child after Laura Bernsen's daughter. A victim of childhood incest, Laura had borne her father's child at an age when most girls are dreaming of their first kiss. Her parents separated and Sally Bernsen had been raised as Laura's younger sister, not her only child. Investigating Sally's tragic death in the waters of Southern California's Santa Monica Bay is what brought Garcia to Seattle, and meeting Sarah, in the first place and he had felt an obligation to memorialize the dead girl in some way.

In those days Garcia traveled about with a chip on his shoulder. He didn't give a damn about anything until he stumbled upon Sally's body and then finding out what happened became the most important thing in his life. It helped him rise from the self-loathing which ensued after being booted out of Los Angeles University for having had an affair with a student. Garcia now felt uncomfortable in the halls of academia. It was like returning to the scene of a crime. Being near Laura didn't help one bit.

This part of the University campus, where the biology department is headquartered, is like the older parts of the city and made solely of brick. Groves of deciduous trees are scattered about the college but this area has rows of flowering plum trees that put on a spectacular show of blossoms during the spring. In Los Angeles, where the natural landscape is one of open, unfettered views, evergreen trees are the norm. Garcia had found that Seattle, where Douglas-fir, Hemlock, and Red cedar, all conifers of deep shade, held sway, everybody planted trees that lost their leaves in winter. All the better to miss the oppressiveness of the forest during the long grey days of winter.

Garcia slowly ascended the brick steps to the biology building and Laura's office. Tall, stained glass windows on the second floor marked a line of classrooms, labs, and offices. Seen from a distance, the stained glass told a story of knowledge being handed from distinguished faculty to eager students. Laura Bernsen's office was by the nose of the professor in the glass mural.

To say that Garcia and Laura had a love-hate relationship would be the understatement of the year. She had blown into his life in Southern California in need of information and protection, had proceeded to use him as a human sex toy, then consorted with the very people who were out to get her. Garcia ended up in the middle, abused by everyone while trying to run Laura's lies to ground. Because of her, two other people had lost their lives, not to mention the two hoods hired to put an end to Richard Garcia. Out of the whole mess had sprung some weird kind of friendship between them that made Garcia feel he was cheating on Sarah whenever he saw Laura. Maybe it was hormonal because he still couldn't get over his attraction to Laura and those kinds of feelings had always gotten him in trouble in the past.

Garcia wondered what the quirk was in his make-up that always led him to women like Laura. Sarah had to be the only exception in his life to this truism. Even Jane, who he would never consider making a pass at, fit the type. Good-looking, smart, and she made him jump through hoops like a circus dog.

Laura Bernsen greeted Garcia at the door to her office. She gave him a friendly embrace, a peck on the cheek, and invited him in. A very faint trace of perfume worked its way to his nostrils. "Nice of you to call," she said. Her hands went up automatically to smooth out her dress, a grey, finely cable knit job that extended to just below the knee. Laura liked dressing conservatively, but in a manner that would leave no doubt that she had something worth looking at. The motion of her hands accentuated the hint of line under the dress caused by a camisole and panties. Her long and curly sandy hair was tied in a pony tail the thickness of a halter.

Garcia took a chair next to Laura's desk, the seat reserved for students coming to question the professor on matters of DNA replication, biochemical synthesis of phospho-lipids, and the philosophical implications of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny. She settled into a leather recliner under the window that looked out on the University fountain. On clear days she could see all the way to the snowcone of Mt. Rainier.

"What are you working on these days, Richard?"

Garcia told Laura the history of John Mauldaur, plant explorer, the missing Dendrobium, and what little he knew about Colt. "You're pretty well connected with that crowd. What do you know about the old geezer?"

Laura ignored Garcia's dig. She knew him well enough to not take his commentaries seriously. Being a university professor and a woman meant she was invited to University functions to meet with the elite. The administration said it was to promote a positive image; she knew it was window dressing for the alumni association. She marveled at how, even in academia where people are assumed to have some intellect, women are naturally ascribed to being second class citizens. "I've met him," she admitted. "Socially. He's a trustee of the University. Very weird guy," she added with a shudder. "The orchid story fascinates me. I'm curious if it relates to all those people dying."

"What do you mean?"

"The scientist in me suspects a correlation. That's the inference I make based on the facts you've given me." She paused.

Garcia felt a wave of oppression flowing over him. Laura likes games, he reminded himself. She isn't going to give him the information; she's going to make him work for it. So, it would be like playing "Twenty Questions." He took a deep breath and took the plunge, beginning with, "And?"

"Give me more data and I might change my mind."

"Could this orchid be a killer?" Garcia prompted.

"Members of the orchid family aren't usually thought of as poisonous, but one species in North America, the Lady Slipper, causes contact dermatitis."

"Contract what?"

"Contact. Dermatitis. It causes a rash. Like poison-oak."

"That's hardly what you'd call 'poisonous,' is it?"

"Also, there were reports from Mexico in the 1930s about an orchid that possessed magico-therapeutic qualities similar to peyote. You've heard of that, haven't you?"

"Who went to college in the 60s and 70s and doesn't know peyote? What's the connection?"

"Maybe none. But you said Colt is interested in orchids, especially one that hasn't been seen much for 50 years. He worked for the big government spy outfit during World War Two. A bunch of his relatives died of overdoses. He made his first million in drugs, legal I assume." Laura shrugged. "I don't have enough data to make a hypothesis." Once again she paused.

Garcia took up the slack with the next question. "Just an inference, eh?"

"You're the investigator. So, investigate."

He was getting tired of women reminding him of that. "What could be in this plant that kills people?"

"There's a theory these compounds are designed to keep animals from eating the plant. There's a woman working on this problem in Southern California who seems to have enough evidence to suggest that plants naturally resistant to insects are more carcinogenic to humans than other plants. Who knows? It's more than likely these chemicals represent metabolic by-products or precursor molecules for the construction of proteins which also invest the plant with some resistance to predation. There isn't much biochemical work happening in this field since Reagan's DEA went all out for interdiction instead of prevention."

Garcia shook his head. "I still don't get the picture about how plants get to be poisonous."

Choosing her words, Laura said, "It's not as if plants have a conscious desire to be toxic; it just works out that way."

"You say it doesn't decide to be poisonous but you make it sound like somebody has a plan. I mean, for God's sake, it's just a plant. Do you think this particular orchid could be a killer? Next thing you're going to tell me is that flowers want to be pretty."

"In a way they do want to be pretty, so pollinators will visit them. But the point about whether plants want to be poisonous? That's an age-old question, Garcia. During the course of human history people have eaten, snuffed, smoked, and rubbed into their bellies any number of plants. Some, they discovered, killed them. Others gave them food. Most did nothing. A small amount of species cured what made people ill or numbed their pain. But a few, a very special few, got them off and sent them to heaven where they saw God."

"The mind-altering drug plants."

Laura nodded. "Plant hunters are still wandering around the tropics trying to find cures for everything from cancer to hang nails. The first place they look is with the psycotrophic plants."

"Plant hunters? I just read about plant collectors in the 19th century. Is that similar?"

"Same song, second verse. They're botanists searching for known, or unknown, plants."

"You mean this still goes on?"

Laura scoffed. "You make it sound so sordid."

"What are they searching for?"

"Oh, you know. New species, or species that may have medicinal or agricultural value. This Mauldaur fellow was a plant hunter and pretty typical of the era, from what you tell me."

"What about Colt? How does he fit into being a plant hunter."

"He doesn't."

"No?"

"During the 19th century, for instance, a patron like a rich royal nabob with more time and money than he knew what to do with, or some botanical garden or horticultural society, would sponsor some poor slob to collect plants suitable for cultivation or to document some disappearing flora. Usually they would be sent to some God forsaken hell hole in some obscure corner of the globe. The hunters weren't university educated, but they had done apprentice work with large gardens so they knew plants at the technician level," she said with disdain.

"Not scientists," Garcia commented with a trace of sarcasm. He certainly hoped he had never sounded so full of himself when he was in the University.

"They didn't have to be, really," Laura continued without missing a beat. "The system ate these guys up and spat them out at tremendous rates. Very few lasted more than two or three years in the field before they either went crazy, fell into wild animal pits, or were murdered by the natives for what little pieces of iron they possessed. Like I said, Mauldaur sounds pretty typical, including his attitude, but Colt doesn't fit the mold. You have to realize how unusual it is for the patron to go out collecting. It simply isn't done. It would be like sending the Krupps into battle to check out their latest formulation for gunpowder. There's grunts to do that."

"If Colt went to Malaysia, there must have been another reason for it then. It wasn't just pretty flowers."

"A spy is a spy is a spy is a spy."

"I didn't know you read literature."

"And a spy by any other name would still smell fishy." Laura crossed her arms and raised her shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "I can paraphrase with the best of them."

Garcia let silence hang in the air. He had what he came for and now began to look for a reason to leave. Laura stood and sat on the corner of the desk, closer to him. Garcia shot up as if he had just sat on a whoopie cushion. A look of half bemusement and wonder crossed Laura's face. "What bit you?"

"Nothing."

"So?"

"I've got to go. Investigate, you know." He felt awkward and wanted to get out of the office all of a sudden. He quickly thanked Laura and she gave him the same embrace and peck on the cheek as when he had arrived. She managed to lightly make full body contact, her breasts gently pushing into his chest. Her hair smelled fresh and clean and brought back the kind of memories Garcia always thought made him feel like a cheat.

"It's good to see you, Garcia. Try not to be such a stranger. Can't we meet when you don't need anything from me?"

"I'll call you," he stalled.

"Will you really? You can be a real shit at times but you're an honest man, Garcia. You promise me you will and I know you'll come through."

He promised and then kicked himself for doing it. Honest, yes. Weak and easily swayed too. There were other things Garcia would rather do than not be a stranger to Laura Bernsen.

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