The Solace of Bay Leaves

neighborhood. Others were pretty hot, calling it an abomination. Californication. Pat could speak more reasonably.”
Eventually the reasonable side had won out. Any possibility that the conflict led to Pat’s murder would have been investigated at the time. And it couldn’t be connected to Maddie’s shooting— she hadn’t owned the corner grocery then. Though I did wonder whether his death had prompted her to step up her efforts to buy the property.
At least one neighbor hadn’t opposed the plans at all. A neighbor who’d lost a ton of potential business when the project downscaled from high-end condos to low-end retail and rentals. But before I could ask about Deanna Ellingson, Laurel rose.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work. Thank you for the update.”
Greer stood but Tracy remained seated, his eyes on me. “Something else on your mind, Ms. Reece?”
Infuriating as it was, I had to admit that the man was awfully perceptive.
I wanted to ask why they had a guard on Maddie. Was she truly in such danger that the hospital security guards, not to mention the maze of hallways and doors, could not protect her? But if they were guarding her, then the answer was yes. And raising the question would only prompt Detective Tracy to make a wise crack about my encounter with Officer Clark on Sunday.
I kept my mouth shut.
Some questions are better left unasked.

Sixteen
When you are walking, do not throw your arms and legs about carelessly, but keep your elbows well in, or you might knock a ghost over.
—Arnaud Gélis, 14th-century armarié or “messenger of souls” quoted by Robert Moss, The Dreamer’s Book of the Dead
AFTER THE QUICKEST OF GOODBYES TO SEATTLE’S FINEST and a “see you tonight” to Laurel, I zipped out of the deli and through the lobby of the office tower. No sign of Smoking Man. Relieved from duty while Special Agent Greer had Laurel in her sights?
I glanced at my pink Kate Spade watch. Holy cardamom.
This part of downtown slopes steeply to the waterfront, and the larger buildings have entrances at two levels. I rode a trio of escalators down to Third Avenue and stepped outside. The skies were gray, the air cool, but no rain. For the moment, anyway.
My head was spinning. The walk would do me good.
If the cops were taking a closer look at everyone connected to Pat’s death, viewing them in a new light after Maddie’s shooting, I had no doubt that included Bruce Ellingson and everyone connected to the investigation about his firm.
What a tangle. Pat had helped investigate Ellingson, who had not been charged or sent to prison, but had apparently lost his business and his professional license. I’d heard enough talk among the lawyers I’d worked with to know that risk struck terror in their hearts. Losing the license meant losing the career they’d trained for, worked for, sacrificed so much for. And with that came a loss of income, reputation, and identity. If you weren’t a lawyer anymore, who were you?
No wonder Ellingson continued to call himself a broker.
A twenty-something sped past me on one of those battery-powered skateboards with the fat single wheel in the middle, a white Chihuahua poking out of his backpack. Ah, Seattle. Still quirky after all these years.
Both the Ellingsons had reason to blame Patrick Halloran for their misfortunes. But resentment was one thing, murder another.
Was I judging people unfairly? Making the easy assumptions? There were oodles of instances of unlikely criminals, the killer next door, right here in Seattle. Ted Bundy, the handsome UDub law student with his suits and neatly trimmed hair. The factory worker and religious zealot who turned out to be the Green River Killer.
But Bruce Ellingson?
I knew nothing about Joe Huang, but he and his cronies—it was a fun word—might be the better suspects. Though I could see no link to Maddie.
If I remembered the news coverage of Pat’s murder correctly, he was the first Assistant U.S. Attorney believed to have been murdered as a result of his professional activities. Obviously, then, AUSAs were not common targets. But investigators thought at least two of Pat’s cases could be linked to his murder. So much for the idea that so-called white-collar crime—financial crimes and fraud cases—isn’t violent. Crime gets its hands dirty, no matter what color shirt it wears.
And I thought again of the nature of coincidence. Ellingson next door. Huang’s comings and goings.
I tightened my grip on the bag looped over my shoulder, hunching as I picked up the pace. As if that would make me less visible, less vulnerable.
Going after Pat Halloran would not have stopped an investigation—dozens more prosecutors could pick up the case. If they thought one of their own had been targeted to stop them from doing their job, they’d double down.
Organized crime is a fact of life worldwide. Not surprising that it might rear its ugly head in the import–export business.
But clearly Joe Huang’s employer had not unleashed a crime wave against American law enforcement. If the crime was personal, then the Ellingsons were good candidates.
At First and Pike, I crossed the all-way intersection, as the woman in the photo had done. I waved at the florist on the corner. Just past Left Bank Books, I took a hard right down one of the Market’s many corridors, hoping the back door of the Asian grocery would be open. It wasn’t. I slowed in front of the creamery, contemplating a snack. Not that I was hungry; it was a habit. I’d reached the cheese shop with its tempting display cases when I heard a door and turned. The old lady edged into view, propping open the door of the Asian grocery with one shoulder. She wore a print blouse and black pants, and the black cotton shoes with white bottoms that I’d seen on display