responded with a rousing burst of applause, the man headed, chair and all, toward the driver's side of the car, where he seemed to clamp his chair in place.
Looking down at the ground clearance of the Aerostar van, I noticed that it was no more than three or four inches off the ground. That might be fine for getting the wheelchair in and out, I thought to myself, but how the hell is he going to get over the major speed bump between here and Maltby Road?
As if in answer to my question, the man switched on the engine. Without the slightest hitch, the ramp retracted and the outside door closed. Then, with a pneumatic sigh, the van's fender began to rise. When it quit moving, the van sat on ordinary tires, with the floor level and frame the exact same level as any other minivan. Meanwhile, the guy in the chair put the van in gear and began backing out of the lot. I stepped out of the way to let him pass. When he drove by me, he was grinning from ear to ear and waving in every direction, like the marshal of a Fourth of July parade.
'Sorta gets to you, doesn't it?' a tall, green-eyed man said, stepping over to where I was standing. 'Watching 'em drive off the lot on their own that first time always puts a lump in my throat.'
He paused for a moment, watching the van disappear from view. Then he turned to me, holding out his hand. 'By the way, I'm Eddie Riveira,' he added. 'Is there something I can do to help you?'
'Yes,' I answered, pulling out a card and handing it over. 'My name's Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. I'm looking for some information.'
Eddie smiled. 'Most people are,' he said.
'A friend of mine owns one of your units, one of those Braun Chair Toppers.'
'Really, who's your friend?' Eddie asked.
'Ron Peters.'
'Oh, that's right. The young cop from Seattle P.D., the one who wiped himself out by going off one of those unfinished freeway interchanges that used to be down by the Kingdome?'
'That's the one,' I said.
'I had a message from him a little while ago, but I haven't had time enough to return the call. How's he doing?'
'Fine,' I answered. 'He and his wife are expecting a baby. In April sometime.'
'He already has kids, doesn't he?'
'Two,' I told him.
Obviously, Eddie Riveira took a very personal interest in the people who were his clients, because he clearly remembered Ron Peters. 'Last time I saw him he had wrecked his car. We moved that old Topper of his from one vehicle to another-to a Buick, I think-and modified the brakes and accelerator. With two kids already and a baby on the way, he's going to have to break down and get himself one of my vans. He'll love it. Is that what you came to talk to me about?'
'Actually, it isn't. I'm working a case that may involve somebody with a Chair Topper a lot like Ron's. Only this one is on a 1988 lavender Crown Victoria.'
Eddie frowned. 'Lavender?' he said. 'I only know of one eighty-eight Crown Victoria, but that one's powder blue.'
I shrugged. 'I saw it at night. I could be mistaken about the color.'
'Virginia, then,' Eddie said. 'It belongs to Virginia Marks.'
'Do you know where she lives or how I could get in touch with her?' I asked.
'Sure. If you'll come into the office for a minute, I can probably give you her number.'
We started toward the office-a real one, not a makeshift motor home. Along the way, where once converted hot rods must have sat, now at least a dozen spanking new vans were parked, side by side, showroom style. Eddie Riveira must have been reading my mind.
'It's the same technology we used to utilize raising and lowering hot rods. We just put it to a little higher use, that's all.'
Once in the office, Eddie called up Virginia Marks' name on a computer screen. 'Here it is,' he said. 'This may be an old address. She used to live in a little complex over in Kirkland. I don't know if she's still there or not. At one time, she had talked about moving to downtown Bellevue. From what I can tell, she probably spends more time working out of that car of hers than she does at home.'
'You say she works out of her car? What does she do, run a vending machine route? Work as a sales rep?'
'She's a detective,' Eddie Riveira told me. 'Same as you.'
Except Virginia Marks wasn't just like me. I'm a cop. Virginia was a freelancer, a private eye. Eddie fumbled through a plastic holder and ended up showing me Virginia Marks' business card. AIM RESEARCH, it said. Those few words and two phone numbers were the only things printed on the card.
'The bottom number is a cell phone,' Eddie said. 'That's the one where you're most likely to catch her.'
'What can you tell me about her?' I asked.
Eddie shrugged. 'A little rough around the edges. Personally, I don't have that many dealings with her. Usually, Nancy or Amanda handles her. Virginia doesn't like men, and she doesn't make any bones about it. We're in business to service the customer. If she doesn't want to talk to me, that's fine with us.'
'What's wrong with her?' I asked.
'Wrong?' Eddie repeated.
'How did she end up in a chair?'
'Pulled out in front of a Suburban right here on State Route Five Twenty-two. The car she was driving back then was a little one, a Honda, I believe. The accident barely dented the Suburban, but it creamed Virginia's car and sent her to the hospital for six months and rehab for six months after that. She came out a paraplegic at age forty- eight. According to Amanda-that's my wife, by the way-one of the reasons Virginia Marks likes that old Crown Victoria of hers so much is that it's big. Maybe sitting inside all that sheet metal helps make her feel safe.'
A worker, a young man in startlingly clean coveralls, hurried up to where Eddie and I were standing. 'Sorry to interrupt, Eddie, but could you come look at something for a minute?'
Eddie excused himself and went away. I stood looking around. Behind the house and the one garage was a minipark with broad sidewalks that ran through a carefully manicured grassy area to two separate gazebos. In the middle of the plot of grass was a complex, fortresslike jungle gym built over a bed of freshly spread bark. On the sidewalk next to the play area, a woman bundled in coat and gloves sat in a wheelchair, watching while two little girls whooped and shrieked from the top of the jungle gym's slide.
Eddie came back. 'Sorry. Is there anything else?'
'Just one other thing. How much does one of these vans set a guy back?'
'About forty thou,' Eddie answered. 'About the same as one of your basic luxury cars.
'Okay,' I said. 'Thanks for the help. By the way, where's the nearest cup of coffee?'
He pointed east. 'Coffee you can have here, but if you want something to go with it, I recommend the Maltby Cafe,' he said. 'Go to the end of the road and turn left. It's not far.'
'And the food?' I asked.
'Their breakfasts are great.'
I treated myself to French toast and tried calling Virginia Marks of AIM Research at both numbers listed on her card. I tried several times. Each time I hung up just as the voice mail recording came on. I wanted to talk to Virginia in person. I had no interest in leaving a message at the sound of the tone.
Voice mail is fine, but only up to a point.
Eleven
No longer famished and in a somewhat more agreeable frame of mind than I had been earlier, I headed back to Bellevue. It was eleven-thirty by then. The sign on the door of Dorene's Fine China and Gifts had been flipped over from CLOSED to OPEN.
When I stepped inside, a bell over the door tinkled merrily, announcing my presence. The guy at the espresso cart had said that Latty was usually in the store by now, but the person behind the counter was a white-haired
