those missing tapes?'
'No. The people I talked to said her death was an accident, and I believed them.'
'And where were you the night Logan Tyree's boat blew up over on Lake Union?'
'The night Logan Tyree was killed? I was out of town.'
The fact that he spat out that detail right off the top of his head alerted me further. Without careful reflection, people don't usually remember what they were doing on a certain day or at a certain time. Unless that time and date have some special significance.
'Where out of town?' I asked.
'Vancouver, B.C.'
'Is there someone who can verify that?'
'No.'
The abrupt certainty of his answer set more alarm bells clanging inside my head. 'You're saying that you went to Vancouver that night, but no one saw you there.'
'Why are you asking me about that night?'
'Because I have someone who claims Logan Tyree had an appointment to see you the night he died.'
For the first time, Martin Green looked uncomfortable. 'That's impossible. I wouldn't have scheduled an appointment with him. That's the night…' He broke off suddenly and didn't continue.
'That was the night what?' I prodded.
Green shook his head stubbornly. 'I did see someone there, in Vancouver, but I won't bring her into it. She's married.'
'To someone else?'
'That's right.'
That struck me as ironic. Here was Martin Green claiming to be stuck with an unusable alibi. If the story was true, his reticence, for somewhat different reasons, was still the same as mine with Marilyn Sykes- confidentiality.
'But why would I want to kill Logan?'
'For the same motive you might have to kill Angie Dixon,' I replied. 'To get the tapes.'
'Don't you understand?' Martin Green demanded. 'I wanted the tapes. I didn't have to have them.'
'Wait a minute. I thought you said you went to see Angie Dixon on the job because of the tapes.'
Martin Green shrugged. 'It would be fine to have them, sort of the capper on the jug, but they're not essential. We can nail Martinson without them.'
So now the name Martinson had come up. He was the accountant, the erring husband, the ironworkers' bookkeeper who had disappeared on a fishing trip in the wilds of Alaska. Green seemed to be talking about the same puzzle pieces I already had in my possession, those Linda Decker had laid on me, yet there was a slightly different spin to them, a twist, that made them impossible to grasp and utilize.
'What do you mean, nail Martinson? I thought he was dead too. That's what I heard.'
Green snorted. 'He'd like us all to think he's dead, but I'm not buying it. He and his friends have been looting this local for years. He's got money stashed somewhere, in Canada we think. All of them do. I've got a private detective agency working on finding him right now.'
'On finding Martinson? Why?'
Martin Green nodded. 'As I said, we believe he's holed up somewhere in Canada. It was simpler for us to hire a private eye and send him after Martinson than it was to get you guys to go looking for him.'
A piece of the puzzle finally slipped into place. 'So what our witness told us about bribes and payoffs in the union was true?'
'Unfortunately, yes. International received an anonymous tip about what was going on in Seattle. We put an independent auditing team on it, and they turned up all kinds of crap. International sent me out as a troubleshooter to try to get to the bottom of it, to find out who all was involved, that sort of thing. It's taken me months to even start scraping the surface. It's not just one or two guys, you know. It's a whole clique. They got themselves elected and then made sure they stayed that way. They've been real cagey about it.'
Cagey? Green was talking about the problem as though it was some kind of minor office scandal attributable to internal politics with no major consequences, no harm done. It was time for some shock therapy.
'They haven't been cagey at all, Mr. Green. They're killers, cold-blooded killers. Three people are dead so far. Another is in critical condition. Why didn't you call us in?'
Green's chin sank to his chest. He sighed. 'International told me not to. They wanted to keep our investigation quiet, out of the media. Unions have enough of a black eye right now without this kind of scandal being blown all out of proportion. We're losing membership right and left as it is.'
'Two of your members died here,' I pointed out. 'Logan Tyree and Angie Dixon. Didn't it cross your mind that the information you had at your disposal might have helped us solve their murders?'
'But the papers said both deaths were accidental.'
A flashbulb of anger exploded in my head. 'What the papers said!' I exclaimed. 'For Chrissake, you mean you believe what you read in newspapers?'
He nodded. For the first time I wondered if Martin Green was as smart as I'd given him credit for being. He was our only solid lead. Suddenly I felt as though we were leaning on a bent reed.
'Wait a minute,' Manny Davis put in. 'Let me get this straight. You said a few minutes ago that these tapes aren't essential to nailing these guys. If they were so important once, why aren't they important now?'
Green got up and walked over to a file cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked it. My body tensed, shifting into that keen wariness that warned of the possibility of danger. I wondered if maybe he had a weapon concealed in the drawer. Instead of a gun, he extracted two maroon, leather-bound accounting books from behind the files in the second drawer.
'Because we have these,' he answered, casually tossing the two books in my direction. 'The journal entries. Martinson's so dumb that he left them in his office. It's all right there. The top one is the one Martinson handed in, the legal one. The second one is real. It's the one he kept for everyone else, for the creeps he worked with. None of them are listed by name, only by number. Once we put the squeeze on him, we'll be able to put names on these numbers and nail those SOBs.'
He was still standing up. Suddenly, he turned and rushed back to the file cabinet. 'Wait a minute. I just thought of something.'
Quickly he rummaged through the top drawer and pulled out a file folder. It was jammed full of receipts and copies of credit card transactions. He thumbed through a small stack of onionskin papers. 'Here it is,' he said triumphantly, handing me one of the receipts. 'I have to keep all the receipts,' he added. 'It's a company car.'
The receipt in my hand was from an Esso station in Langley, B.C. The gas had been sold by the liter, not by the gallon, and the date said August fourteenth, the day Logan Tyree's boat had blown sky-high. Martin Green's scribbled but legible signature was scrawled across the bottom of the receipt.
'You see, I got tied up here with a late meeting. By the time I finally headed north, I didn't think to check the gas tank. I almost ran out before I remembered. I realized it while I was waiting in line at the border crossing in Blaine. I got off at the first exit and found a gas station.'
'What was the meeting about?'
'Meeting?'
'The one before you left town. The one that made you late.'
'With Don Kaplan. I think you know him. He's in charge of our apprenticeship program. A number of women had either dropped out or were threatening to. If we lose very many more we'll be in a world of hurt with the EEOC and affirmative action. Federal and state contracts, that kind of thing. We had a meeting to see what could be done.'
'I thought Don Kaplan quit.'
Green laughed. 'He quits every day at least once, but he's always back on the job the next morning.'
'And was one of the women who quit Linda Decker?'
'How'd you know that?'
'I'm a detective, remember? It's my job.'
'She was the first one to go. It's a shame, too. Hell of a little worker. She lifts weights, you know. Strong for her size. The guys didn't mind working with her. They figured she could take care of herself.'
