Archive for the ‘Post 6.4’ Category

Wednesday, March 28, 4:48 p.m.

I email The Seattle Crimeologist as soon as I get home. I use the email account that he hacked, just to keep things neat.

From: Katherine Luck
Date: March 28, 2011 04:48:39 PM PST
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hot Tip: Jack O’Lies
I’ve got a hot tip about Jack O’Lies at the Washingtonian. Answer your phone when I call you.

It takes me barely seven minutes to discover a phone number for Leo Krakowski, The Seattle Crimeologist. He was interviewed last year by the Seattle Times as a blogging trend “expert,” then was re-interviewed this week regarding his altercation with Jack at the Lake Washington murder scene.

I check the Wayback Machine  and find an old web-archived version of his blog. He used to list his phone number along with his email address. I dial it from my cell phone. I really need to resurrect one of my old untraceable cell phones.

He answers promptly.

“The Seattle Crimeologist,” he says.

“Leo?” I say.

“Yeah…are you Katherine?” He sounds all of nineteen years old.

“You sent a couple very threatening emails today,” I say.

“Whoa…back up on this a second.”

“And I quote, ‘Hi ya! So, you’re Jack O’Lies’ new drug of choice? Watch out. Have you seen what he’s been up to lately? Here’s a shot for the stepfamily album.’”

“Hey, I have no idea what that is!”

“You have a really expensive camera,” I say. “You took the photo of me and Jack at his house the other night, didn’t you?”

“Hey…is this some sex thing? Can I record this? Are you on the police force? Are you sleeping with a crime reporter—is that it? Did you tip him off about that dead body in the Lake Washington condo this morning?”

“Oh my God, seriously? I’m married!” I exclaim.

He chortles with unabashed delight.

“Oh, hell yeah! What precinct are you with? Is it South Seattle? There was such a big sex scandal down there last year that I was this close to breaking, but the freakin’ police union lawyers shut me down. Maybe we should talk in person. How’s now? Where should we meet? Hello?”

I sigh. It’s pretty obvious that Captain Overeager here is not my cyberstalker.

“I can’t meet you,” I say.

“Sure you can! Let’s pick a place. I’m in Capitol Hill. Where are you?”

I sigh again. He would live in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. My number one least favorite place in Seattle: land of drunk jaywalking club kids, illogically meandering streets, and zero parking.

“I’m north of you,” I say. “We can’t meet.”

“I’ll come to you. What bus line are you on?”

I sigh a third time. This panting puppy is useless.

Although…Jack asked me to investigate his life, if I remember correctly (never a safe assumption). Who better to start with than his nemesis?

“I can meet you around 7:30 tonight,” I say. “But I’m not dragging my carcass down to Capitol Hill.”

“Sure, that’s fine, sounds great! Wherever you want,” he says.

I meanly consider making sex scandal seeker Leo bus it through two county transit systems and about five transfers up to my neck of the woods.

I’m not made of stone. 

“How about Northgate Mall?” I say.

“Is there a Starbucks? I’ll buy you a coffee,” Leo says.

I never say no to coffee.