INSIDE PASSAGE
A Corey Logan Novel
by Burt Weissbourd
THIS IS A GENUINE VIREO BOOK
A Vireo Book | Rare Bird Books
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Copyright ©2013 by Burt Weissbourd.
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All of the characters and events in this story are imagined, as are many of the Seattle locations. Seattle is, of course, real, though the author has created an imaginary landscape in and around Capitol Hill.
ISBN 9780988931213
For Ben, Emily, and Jenny
Prologue
In 1987, the former USSR supplied roughly a quarter of the world’s uncut diamonds. Not surprisingly, corrupt Russian government officials began to smuggle rough diamonds to California and sell them on the black market to cutters in Antwerp and Israel. Before long, the Russian mob was selling the uncut gems to cutters all over the world.
September 1989
Lester Burrell was a method-of-payment specialist. He was an expert in gems, drugs, various contraband currencies, and laundering. Whenever he could, Lester worked with diamonds. He would use them to pay for weapons smuggled through the Eastern Bloc arms markets for terrorists. Or to buy classified military technology to sell to North Korea. He was always the middleman.
So it was unexpected for Lester to be partnered with a Russian seller of stolen state-owned rough diamonds. Nevertheless, in 1989 Lester found himself in a bungalow at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Barbara with his Russian partner, a gangster named Yuri. The declining hotel was between the beach and the railroad tracks. Kids liked to put coins on the tracks. Lester liked to knock them off with his cane.
The Russian gangster had worked with Lester on lucrative three point arms deals. Most recently, it was Afghan drugs for stolen Soviet weapons. Diamonds had been the method of payment. Yuri trusted Lester, especially when it came to diamonds. He even liked the outdated suits Lester wore on his king-sized frame. Yuri said they reminded him of home. So he listened carefully when Lester proposed he steal fifteen million dollars of state-owned diamonds. Lester further proposed that they take the rough diamonds to Canada where he knew a diamond cutter who could launder the stones.
Yuri had the stones in a Nike gym bag. He had spread a sample on the formica kitchen table where they were being inspected by Lester and his diamond guy, Nick Season. Lester deferred to the guy, which surprised Yuri. The guy wanted to weigh and inspect each of the stones. So Yuri was cooling his heels—he had already counted the cars of two trains that went by out loud—while Lester and Nick inspected diamond after diamond. Yuri liked that Lester was so thorough.
When Nick Season was satisfied, he stood and stretched. He walked around the table, pensive.
“Good,” Nick finally said, and came around behind Yuri.
Yuri was thinking Nick was too good looking for a diamond guy, and he didn’t look Jewish. Still, Lester knew what was what. Yuri would already be dead if Lester hadn’t bailed him out of a broken-down arms deal. The man he answered to would have squashed him like a bug. Boris would be going crazy right about now, throwing his vodka bottles at the wall. Good. Fuck you, Boris.
Nick put a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, interrupting his musing. “Very nice.”
Lester poured shots of tequila, one for each of them. Nick was adjusting his belt while Lester raised his glass to Yuri. Then Nick had the buckle in his right hand. Attached to the buckle, somehow concealed under the belt, was a thin icepick-like instrument. In one easy motion, Nick thrust the pick through Yuri’s right eardrum. In one ear and out the other. Just as quickly, the pick was withdrawn. And Yuri lay dead on the tabletop.
Lester made a churlish sound. “Nice,” was all he said.
“Al’s waiting in Seattle. He’ll take you to Vancouver.” Nick left.
Lester lifted Yuri’s head by the hair, looked at his lifeless face. “Nice,” he said again.
One
May 2010
Corey lay in bed, liking the briny sea breeze, even the kelp smells. Each morning she took this time to quiet herself. The tightness was still there, though, at the back of her neck. Gingerly, she cracked a trace of a smile. Today the sky was dishwater white; the sea, gray. Blake Island was washed out, dark, dreary, and shrouded in fog. She missed the lush fir-green that came with sunshine, the splendid, somehow reassuring sight of Mount Rainier, topped with glistening snow, looming large beyond the island. It didn’t matter. She had a window, an open window.
Six days earlier Corey Logan had earned her release from FCI Dublin, the Federal Correctional Institution in Dublin, CA. She had done twenty-two months. A condition of her release was three years of probation or “supervised release.” Her probation officer, Dick Jensen, had all kinds of discretionary power, so she intended to be a model supervisee. She could do that.
What she couldn’t imagine was her psychiatric evaluation, today’s business. Before she went to prison, there had been a dependency adjudication for her son Billy in the State Court system. She was his sole guardian, and when she was arrested, Child Protective Services had taken him from her. She had been unable to regain his custody before being sentenced and sent to prison. In order for her to get him back now, she had to go to dependency court to petition for his return. The dependency court required a psychiatric evaluation, parenting classes, and drug testing. She had taken her parenting classes at the pre-release center. The drug testing was a formality; she didn’t do drugs. Now she had to find a psychologist or a psychiatrist on the court approved list who would do the evaluation and let the court know that she was a “fit parent.” Next week she would see Billy, who had turned fifteen while she was in prison. Thinking of Billy made her neck tense up again, even her throat got tight. When she lost custody, they put him in foster homes, moving him often, never telling her why.
That made the shrink even more important.
Corey stared out the window, trying to put Billy out of her mind. Her buoy was wobbling in the wake from the Bremerton ferry. Her eyes settled on her handsome wooden boat.
The Jenny Ann swayed gently at the red and white buoy she had anchored yesterday morning. Her friend Jamie had bought the 1936 hardtop Chris-Craft back for her at auction. Luckily, her boat was old, used, and tainted by the drugs found on board. Still, Jamie had paid $13,400, almost all the money Corey had.
As a child, she and her mom had lived aboard more often than not. In those days the thirty-six-foot wooden cruiser with the green and white trim was called Poseidon.
When her mother died from skin cancer that
