“I offered to help him pay for a lawyer for him and your grandfather, but Michael wouldn’t let me… Said he had that covered.”
“He does.” C.S. Nikaimak sighed and held her hand out for the keys. “I’m their lawyer.”
The big dog rested his head on Miranda’s lap and kept it there so she could scratch between his ears as she sipped her second nightcap. Lawyers were emerging from the woodwork which she read as a bad sign. But she was glad Michael’s sister was coming through for him. If she was as smart as she was pretty, he had nothing to worry about. And maybe she could help their grandfather too. His was a tough case. Miranda considered the strikes against Joseph Wright aka Kamiakin. He once owned the fish club the cops think is the murder weapon. He has no alibi. He drinks and smokes pot, and he probably has been arrested before. Miranda was all too familiar with the fact that recently everyone’s history with the police had become a matter of public record available online. He also suffered from PTSD, so he was a little crazy. And if you’re crazy, you don’t need a motive. Chilled by the personal implications of this fact, Miranda stared at her companion for a minute as if expecting reassurance. She acknowledged to herself that Joseph Wright could have killed poor Isaac in a drunken fit, but what would he have been doing in the processing plant? Besides, according to Michael, Joseph was opposed to killing.
Rusty stood and stretched. He trotted to the door of her apartment where Miranda had hung a strip of leather fitted with bells and taught her pet to tug on it when he wanted to go outside. He tugged. “Good job, Rusty.” He tugged again. “Okay, okay. I’m putting my shoes on.” Once outside, Miranda continued to review the roster of suspects, but none, including Javier Baez, met the tri-partite crime show criteria by having motive, method, and opportunity.
As she and Rusty headed back to the B & B, the two reporters pulled up and parked. Instead of having supper alone upstairs, Miranda invited them to share her break-the-fast leftovers. Al, the older man, the one from the Forward leapt at her offer. “Lox from Barney Greenglass yet? Be still my New Yorker’s heart.”
Lynn was less enthusiastic. “Thanks, but I’m beat and we stayed for the break-the-fast potluck at that sweet little synagogue. I’m calling it a night. Go to it, Al.”
Miranda knew that once Al got done slathering his bagel with cream cheese and piling lox, sliced onions, and tomatoes atop that, his mouth would be too full for him to speak, so she lost no time. “Any new leads? Clues? A new suspect maybe?”
“We both took the day off, but I did check in with the sheriff while Lynn drove us back here. And you know what he told me?” He paused and contemplated his creation, a bagel-based tower of old-school Jewish indulgence.
Miranda shook her head emphatically.
“Nada. They got nothin’ new and nothin’ old either.” He had the bagel halfway to his mouth when, to Miranda’s surprise, he spoke again. “And if you ask me, which you did, they just rounded up the area’s usual suspects: a couple of Indians and a wannabe gangbanger who also happens to be Mexican-American. Meanwhile, the poor dead guy’s family in New York wants answers. RCK too… Their competition is having a field day with this.” A good sized chunk of the overburdened bagel disappeared into his mouth and he savored it in silence.
When the last bite was gone, Miranda brought him a cup of decaf and a couple of rugelach she’d defrosted in the microwave. “So what did you mean before when you said RCK’s competition is having a field day with this?”
“Well, say the big fancy motel that is your only competition in Sunnyvale was suddenly infested with rats. Wouldn’t you maybe find a way to spread the word and try to get their bookings?” When Miranda remained noncommittal, he explained. “There’s a lot of internet chatter about RCK’s sloppy oversight, violations of kosher protocols, that kind of thing. I mean, if you ask me, it’s just sour grapes.”
Miranda groaned.
“But competition is part of doing business in America, right?”
“So why aren’t you competing with Lynn. You two act like you’re best buddies.”
The lines on the old newshound’s face reorganized themselves into a grin. “We’re closer than that. She’s my wife’s niece.” He put his napkin on the table and stood. “One of these days, Ms Breitner, you’ll have to tell me what a nice Jewish girl like you is doing in a relatively Jewless place like this valley. But not tonight. ” He winked and stood. “I gotta get some shuteye. Thanks for the grub. Your rugelach has no competition this side of the Mississippi.” And with that qualified compliment, Al went to his room.
Upstairs later, Miranda logged onto Checkmate.com and found what, undoubtedly, the county police already knew. Joseph Wright had been arrested many times for loitering and drunkenness and jailed twice for possession of small amounts of marijuana, but he’d never been brought in for anything more serious. Michael Wright, Nelson Thurston, and even the thuggish-looking Javier Baez had never been arrested at all.
Having done her due diligence, she was frustrated. It occurred to her that maybe she and the cops were all going at this the way detectives on shows like Law and Order or CSI would. Instead, maybe they ought to attack this case like profilers on The Mentalist and Bones. She poured the last of the merlot into her glass. Profilers are usually psychics or shrinks and they visit the crime scene, deduce from it the characteristics of the person who committed the crime, share their deductions with the detectives, and then those detectives go looking for someone with those characteristics. Mona had pooh-poohed profilers and Miranda didn’t set much store by their extrapolations either, but she was tired of reviewing the same old suspects over and over in her head to no avail. She pulled up Word and began trying to create a profile of Isaac Markowitz’s killer.
CHAPTER 12
Guest book: “No matter what anybody says, this place brought me good luck. I got my dream job while I stayed here before, so I’m back now to look for housing. Besides, the rooms are clean, quiet, and very affordable.” Assistant Dean of Students, Heritage University
Before Miranda got beyond titling her profile, Rabbi Alinsky called. He was whispering so fast that Miranda asked him to slow down and pipe up. “Ms Breitner, I’m in the car across the street from you. My midnight shift begins in two minutes. But I know who killed Isaac, may his memory be for a blessing.” For a split second Miranda dared to hope this whole mess might be about to go away. But the rabbi’s next words dashed those hopes. “I don’t know his name, but I know his motive. You know that Canadian koshering outfit?”
“No.”
“Canadian-American Koshering Association. Their seal is CAKA. Well, CAKA’s been trying to move in on RCK’s processing plants here in the Valley for years, but, of course, my name was like a gold stamp and so was the RCK’s until all this mishegas, so CAKA couldn’t make any inroads. Now CAKA’s sent a representative to talk to Oskar Hindgrout and the other plant owners RCK, Inc., works with in this Valley about taking over their juice-grape koshering.”
“That’s interesting.”
“It makes sense. Koshering is big business with big money at stake. The method RCK uses to kosher these grapes is extremely effective and economical and unique to us. It was designed by my predecessor, may his life be for a blessing. CAKA must have sent an industrial spy to the plant disguised as a truck driver or a delivery boy or whatever. Maybe Isaac saw him taking pictures and asked a few questions, or tried to take his camera. They struggled and he hit Isaac over the head and left in a hurry.”
Miranda tried to imagine an industrial spy using a Yakama fishing club as a murder weapon. Even with this caveat, the rabbi’s theory was refreshing. If not exactly outside the box, it considered people and events in the wider world outside the Valley. A CAKA spy at least had a viable motive. Isaac wouldn’t have been the first victim of capitalism. “Rabbi Alinsky, have you shared your suspicions with the police?”
“No. How does it look to the goyim to have a rabbi suspect a Jew of murdering anoth
er Jew? Besides if I’m involved, it looks like I’m just trying to save my job.” He stopped talking for a moment. “Ms Breitner, I believe God sent you here to this valley to help us. You’re our Queen Esther, someone the authorities here will listen to. Will you talk to the detective about this? And keep me out of it?”
Miranda had to smile at being compared to the beautiful legendary queen who persuaded her husband, the Persian King Ahasuerus, to spare the lives of the Jews and then fingered the villain who would have had them all slain. She knew she was being flattered, but she was intrigued by the rabbi’s conjecture. “Okay, I’ll talk to Detective Ladin and ask him to investigate your scenario but to keep his investigation quiet. And I won’t mention your name.”
“Do you trust the police?”
Miranda crossed her fingers and lied to the rabbi.
The next morning, with some trepidation, she considered leaving a carefully worded message for Detective Ladin asking him to stop by that evening. A small left-over-from-middle-school voice in her head kept telling her that now that the detective understood that she did not return his interest, he’d get over it and focus on his job. But there was a more contemporary practical voice that reminded her that she had an appointment with a lawyer that afternoon, so she could discuss what to do with this information with him.
Harry Ornstein proved to be an unorthodox lawyer. He’d agreed to see Miranda at what he labeled his “conference space,” a scenic wonder called Cowiche Canyon in the hills just outside and above Yakima. “Meet me at the trailhead there at 3:30. Wear closed-toe shoes. It’s still warm out, and the rattlers just love that mid-afternoon sun. We can walk and talk. Meanwhile, I’ll e-mail you my rates and a form to fill out so I have your contact info.”
When she arrived at the parking lot at the trailhead, Miranda was surprised to find Harry accompanied by Julia, his bright-eyed and pig-tailed little girl. He seemed so different from her previous lawyer who’d been her dad’s peer, a suited and seasoned senior partner in a distinguished Seattle firm. Wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a Seahawks T-shirt, Harry was definitely buffer, younger, less conventional, and, alas, probably less experienced. Miranda hoped that his take on her questions would be useful.
“Today’s one of my days with Julia,” he said by way of explanation and introduction. “I just picked her up from school.” He grabbed Julia’s hand and pulled her back as she approached Rusty. “Wait, honey! Be careful. Let’s see if he’s friendly.”
“Not to worry, Julia. He’s very friendly. His name is Rusty and I’m Miranda.” Rusty licked Julia’s hand, sniffed her crotch and then sniffed Harry’s, and, satisfied, positioned himself at the child’s side, angling for a head scratch. At a word from Miranda, he stood as if to lead the way along the graveled trail between the steep sun-splashed canyon walls sprinkled with black lava, scruffy shrubs, and brush.
“I suggest you leash him. More dogs get bitten than humans.”
“Thanks.” As Miranda fastened the leash to Rusty’s collar, she whispered. “Sorry, Rusty. It’s for your own good.”
Harry had restrictions for his daughter, too. “Julia, you know the drill. You have to stay with us, right?” The little girl nodded, her expression solemn. “No wandering off the trail, no running ahead. You can keep Rusty company, okay? Just watch where you walk.” Wide-eyed, the child nodded again.
Once he’d scared the bejesus out of them, Harry turned out to be an enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide. “Cowiche Canyon is another gift from the glaciers when they gouged their way through here millions of years ago. Later on, this trail became a railroad track.”
“It’s amazing. I’ve recommended this spot to several of my B & B guests looking for something to do or see while they’re in the Valley, so it’s about time I’m seeing it for myself. Thanks for suggesting we meet here.”
“I don’t usually see clients when I have Julia, but…” He shrugged. “You did look a little the worse for wear yesterday. How’re you feeling today?”
Before she could answer, two folks on horseback approached at a trot. Rusty herded his three charges off to the side of the trail as the riders slowed their mounts to a walk in passing.
“Much better. See?” She stopped and turned her face up so Harry could inspect the slightly diminished bruise. He took off his sunglasses to examine the yellowing blotch. He was exactly her height, so unless she closed her eyes, there was no way to avoid at least some eye contact. She closed them.
“Did he loosen any teeth?”
“No. I don’t think so.” She ran her tongue over her lower molars. Unaccustomed to being kicked in the face, Miranda hadn’t even considered this obvious possibility.
Harry’s phone apparently vibrated, because just then he pulled it out of his pocket and took a call. He shrugged his apology for the interruption. When he finished talking, he apologized. “Sorry. I had to take that call.” He pocketed his cell. “So you’re here to see if I think you should press charges against the animal that did this?” He pointed at her bruised jaw. She wondered if Harry knew he sounded a lot like Blue Bloods’ Danny Reagan.
“Yes. But it’s not what you think.”
“Tell me what happened. Then I’ll tell you what I think, and you won’t have to speculate.” They had arrived at a low wooden bridge over the meandering Cowiche Creek where, as if following some primordial rule compelling kids to throw rocks into water, Julia picked up a stone and did just that. She repeated this action many times while the adults, including Rusty, stood nearby waiting for her to tire of her game.
“When I got home on Yom Kippur Eve, I unlocked the door to my B & B and found a gangbanger waving a gun and yelling at the receptionist I’d just hired….” By the time Miranda filled Harry in on Javier’s appropriation of his grandmother’s gun, his assault on her, and what she knew of his backstory, a few clouds had blown in on a breeze that chilled the air just a bit. Julia had tired of tossing stones and Harry provided her with a camera. She began photographing Rusty and then a tree-covered canyon wall ablaze with orange, red, and yellow foliage and the occasional wildflower blooming trailside.
“Hey, Julia, have a drink.” She traded the camera for a pink water bottle and drank. Miranda poured some of her own water into the dish she carried for Rusty. When she raised the water bottle to drink herself, Harry reached over and tapped it with his, saying, “L’chaim.” He quickly raised his bottle to point at the sky where, as if on cue, two eagles soared in circles. Miranda smiled and repeated, “L’chaim.”
Then she continued talking until she had filled Harry in on how Darlene refused to press charges against her suicidal grandson.
“So if grandma is telling the truth, he did not break in and did not rob you or your business. At the time you didn’t know that or know that he was a person of interest to cops investigating a homicide, so you tried to prevent him from escaping, and he assaulted you, right?”
“The first time he assaulted me I wasn’t trying to do anything. I was just standing speechless and gaping in the doorway. He deliberately knocked me down on his way out. That’s when I grabbed his foot to stop him and he assaulted me again.”
“Jesus, Miranda! He was holding a gun! Do you realize you could have been killed?” Harry’s voice was suddenly harsh. Rusty’s ears went up and Julia stopped taking pictures to stare.
In the silence that followed his barked question, they all heard it. Clicking. Like ice cubes rattling in an empty glass. “Freeze.” This time Harry’s voice was low and urgent. He and Julia both halted midstride as if playing some weird game of Simon Says. Miranda pulled Rusty close to her and whispered to him to stay. His growl softened to a low rumble, but he didn’t move. “On the left.” Harry’s whisper was barely audible. They stared transfixed as the snake, a mottled moving coil of beige on brown, unwound, slithered off a low-riding stone ledge about a foot from the trail, and disappeared among stalks of what Harry had told her earlier was white desert buckwheat.
Miranda heard his words as if they were coming through the hand he continued to hold in his. She had just escaped a rattlesnake and was holding hands with a man who wasn’t her dad. She’d never done either before. But she had once been part of a family, and for a split second that’s what she felt they were as, hand in hand, the three of them slowly made their way to the trailhead with Rusty close beside them.
“Julia, tell Miranda how we practiced freezing.”
“Daddy got a hiking video and we watched it and then we did what the hikers in the video did. Daddy said we could only come here if we knew how to act around snakes. But that wasn’t a very big snake, Daddy.”
“Even baby rattlers have poison in them that can make us pretty sick.” Not for the first time that afternoon, Miranda realized what a patient and loving dad Harry was. Divorce hadn’t soured him on fatherhood. For a moment she envied Julia. Only when they reached the trailhead did Harry release their hands, and when he let go of hers, she felt more alone than ever, even as all of them piled into Harry’s car.
“Julia, see if Rusty likes being read to, okay? Then, we’ll go for a frozen yogurt.” Julia grabbed a book from a stash in a bag on the back of the driver’s seat and began to read to Rusty, taking pains to explain each picture. Rusty yawned and then gave every appearance of listening attentively.
“So, you still want to know what I think?”
Miranda nodded. Seeing Harry elude the serpent in her post-Edenic valley had increased her respect for the lawyer.
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