“Okay. Here’s how I see it. You operate a fledgling B & B in a neighborhood that’s already compromised because of the killing across the street. If word of this intruder gets out, and if you press charges against your assailant, it will get out. That’s bad for business. Nobody wants to stay in a B & B where a wannabe gangbanger assaults the owner and the receptionist is packing heat. The best thing for your business will be for the real murderer to be caught, tried, and locked up ASAP.”
Miranda was grateful that, unlike Detective Ladin, Harry didn’t seem to find her concern for her business a mortal sin.
But when he went on to say, “On the other hand…” she winced, expecting the worst sort of condemnation. “… let’s look at this from the perspective of what’s right. I mean you do have to live with yourself no matter what you decide to do. So if you press charges, this kid gets thrown in jail and disarmed. Maybe he kills himself some other way there or the gangbangers kill him. In either scenario, the murder gets pinned on him or he names the guy who maybe did kill his brother and gets his revenge that way and then is killed. The problem is that someone you’re pretty sure didn’t kill Isaac Markowitz goes down for it and, sooner or later, gets killed in prison.”
“And the real killer walks,” Miranda chimed in. “And maybe he comes back. Besides, Javier Baez is already a person of interest to the police. If they want to try to pin this on him just to get a conviction and put it behind them, why should I make it easy?” She stopped for breath “But, do you think if I don’t press charges and Javier remains loose he’ll come back? Do you think my guests and I are in any danger from him?”
“He could have shot you. He didn’t. If you don’t press charges and he kills himself with his granny’s gun, you just have to remember it’s not your fault. And if you do press charges he might still kill himself.”
Miranda was relieved that Harry’s assessment of her situation confirmed her own less nuanced one. She wouldn’t press charges. At least not yet. “Thanks, Harry. I have one more thing to ask you.”
“Okay, but before we move on, know this. If you press charges against Javier, your receptionist will get charged also for breaking the “conceal-carry” law that expressly states that one must not lose control of one’s weapon. It must be carried out of sight in a holster or even in a waistband where one cannot lose control of it. Women lose control of their purses all the time. You don’t sound like you want to bring any more grief to that woman.”
“Who knew? Thanks, Harry. You’re right. Darlene said something about how she should have had the gun in a holster.”
“Okay. Next question. Fire away. Rusty and his tutor are happy.”
“As you probably know, the cops investigating Isaac’s murder are focused on only two suspects, a gang member and a Yakama. They just don’t think outside the box. But both Rabbi Alinsky and a reporter from The Forward staying at my B & B think Isaac’s murder may have been committed by an industrial spy.”
Harry cocked his head and raised his eyebrows as he considered this possibility.
“They think a rival koshering company might be trying to discredit RCK and get the juice-grape koshering contract from all their Valley plants. And when I stop to think about this possibility, it doesn’t seem all that implausible.”
“No. it doesn’t.”
“So should I pass this lead on to the detective?”
Harry chuckled. “It doesn’t sound like he’s going to think of it himself. Why wouldn’t you tell the investigator?” He took off his sunglasses and turned to look at her.
“I don’t trust him.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid of him.”
“Why?” Harry’s tone had a new edge.
Miranda chose her words carefully. “He’s in a position to blackmail me and…”
“What? What does he have on you? A zoning violation or a DUI?”
Miranda felt her cheeks flame. “No. I’ve done nothing wrong. But he knows something about my past that I don’t care for others to know. And if I don’t…”
“How much did he ask for? You realize that if you pay him once, he’ll keep coming back.”
“Yes. I know. He says he doesn’t want money.” She studied the dashboard. “He wants to go to bed with me.” She glanced at Harry and saw his pallor darken into a red flush. “But I figure if he keeps bothering me, I’ll charge him with sexual harassment.”
“If you do that, he’ll try to defend himself by discrediting you and he might succeed. Either way, your secret will come out and you’ll have legal fees.” Harry paused. “As your attorney, I should know what he has on you.”
Miranda kept quiet.
Harry picked up his glasses and studied them. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “At least I should know this detective’s name so I can check him out.”
“Alex Ladin.”
Miranda watched as Harry typed the name into his phone. “I looked him up and couldn’t find anything except that he’s worked on gang units in Tacoma and Seattle.”
“I’ll be able to get access to his personnel records. But Miranda, if you tell me what secret of yours he knows, perhaps I can give you better counsel.”
Miranda suspected he was right. Acutely aware of the child reading aloud in the back seat, she leaned closer to Harry and whispered. “Twenty years ago in Seattle I was charged with shaking to death a toddler I was babysitting for. I was arrested.” Harry’s eyes, focused on her face, didn’t blink. Having revealed her arrest and its cause, she resumed her normal position and made herself a bit more audible. “My case was dismissed for lack of evidence. But no one else was ever charged or investigated so whoever actually did harm Timmy was never caught. Everybody still believes I did it. But I didn’t. I loved that little boy.” Miranda’s hands formed tight fists in her lap.
“So?” Harry’s monosyllabic query was so understated that at first she wondered if he’d even heard her.
“So the next twenty years were very hard on me and my family. I’ll spare you the details, but even with a college degree I still can’t pass a background check and get work. Eventually I sued the SPD for mental anguish and won $215,000.” Miranda paused, relieved to be nearing the end of what felt like a confession. Her words came faster. “Then I changed my appearance and my name from Meryl Weintraub to Miranda Breitner and moved out here.” She watched Harry type her birth name into his phone. Soon he would see the video of her interrogation, read the press about her house arrest and the details outlined in her lawsuit. “I used the money from the lawsuit to buy and renovate an old farmhouse in Sunnyvale and open my B & B.” She sighed. “But would you believe, Detective Alex Ladin just happened to have witnessed my interrogation all those years ago and he recognized me?”
“Bummer. And creepy. Okay, so here’s my advice. “Don’t go to the detective or Sheriff Carson with this lead.
Miranda bristled. “What? You said it was a viable lead. Their investigation’s going nowhere. My B & B means everything to me….” Rusty repositioned himself so that his head loomed over the seat between hers and Harry’s.
Ignoring the intruder, Harry reached over and put his finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Listen. It is a viable lead. But there’s a safer way to bring it to the sheriff’s attention. Crime Stoppers.”
“The tip line?” She could feel Harry’s finger on her mouth even after he’d removed it.
“Yes. Crime Stoppers enables people to report suspicious activity or actual crimes anonymously and without fear of retribution. It’s very effective and safe. You should not be alone with Detective Ladin. Is that clear?”
Miranda nodded. She sat quietly for a moment, continuing to absorb Harry’s proposal. Using an on-line payback-proof tip line was infinitely preferable to any more grappling with Alex Ladin, another bullying cop on the make, a voracious vacuum sucking her hard-won hope for a new beginning right out of her. Besides, the simplicity and efficiency of the tip line pleased her inner techie. “So after I fill out t
he Crime Stoppers forms, I just go about my business and pretend I don’t know anything about anything?”
“Not exactly. The investigating officer may contact you online via a number they assign your tip. She or he may ask you questions which you answer online. This is all explained on the tip form. Just don’t include anything in your tips that reveals your own identity, like references to your B & B. Also Miranda, don’t talk about your new lead or anything else you send to the tip line with friends or family, okay?”
“ Okay.” She opened the car door. “And thanks for suggesting the tip line.” Miranda was half way out the door and still talking. “Julia, I enjoyed meeting you. Seems as if Rusty did too. Thank you for entertaining him.”
“Can you join us for some frozen yogurt? I mean I did save you from the fangs of a deadly viper.” Stupefied by Harry’s invitation, Miranda stood holding the back car door open for Rusty. This man knew the worst about her and was still willing to spend time with her, to expose his child to her. Maybe that was because he was a lawyer, her lawyer, and she’d won her suit against the SPD. Maybe he was giving her the benefit of the doubt. Or maybe, like Steve Galen, he was just being polite. Whatever his reasons for extending the invitation, she would have liked to accept it. “Sorry, I have guests checking in at six, so I have to get back. But I’ll take a rain check.” In a place where it rained only eight times a year, there weren’t too many rain checks.
As soon as she welcomed her guests, Miranda went upstairs with her laptop to become an official Crime Stopper. She was pleased with her tip.
Commercially koshering foods is big business. RCK Koshering, Inc., which employed Isaac Markowitz is the biggest such company in the world. All the fruit processing plants that process juice grapes in the Yakima Valley have contracts with RCK. It is possible that another koshering company eager to take over these lucrative contracts sent an industrial spy to try to learn RCK’s special process, developed by Rabbi Schnabel, predecessor of Rabbi Alinsky. Perhaps this spy was disguised as a truck driver or a delivery person and was taking photos and/or trying to access enzyme samples when Isaac entered and caught him. The intruder hit Isaac over the head and fled. One company that may have sent a spy is the Canadian-American Koshering Association.
According to Crime Stoppers’ protocol, as soon as she sent her message, she deleted it, making it untraceable. She wondered if her submission would elicit any questions or action. Supposedly if the police officer who read it had questions, he’d send them to her at her Crime Stoppers address and she’d reply and delete both messages. Meanwhile the experience of writing it, sending it, and deleting it was extremely satisfying.
CHAPTER 13
Guest book: “Refreshing refuge with no pseudo Victorian froufrou to clutter up the comfortable rooms. There’s a delicious breakfast with healthful options. Well-situated, well-run, and well-priced. I’ll be back.” Lynn Dinnerstein, The Jewish Transcript
C.S. Nikaimak showed up for breakfast in jeans and a gray sweater, her black mane constrained in a thick braid snaking down her back. Although she was still beautiful, she bore little resemblance to the soignée urban-Indian attorney who had checked in. Something of a chameleon herself, Miranda felt a kinship with this transformed woman whose dark eyes gleamed even before she helped herself to coffee. And if they were sisters under the skin, C.S was definitely the older sib because radiating from her glittering eyes were lines Miranda had been too dazzled to notice the day before. C.S. didn’t speak until she refilled her coffee cup, and then her tone was urgent and unmistakably seductive. “Hey, Miranda, I’m going to look for my brother and our grandfather today. Those two goofs have literally gone off the rez. Care to come along for the ride?” She looked around. “It’s pretty quiet here, and just plain pretty out there.” She pointed at the sunshine streaming in the window. “Besides, I could really use the company.”
Miranda figured that the quest C.S proposed might reveal something useful and relevant to her own search for Isaac Markowitz’s real killer. She’d also see the area through C.S.’s Valley-bred eyes and the clincher was that she just might make another friend. For once her chores would keep. “Sure. Should I bring Rusty?”
“Probably not a good idea. We’re going to be in the car most of the time.”
“Okay, I’ll arrange for someone to come and walk him.”
In less than an hour the two women were cruising along Highway 97 in C.S.’s silver Audi S5. Miranda could have starred in an Audi commercial. “I love this car! The engine actually purrs. My poor truck’s engine alternately sputters, coughs, and rattles.”
“It’s a good car.” Having acknowledged the compliment, C.S. changed the subject. “Miranda, have you been to Horse Heaven Hills yet? It used to be a sparsely populated part of the rez. Now, trust me, these hills we’re driving through are alive with wineries and ranches, even though most of them aren’t visible from the road.”
“It’s really beautiful.” The gentle hills were still golden with grasses. Herds of small horses flew down to race with the Audi along the roadside fence and then dash back up and out of sight. “Those must be the wild ponies I read about. They’re beautiful too.” She envied the wild horses their freedom and grace just as she envied the same qualities in C.S.
“Yep. They roam free out here, eating and reproducing like crazy. The ranchers go nuts because the ponies impinge on their grazing areas. But they are pretty. Pretty inbred, that is.”
Miranda didn’t know what to say to that sad factoid, so she asked, “Do you ride?”
“I used to. A lifetime ago I had a thing with a rodeo cowboy and he taught me.” C.S was quiet for a while and then pointed at the scablands appearing in the distance. The gentle green and beige hills had given way to bare sunbaked ones, home to occasional sagebrush spheres and striped by dark rocky outcroppings. When she spoke next, her voice was reverent. “My grandfather told us that his elders said those scratches are the devil’s handwriting.”
Miranda shivered a little in spite of the sun. She was relieved when C.S. shifted the conversation. “So, tell me, Miranda, what made you leave Seattle, a haven now for start-ups, and come way the hell out here to open a business?”
Miranda had answered this question many times. Every word of her standard reply was true, but it left a lot unsaid. “I took care of my grandmother and then my mom for many years, and after they both died I really needed a change of scenery.” Miranda paused. Back in middle school she had figured out that secrets were the currency of female closeness. So she inhaled and added to her spiel a few unscripted words. “You know, sometimes things happen and you just have to leave a place you’re used to and start over somewhere new.” Then she resumed her canned explanation. “I also needed a job, something where I could be my own boss. And I came into a little money. Running a B & B fit the bill. So I started exploring and fell in love with that old farmhouse. Even with renovation costs, it came a lot cheaper than anything in Seattle.” She smiled as they whizzed past a herd of multi-colored ponies grazing just behind the fence. Then before C.S could ask her any more questions, Miranda turned the tables. “Enough about me. I’m sure everyone asks you this, but I want to know. What does “C.S.” stand for?”
“My given name is Colestah. My mother and my grandfather named me after the fifth wife of Chief Kamiakin. She was a warrior, a healer, a bit of a shaman. The woman was legendary. In a major battle, a howitzer shell landed in a tree Kamiakin was riding under and a branch fell on him and unhorsed him. He was badly hurt. Colestah had been riding and fighting next to him, and she got him off the battlefield to a safe place where she nursed him back to health.”
“Wow. That’s a lot to live up to.”
“Yes. And it’s a pain professionally. Who wants to hire a female attorney named after an Indian woman/warrior/witch doctor? So I go by C.S.”
“C.S. does sound very professional.”
“I guess that means very male, right?” She didn’t wait for a
reply. “Friends call me Colestah.”
“You’re engaged and Michael’s last name is Wright, so I take it Nikaimak is the name of a guy you were once married to?”
Colestah laughed. “I let a lot of people think that. But you’re not ‘a lot of people,’ Miranda, so I’ll clue you in.”
Miranda was pleased to hear Colestah acknowledge their developing friendship. “Nikaimak is Kamiakin spelled backwards!”
“Who knew? But it makes sense for Colestah to have her namesake’s last name too.” Miranda considered telling this clever woman that she too had adapted a name with special significance to her, but Colestah redirected the conversation.
“You know, Miranda, if I’d been less ambitious I might have stayed out here and been a good caregiver for my brother and our grandfather the way you were for your family. Then maybe those two wouldn’t be running from a murder charge today.”
Colestah’s guilt-ridden speculation assured Miranda that they were, indeed, getting to know one another, forging a friendship. She was glad she’d come. “You don’t seriously think either one of them actually murdered that young man, do you?”
“No. But Indians get blamed for a lot of stuff we didn’t do.” Colestah hesitated. “And there’s my brother’s damn fish club….”
“How do you figure it got to the crime scene?” Miranda was hoping for some new insight into this conundrum.
When she replied, Colestah spoke slowly, seemingly reviewing aloud her defense of Michael. “My kid brother got that truck just a few months ago. Our grandfather gave him money from the VA that he saved just like he gave me money for board when I got a scholarship to law school. He wanted to be sure Michael could get to his classes at Heritage U. Until he got that truck, Michael hoofed it everywhere, even to high school. No wonder he dropped out.” She shook her head at some memory she didn’t share. “Anyway, the kid isn’t used to having his own ride, so he probably forgot to lock the truck one day and someone took the fish club. But who’s going to believe that?” She shook her head again.
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 13