by William Cook
And there she was, in all her glory, the 262-foot mega-yacht Elysium, originally owned by the Emir of Abu Dhabi, sold for $258 million to the Pacific Moods Corporation in 2013. Chiara scrolled through the pictures of the inside and outside as the men gaped over her desk.
Esperanza laughed. “So that’s how the one-percent live. Damn!” He turned to his partner. “You still look skeptical.”
“Hmm. Anything else lead you to suspect this is our boat?”
“Glad you asked, Charley. I had quite the conversation with Pamela, behind the desk at Licensing. She’s got two kids in grammar school, one in preschool, husband working on his Master’s Degree in Social Work from the University of Washington.”
“Wait. Wait. You got all this in a phone call to the Department of Licensing?”
“You have to grease the wheels to learn things, Charley. You know that.”
It was his turn to laugh. “And where are you going with this?”
“Well, it seems that all the locals on San Juan Island—Elysium is docked in Roche Harbor—know that the ship sails out once every three months for some awesome party. Lots of bigwigs. Maybe some of that one-percent Tony mentioned.”
Whitehorse and Esperanza looked as though she had just touched them with a live electric wire.
“Oh, my God!” breathed Whitehorse.
“Holy shit-on-a-shingle!” said Esperanza.
“I did good, didn’t I?” Chiara beamed at her two friends.
“Good doesn’t come anywhere close, HD.”
Whitehorse was nodding like a dashboard doll. “You know what our next step is?” He had their rapt attention. “Find out who Pacific Moods is.”
Night was falling along the Van Duzer Corridor, a twelve-mile stretch of Route 18 through a dense conifer and hardwood forest. Paul embraced the dark to hide from prying eyes, and this road toward Salem provided his cover. The only major “intersection” with any kind of light was the casino, about twenty-five miles ahead. Just past the casino, he could stay on 18 into McMinnville, then take 99W into Portland. Before it got too dark to see, he pulled over and threw the Russians’ phones and wallets into a swollen creek that ran by the road.
How long before they start looking for this car? he wondered. That thought started a cascade of doubts. Have they already sent my picture to the airport? Will they catch me buying a ticket?
Everything was happening too fast. He had never been on the run before. It made his head pound.
“It’s not fair!” he shouted aloud. “I had to kill my brother—he had it coming. And I had to kill those Russians. It was kill or be killed, for Chrissakes.” He shook his fist. “Now where am I gonna go?” The rain had slowed down, and he adjusted the windshield wiper to the intermittent setting. “Calm down, man. People make mistakes when they get all nervous and hyped up. You’ve got time. Pull off at the casino. Get yourself something to eat, and give yourself a chance to think.”
A half an hour later he did just that. With the car parked in a far corner of the lot, he entered the casino and went immediately to the buffet. He hated casinos—"the Indians’ Revenge,” he called them. The sounds. The smells. He never understood “gambling addiction,” how anyone could throw away a home mortgage payment on the lame excuse that they would “score big” and change their life forever. It was all bullshit.
He filled his plate with prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes, and green beans, and ordered a double of Maker’s Mark from the cute server who was making her way among the tables. The medium-rare beef all but melted in his mouth, especially chased by a generous swallow of bourbon. He had to formulate a survival plan.
As the alcohol settled him, he thought about what he was driving. He might be able to do a plié from all his dance training as a child, but he knew nothing about jacking a car. He was stuck with what he had. Would it help if he swapped license plates with another car in the parking lot? Maybe. Then what?
The more he thought about flying somewhere, the less he liked the idea. The airport seemed like a perfect bottleneck for the police to catch him. How do I avoid getting caught? “Living off the grid” seemed like an easy proposition in the movies and TV, but not so much in real life. He liked his creature comforts, so he wasn’t about to go off into the woods, despite the fact that Oregon had thousands of empty square miles in which to hide. No, he wanted a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in and three meals a day. He had a satchel full of money for starters, and he supposed he should count it to determine just how much margin he had. He could never use his credit cards again, and decided to dispose of them as soon as he could. Everything had to be cash from here on out. Cash. What am I gonna do about money when my grubstake runs out? He waved the server over and ordered another double. It occurred to him a moment later, and he smiled broadly. My Superman. My dear, dear Batman and Spider-Man. My Iron Man and Wonder Woman. He would never reveal to anyone how he had obtained them, but he knew he could sell them to private collectors. Parting with them would be a grievous hurt, but it would allow him to live the rest of his life on a cash-only basis. And Sotheby’s in New York was famous for keeping their buyers and sellers anonymous. Their Comics and Comic Art Auction might be just the ticket. With every sip of his whiskey, the plan became clearer.
But what about his cell phone! How had he not thought of that pesky detail? He remembered news reports of police tracking down people who had been kidnapped, criminals who had committed crimes, by using their cell phones. He stood immediately and walked to the information booth. The young Native American behind the desk looked up as he approached.
“May I borrow a paper clip?”
“Certainly.” The man opened a small drawer, withdrew a clip, and handed it to him. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thanks.” He hurried into the nearest restroom and used the paperclip to pop open the SIM card tray on the side of his phone. He withdrew the tiny card and flushed it down a toilet. Then he held the phone under water and used soap to remove any trace of his fingerprints. Just as another man was entering the restroom, he dropped the phone into the waste basket, making sure it was buried beneath used paper towels. It would be strictly burner phones from here on out.
Feeling very pleased with himself, he returned to the buffet and got himself a piece of German chocolate cake, washing it down with the remainder of his whiskey. He left a generous tip for the server and walked out to the parking lot. Now he needed a Phillips-head screwdriver. Rummaging through the trunk, he found a small tool box. He was relieved that he wouldn’t have to use the blade of his beloved knife to remove the license plates and install those from another car. He selected those on a car from Washington State and completed his transaction in about five minutes.
As he pulled out of the parking lot, feeling sated and relaxed, he decided against going to the airport. He would turn off on 22 toward Salem, spend the night there, and then begin his cross-country trek fresh in the morning.
New York City beckoned.
35. Murder-Go-Round
“Put your feet up, Charley. Let me get you a glass of wine. Supper’s almost ready.” Chloe zipped out into the kitchen and returned with a glass of Pinot, which she handed to her fiancé. “I can’t imagine the kind of day you’ve had.”
“And you don’t know the half of it. I’m not sure I can even keep up with it all.”
“There’s more besides the fire?”
“Would you believe that the fire turned out to be the least stressful part of my day?”
Chloe looked shocked. “Dare I ask?”
“We have audio recordings of Paul Drake killing his brother, and later killing two Russian thugs from Portland. With a knife, no less. The crime scene at Drake’s house was the bloodiest I’ve seen in all my years of police work.”
“Good grief! Where’s Drake now?”
“Vanished. So far, he hasn’t shown up at the airport. At first, I thought he might head to Mexico, but we got a ping on his phone out on Route 18, right around th
e casino. Then nothing. He must have realized and trashed it. We don’t even know what kind of car he’s driving. Best guess is he took the one the Russians came in, but it’s not registered to them. It’s some kind of company car. And so far, it’s been impossible to track down exactly who owns the company.”
“Volkov?”
“Has to be, but we’ve got no direct proof yet. We’ve started circulating pictures of the Russian guys to gas stations and restaurants, hoping somebody saw them and can give us a clue to the car. But I gotta confess, I’m not too optimistic.”
Chloe turned back toward the kitchen. “Can you eat salmon again? I didn’t have the energy to go to the grocery store.”
“Sure, but wait a minute. Some good came out of today. Chiara tracked down a giant yacht that we think is involved in the disappearance of that girl Patricia Carmody, as well as some other kids. It’s up in Roche Harbor on San Juan Island, off of Seattle. I got a friend up there, retired from the Force in Tacoma. Think I’ll give him a call and see if he could check it out for us. Don’t have enough evidence to get a search warrant yet, but maybe he could give it an unofficial look-see.”
“That’s fantastic, honey!” There was a moment of silence. “I see that frown spreading across your face. What’s the bad news?”
His shoulders sagged. “My suspicions were right. On one of the recordings we’ve got, Gideon Drake admits to killing Carl and his crew.”
“Oh, my God! Have you told Heidi and Holly?”
“Not yet.” He took another sip of wine and sighed. “Probably tomorrow. Saturday. I’m trying to imagine how to say it, but I keep coming up dry. If the guy who did it is already dead, do those women need to know the whole truth? Do I need to make wounds that haven’t begun to heal bleed again? Traumatize them another time?”
Chloe sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “I don’t have words, darling, for what you’re going through. You know the law better than I do, and you can ask a lawyer if you need to. But if it was me, I’d want to know. I think it would be better to know my husband was killed by a horrible criminal than that he died because of his own personal foolishness—that he had allowed his boss to throw away three lives for some stupid crabs.”
Whitehorse nodded and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, honey. I needed to hear that.”
Saturday, February second, dawned with clear blue skies. Later, while folks back east in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, were celebrating the fact that the eponymous groundhog Phil did not see his shadow and predicted an early spring, Whitehorse was parked outside the residence of Heidi Perrins. The weather was glorious, the kind of day-long winter thaw that sneaks up on the coast in late January and early February. The brilliant sun would spike temperatures in protected areas up into the 60s by noon. A lack of any breeze assured that hardy souls would be walking the beaches in T-shirts by mid-day, and daring children might even don bathing suits as they chased their cheerful dogs into the gentle surf. In short, it was the polar opposite of the day the Johnny B. Goode went down with all of its crew.
Whitehorse had called ahead to make sure Heidi was at home and to ask if she might send her children to a friend’s house so he might speak with her in private. When she opened the door to his knock, she sounded irritated.
“Charley, what’s so private that my children can’t be home? You’ve had me worried sick since you called.”
“May I come in, Heidi? I’ll explain everything.”
“Of course. Come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“That would be nice. Black, please.”
“Follow me into the kitchen. We can sit at the table.”
It was a modest household that looked comfortable with the presence of children. Several toys and books-for-young-readers occupied two of the kitchen chairs, and refrigerator magnets boasted of the girls’ artistic talents. The laundry room just down from the kitchen was overflowing into the hallway with blouses and pants and socks.
“Please excuse the mess. Working full-time and taking care of this mob makes it impossible to get any laundry done until the weekend.”
“No excuses necessary. I have a grown daughter, and I can still remember those days. I can’t imagine how you do it with three. I was overwhelmed with one.”
Heidi poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table. Whitehorse regarded her with kindness.
“How are the girls doing?”
“Everybody asks that. I’m never sure how to answer. As well as can be expected, I suppose.” She took a sip of coffee and sighed. “Claire has been a little more rambunctious in school, but she’s always been my live wire. Brenda won’t talk about it. Spends every minute she can at her friend Angie’s house. Cherise is my sober one, my thinker. She’s by herself in her room more than I would like her to be, and then when she comes out, she seems to be worrying about me. It’s like she gets overly helpful instead of playing with friends. She’ll clean the kitchen, throw in a load of laundry. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the help. But I know it upsets her if she sees me crying, and then she has to shadow me around the house, as though she’s afraid I’ll leave her, too.” Whitehorse saw her eyes mist over. “Like her father did.”
Whitehorse wrapped his hands around the warm mug and remained silent.
“I’ve been so angry.” She shook her head back and forth as tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Angry at Rick for abandoning us. Furious at Carl for taking that goddamn boat out in a storm like that. Mostly angry at God.” She furrowed her brows. “People have told me I need to rely on the promises of God, but all I want to do is punch him in the face. I can’t pray anymore. I mean, what’s the point? I prayed for my husband every day of our marriage, and what did that get me? I still go to church every Sunday, but that’s just force of habit.” She reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Charley. You don’t need to be hearing all this.”
“Please don’t apologize, Heidi. There’s no way I can comprehend what you’re going through. Your kids growing up without a father. You without a husband.”
“Would you believe I haven’t washed the pillow case on his side of the bed? Once or twice a week, I flop down and bury my face in his pillow, trying to catch a memory of his scent. Isn’t that stupid?”
“No, it’s not stupid. Far from it.”
“And I listen to his playlist when the girls aren’t home. All his favorite songs, over and over again. When they’re in bed, I pull out the scrapbook from the last vacation we took as a family.”
Whitehorse reached across the table and put his hand over hers. “The world is a totally different place without Rick in it.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need?”
“The girls and me are seeing a family counselor every other week. And I see my own therapist every Wednesday. That’s some help. Rick had a good insurance policy, so we’re not hurting for money. Not yet, at least. And Holly’s been a big help.” She sighed deeply. “It’s just the tedium of day-to-day. Waking up every morning in an empty bed. Swinging my feet over the side and willing myself to shower and make breakfast for the kids. To push myself out the door to work.” She pursed her lips and looked at Whitehorse. “Need a warm-up for your coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She brought the pot to the table and topped off both cups. “I’m just rambling on. What brings you here today, Charley?”
“I’m not sure how to say this.” He drummed on the table with his fingers. “There’s no delicate way to put it.”
“Spit it out, man.”
“We have solid evidence that the sinking of the Johnny B. Goode was not an accident—that it was sabotaged. Your husband and the rest of the crew were murdered.”
Heidi looked as though she had been carved from stone or had been replaced by a look-alike mannequin. Every muscle in her body went rigid. She stopped breathing and blinking. Her gaze was fixed on th
e policeman’s eyes. In a moment, the spell broke, and she exhaled noisily. “Murdered?” she croaked.
“Killed by Gideon Drake, of Dragon Brothers Fisheries.”
“I know Gideon. All the crabbers know each other. Where is he now?”
“He’s been murdered by his brother Paul. That, by the way, is not public information, so please don’t repeat it. We have no idea where his body is. We thought it might have been burned up in the warehouse fire in Depoe Bay yesterday, but we were mistaken.”
“And where is Paul?”
“Disappeared. Not a clue.”
Heidi stood up and began to pace the kitchen. “You’re telling me my husband was murdered by a guy who was killed by his brother, who then escaped to parts unknown? For fuck’s sake, Charley! What kind of police work is that?”
Whitehorse hung his head. “The worst kind, I’m afraid. No excuses. I’m so, so sorry, Heidi.”
Heidi slammed both her fists on the counter and screamed something wordless, a wail of loss and grief beyond comfort, an accusation against God. Whitehorse put his head in his hands as the cry pierced his heart. He began to weep with her.
“I have nothing for you but the truth. Rick was murdered because he or Derek or Carl or all three of them saw Gideon kidnap a young woman. At least that’s the best we can figure it out so far.” He stood and walked toward her. As he approached, she reached out and embraced him, burying her face in his shoulder.
When she began to compose herself, she pulled away at arms’ length and looked at the man who had delivered such an unbelievable message to her. “I didn’t mean that, Charley. I know you’re doing the best you can. I know you always do.” She sat back down and took a sip of coffee. “At least I don’t have to be mad at Carl anymore. Just God. By the way, have you talked to Carl’s family in California yet? It’s a cold kind of comfort knowing he wasn’t being a colossal asshole that night.”
“Not yet. You’re the first. I go to Holly next.”