Cold Crossover

by T. R. Kelly

  Harvey stared straight ahead, appearing confounded by the amount of information I’d obtained. He broke the gaze and squinted my way. “Yes, that is the approximate intel this office has received.”

  Smithson glanced down at his notebook during an awkward silence and then rose to leave. Harvey walked Smithson away from the desk and promised to stay in touch.

  “Mr. Johnston, just to let you know, the paper plans a full-blown series on the case starting later this week,” Smithson said. “The managing editor put me in the middle of it even though it is not technically a sports project. Actually, I’m surprised the paper waited this long because of the speculation. Interviews with the parents, siblings, former teammates, opponents plus a history of his injuries, docs, the whole nine yards. He’s also not a juvenile and ...”

  “I know, I know,” Harvey said, steering Smithson toward the door. “I promise I’ll be back to you soon.”

  “And, Coach Creekmore, I’d like to get some more time with you for that series,” Smithson said. “Shouldn’t take long. I’ve got that stuff from Friday night at the paper and a ton in the files.”

  “Sure. Give me a minute to finish up with Harvey, and I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

  Harvey patted Smithson on the shoulder as the reporter left the office. I was curious about what Harvey didn’t say, but I wasn’t ready to ask. He did not mention how long he would wait before actively backing off the Linn Oliver case. And, given the circumstances surrounding the Mark Rice murder, I wondered if he already thought Linn was dead. I also wanted to know how much time Harvey had spent considering the possibility that a serial killer was at work in his county.

  He also had not said a word about a bloody towel that the state patrol found in the front seat of Linn Oliver’s car.

  “Ernie, you know how young people operate. Probably better than anybody I know.” Harvey pushed away from his desk, stuck his hands in his hip pockets, and peered out through the uneven Venetian blinds to the street below.

  “If Linn Oliver ran back to Mexico—for whatever reason—would Barbara Sylanski tell us?”

  “I would think so. But those two are so tight.”

  “Ah, yes. And I thought the lover’s concerto was a thing of the past.”

  I looked away. “Now that I think of it, “Lover’s Concerto” was a song recorded by The Toys. Pretty much one-hit wonders.” Then, eyeing Harvey, I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get the feeling that you thought you were being played here.”

  “Damn it, Ernie!” He turned toward me. “We gotta guy dead in a lakeside home, another missin’ who lived pissin’ distance away, and we don’t have jack on either one! Somebody’s playin’ somethin’ and it don’t sound pretty!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  1 p.m., Tuesday, July 12, 1955

  Angelica Kurri crunched her County Squire wagon over the acres of gravel road leading to the MacTavish & Oliver Lumber Company’s main headquarters just south of Conway on the Skagit Flats. The region’s colorful tulips were long gone, replaced by the irrepressible aroma of garlic and onions.

  “Is Charley available?” she asked one of the Oliver offspring at the desk. “I know I’ve asked your name a thousand times, hon, but that’s what old ladies do.”

  “It’s Jodi, ma’am. Actually Joanne Elizabeth. Got my grandmother’s name there in the middle. And I know my uncle would welcome the chance to visit with you.”

  Charles T. Oliver, chief executive officer of the timber operation and head of acquisitions, ambled his six-foot-two frame into the reception area in a short-sleeved, button-down shirt and tan trousers.

  “Lord, you’re looking more like your father every day,” Angelica said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kurri,” Oliver said. “If I didn’t have a customer from out of town this morning, I would have snuck in here in shorts today. Supposed to be eighty-five this afternoon.”

  “It’s Angie, Charley, and I won’t take much of your time. Is there a place we can talk?”

  Oliver led her to his modest second-floor office overlooking the log dump where trains both loaded and delivered massive evergreens from all over western Washington. He seated her on a small sofa opposite the mahogany table trucked down from the original headquarters on North Fork’s riverfront. Oliver scooted one of the chairs from the table opposite her and sat.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for some time, but I would like to divide my property at Lake Wilhelmina,” Angelica said. “It’s really the only source of retirement funds that I have. I’d also like to put something away for my daughter. You know all about short plats and such, so I want to hire you to do this for me.”

  Oliver raised his eyebrows and swayed in his seat. “That property is going to be extremely valuable someday. I mean, there isn’t even a paved road into the lake. Once more people can get access to it, your holdings are going to be worth far more than they are today.”

  Angelica frowned and wrung her hands. “I had a delightful day on Sunday, riding a horse to the sandspit from the old house at Finn Settlement,” she said. “When I got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A middle-aged woman had hired a couple of men to dig for lost items, and they had left holes everywhere. Now, I’ve seen a couple of holes before and thought it was just campers leaving a fire pit, but this was different.”

  “Maybe they thought they were on state land,” Charley said. “Every time a landowner up there finds a porcelain dish in their backyard, it shows up in the newspaper. People start digging all around the old railroad camps. Couple of my boys were up on the south shore for the Fourth just down the way from old Camp Eight. They didn’t say anything about digging or holes.”

  “What young men do? Anyway, I pointed to the madrona trees and both ends of my property, showed them where I thought the state land ended and my property began. Even showed her the property stakes by the outlet where the Knight family purchased last year. Didn’t make any difference. This woman, Mavis somebody, was hell-bent on digging where she darn well pleased. She was even on the beach, not fifty feet from the lake. Even had the gall to ask me what I was going to do about it.”

  Charley looked away as a logging truck pulled into the yard. “I’m sure once people in the area hear your land’s available, you won’t have any trouble selling any of it. But won’t you reconsider? Part of what you have there is the largest—and nicest—waterfront parcels on the entire lake. Plus, it’s so close to the Old Finn Trail.”

  “I’m grateful, Charley,” she said. “I truly am. But I go up there so rarely, can’t really watch over it and prefer to have other people enjoy it. I’ll keep something, but not much.”

  Chapter Thirty

  11:30 a.m., Monday, February 7, 1982

  The hour with Smithson passed quickly, and I headed home. As soon as I turned the corner at First and Van Ness, I could see the black-and-white unit in my driveway. There was no sign of Robert Oliver’s rental car. The proud, portly figure walking away from my front door was none other than Arnold Dawson. I could tell by the way he tried to locate and adjust his underwear. So much for my quiet lunch.

  “Now, Coach, you can’t ever say that I’ve never done anything for you,” Dawson said. “You left your house unlocked. But don’t worry, I checked it out. Seems fine. I needed to pee anyway.”

  I winced and came around the side of the bus. I slid open the cargo door and picked up listing sheets that had blown off the stack on the shotgun seat. I noticed a person sitting in the back seat of Dawson’s patrol car, but the tinted glass made it difficult to see inside.

  “Left it unlocked for my house guest.”

  He smirked. “Yeah, there’s a buzz all over our building about you and Jessie McQuade. Man, what I’d give to get that woman in my boat for a Sunday spin. Betcha she could really beat up a bait box.”

  Shaking my head, I approached the car. “She’s not the guest.”

  Dawson strutted closer. “Geez, not even a thank-you? It’s a good thing this guy sitting in my car
didn’t know about your unlocked doors or he probably would have been sitting in your living room, maybe lifting a few of your valuables.”

  “Valuables? What valuables?” I scoffed. “High school coaches and teachers don’t have valuables, Arnold. Unless you’re talking about family photos and the two-dollar bill my grandmother gave me when I was five.”

  Curious to know the identity of my intruder, I hurriedly gathered and straightened the pile of papers, stashed them in my bag, and sauntered toward the police car. The face was familiar but the straggly red beard threw me for a moment until I could place it on a warm day several years ago at Lake Wilhelmina. Terry Rausch appeared dazed. The red blotch under his eye had the makings of a full-blown shiner.

  “Jesus, Arnold, let him go,” I said. “Open this door and let him out before he tells his buddies he was unlawfully detained for looking up an old friend.”

  Dawson shepherded Terry from the cruiser and pointed him toward the front door. “Well, I guess I’ll be on my way then, Coach,” he said. “Just to let you know, very little gets by me here in ’ol North Fork. Especially on this block.”

  “I’ll be sure to remind my neighbors we’re in good hands.”

  While Dawson dipped into his cruiser to answer a radio call, Terry explained that the shot to the face was a deliberate elbow, delivered when he first refused to sit in the patrol car.

  “You know how you see officers guide a suspect’s head so they don’t hit the top of the car when entering the seat?” Terry said. “Well, this was just the opposite. I stood near the door, questioned why I had to sit in the car. Before I knew it, he turned and elbowed me in. It was as if the guy needed somebody to hit.”

  “More than anger issues,” I said.

  “Tell me about it. The guy also spent a helluva lot of time in your living room looking at stuff. My sense is that he did a lot more than just go to the can. If he went at all.”

  Dawson emerged from his vehicle, shimmied his thick black belt up higher on his soft midsection and eyed me warily. “Coach, I didn’t check your garage yet. Why don’t we take a minute and do that now?”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Check it for what? Everybody in town knows it’s never locked.”

  Dawson strutted down the driveway. “Then come on and humor me, just for a moment.” As he opened the side door to the garage, Terry and I headed that way and continued our conversation about his long journey back to North Fork. Dawson’s voice rang out as we approached the entry.

  “Well, looky here,” Dawson said. The motor to the large automatic door began to hum, coming to a halt with the door fully extended. “Seems the ‘ol Coach has been doin’ a lot more up at the lake than showin’ homes for sale.”

  I could not believe my eyes. A Yamaha motor sat on a portable carrier next to the refrigerator with several water skis, ropes, lifejackets and new gas cans strategically placed around the motor. The area looked like it had been staged by an REI professional.

  “What the hell?” I murmured.

  “And look at this,” Dawson said, pointing to a custom-carved table I had never seen. On top of the table was a gorgeous dark walnut case. Next to the table sat a five-drawer Craftsman toolset in a black steel cabinet. Dawson swung open the clasp on the walnut case, then glared at me.

  “There’s an elderly couple at the lake looking for their precious silver,” Dawson sneered. “Shit’s even engraved. You got a lot of questions to answer. But first, I’m going to inventory all this shit then call my boss and ask him what he wants to do about it. You remember Harvey Johnston, don’t ya, Coach?”

  **

  Five minutes after Dawson left, Robert Oliver arrived with beer and lemonade. When he saw Terry, he prepared an ice pack to his eye. Both men recalled memorable times together and seemed to genuinely enjoy the reunion.

  Terry said he had not worn long pants in three months, and his tanned legs left little doubt the claim was true. A former high school athlete from Wisconsin, Terry met Linn Oliver in a dormitory on the UW campus and the two quickly hit it off. Terry became a frequent visitor to the Oliver family home in North Fork.

  “Some young men go to Paris; I went to Mexico,” said Terry, lounging on the sofa in my living room. “I knew water was important to me as a kid, but I didn’t really understand the warm part until I got to Loreto.”

  “Linn told me you had it figured out before most young guys,” Robert said. “I’m sure there’s a lot to like down here, but I don’t know if I could take the heat during the summer.’’

  “It’s not just about the weather and the warm salt water,” Terry replied. “In fact, I’ll head back up to the lakes in Wisconsin during the summer. Mexico’s about the total package, how you want to spend your days. The people are honest, hardworking, and they respect each other.”

  “And what about the mañana attitude? I don’t think I could ...”

  “Mañana does not necessarily mean ‘tomorrow.’ It simply means ‘not today.’”

  But there was a topic that couldn’t wait until tomorrow, and Robert got there first. “I don’t know how much ground you guys have covered,” he said. “But Terry, I need to know. When’s the last time you saw Linn?”

  Terry rubbed his chin and glanced toward the ceiling. “Well, he only came down once and that was last year. So, it’s been several months. I’m trying to think of the day he started driving back.”

  “But no contact in the last couple weeks?”

  “Nope. I was hoping to see him on this trip and was surprised to learn you’d sold the family home. In fact, I came here from there. New owners of the house even brought me over.”

  Robert sighed and looked away. “They’re accommodating people, aren’t they?” he said. “Leaving there after all these years was a difficult decision. You know, since I retired, we just weren’t using the house that much. They’ve done a good job with the old place. I don’t believe the lawn has ever looked better.” Robert checked Terry’s cold compress, ambled to the kitchen, and returned with more ice.

  “Ernie, there’s a crack in the open window above the kitchen sink,” Robert said. “Did you see it there this morning? Is there a chance the police officer ...”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Young sparrows, finches bonk it all the time. They see the trees, bushes reflected in the pane, especially with the first blast of sunshine in a while. If they hit their beak just right, it cracks. It’s happened before.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past that cop,” Terry said, “to try and force that window open. I was dropping my gear in your backyard when he came along. So he walked down the driveway by that window at least twice.”

  “Naw,” I said. “Probably not.” I dragged a palm across my forehead, leaned back in my chair, and returned to the earlier topic. “We listed the Oliver place in town last year and it sold faster than we thought. Linn needed a place to live, so I found a home up at the lake, owned by the Dolan family and ...”

  “Any relation to the woman who died off of Loreto?” Terry asked.

  “Yeah, same family. Most everybody up at the lake knew them. Their place was headquarters for a lot of late nights.”

  “Coach, a friend of mine chartered them the boat down there. I’m told there was more tequila involved than a Cinco de Mayo celebration. Mexican authorities had to wait for the others onboard to sober up just to interview them. I guess her husband, Mr. Dolan, was a real mess.”

  “That’s Jim Senior. Still is, in a lot of ways,” I said. “Although I heard he quit drinking.”

  Terry shrugged and shook his head.

  I continued. “Anyway, I was wondering if Linn might have got a wild hair and jumped on a plane and headed down to see you.”

  Terry momentarily closed his eyes. He then pulled out of his slouch, elbows on top of his thighs, and stared out the street-side picture window. “God, I don’t think so,” he whispered. “But he always said he would be back. What are the chances he would come down when I was heading this way? He proba
bly thought it was a safe bet that I would stay put in February.”

  “I have to admit I’m a little surprised you chose to come north at this time of the year,” Robert said. “It’s prime time in Arizona for us.”

  Terry stood up and arched his back. “My youngest sister thinks she wants to attend the UW.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I encouraged her to see the area and visit the school during the dark, rainy time of year. I promised her that if she ever came out, I would meet her in Seattle. So I’m keeping my end of the deal with my little sis.”

  Terry declined my offer of a sandwich and a soda but reached for a bowl of mixed nuts on the coffee table. “I’ll tell you what, Coach. When Linn packed up that station wagon and left Loreto, I’d never seen him quite as happy and content. He was at the top of his game, and I don’t mean basketball. The guy was flyin’ high, and it was great to see.”

  “It’s surprising what a little heat andfishing on deep blue water will do for the soul,” I said, searching for something to say while picturing the abandoned Subaru on the cold Bremerton ferry.

  “He left Loreto and drove straight to Scottsdale?” Robert said.

  “Yeah, he planned on taking the wagon on the overnight ferry from Santa Rosalia to Guaymas,” Terry said. “It’s pretty much a straight shot from there to the border and on into Arizona. He was fired up to see you and his mom.”

  He nodded toward Robert, who smiled momentarily and then leaned forward in his chair. “Terry, do you recall Linn taking any sort of medication down there? I know it’s been awhile, but anything? Even over-the-counter stuff?”

  Terry squirmed. “Yeah, he was on the sly with something. Seems he had one of those little brown containers in his pocket at all times. At first, I thought it was Dramamine for sea sickness, but he was taking it all the time.”