by Nancy Bush
On the way to the hospital he put the cell on speaker and called Griff again. “What now?” Griff answered.
“Can you find out the address for a Ryan Mayfield? He works as an attendant down at Bay Marina in Nehalem.”
“This for Joe?”
“Yep.”
“You know the rules around here about handing out information.”
“I know the rules. That’s why I’m asking you to break them, Griff. I need some help and fast. This Mayfield told the Sheriff’s Department that my brother bought five gallons of gas from the marina right before he took off on the boat. The sheriff’s trying to make a case that Joe set the blaze himself, and it’s bullshit.”
“Okay, give me a minute.”
He clicked off and Sam waited while Griff accessed Mayfield’s records. It took a few moments, then Griff came back on and rattled off an address in Salchuk.
Everybody moving to Salchuk . . . his father had said.
“Don’t let this come back on me,” Griff warned.
“Don’t worry.”
Sam glanced at the dashboard clock. Eleven-fifteen. It felt like an eternity since he’d stopped in to see his father this morning.
Chapter Thirteen
Phoenix strolled out of Perfect Cup and into the newspaper offices. She ignored a couple members of the staff as she headed to her back desk. She was friendly when she needed to be, but she was dedicated to whatever story she was on, much to others’ amusement because they still saw her as a small, newsy, folksy kind of gal. She ignored them. So, they didn’t believe in her. So what else was new? She’d fought those same opinions all her life.
Besides, she’d been working on her own angle of the Cardaman story awhile and it was catching fire.
Unlocking the bottom drawer to her desk, she pulled out the file that Julia Ford had handed to her five days earlier. What was funny was there was nothing in it that warranted all the drama, as far as Phoenix could see. Yes, it proved that Cardaman had sold and resold certain parcels of real estate to multiple investors at the same time, a blatant Ponzi scheme, but there had been no connection to Joseph Ford’s clients, or so it seemed, though Julia had taken it off her husband’s computer. Phoenix had been following up on Cardaman because he was a slimy thief who’d stolen peoples’ hard-earned money and put the cash into his own pocket. Coast people. Her people. She’d cheered when he’d gone to jail.
She hadn’t known about any connections to Joseph Ford or the Hapstells until Denny Mulhaney had shown up at her office, ready for bear. “I want to report a crime,” he’d announced, to which Phoenix had hooked a thumb east and said, “You’re about a mile and a half away from the Sheriff’s Department.”
“I’ve been to the police,” he’d snapped back. “They’re all bought off by Cardaman. Every last one of those low-life cops.”
Phoenix had invited Mulhaney to sit down. She knew a number of members of local law enforcement and suspected that his claims were patently untrue. “‘All’ is a pretty big number,” she’d pointed out, but she’d listened to bigger whoppers in her time, so she’d also added, “Wha’ cha got?”
Mulhaney proceeded to name Joe Ford, among others, as someone who’d made tons of investments, many of which had turned to shit for his trusting clients. Not only had Joe Ford taken these “loser investors” but he’d skimmed off huge fees before letting the poor fools know their portfolios were full of worthless stocks, bonds, deals, whatever. Mulhaney made himself out as the hero, fighting the good fight, but he let Phoenix know that he, too, had taken it in the shorts along with other clients, losing a minor fortune in the process, as well as his job, and he wanted payback. Phoenix had heard the anger in his voice, the thirst for revenge. He was a bookkeeper by profession, and had worked for Ford in the Seaside office before it was closed down.
“I’ve got the information you need to bring Ford down,” he’d insisted.
“Well, let’s see it,” Phoenix had responded.
But when called upon to deliver, Mulhaney couldn’t really produce the data. He’d just kept insisting that he was right, and that she needed to investigate it.
She’d mentally written him off, until he said, “I can get you the Cardaman file.”
“You have a file on Cardaman?”
“Joe does. It’ll prove I’m right.”
“Get me a copy of it,” Phoenix had ordered, her interest finally piqued.
Mulhaney had then started rambling on about subprime investments and risky ventures of all kinds without giving specifics, and Phoenix had grown impatient.
Sensing he’d lost her, he’d snapped out, “I’ll bring you a file next week. Then you’ll see.”
But he hadn’t. He’d returned a number of times with more bluster, but no facts.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d yelled, “They owe me!” loud enough to be heard in the outer office, but there was still no file. Mulhaney had gone on to complain about Walter Hapstell, both Senior and Junior, as he had investments with them, too. It was all twisted together and Phoenix suspected there might be shady dealings in there somewhere, but it sounded like maybe something for the SEC to investigate, which she suggested.
That suggestion had put him over the edge. “You’re in on it, too, aren’t you?” he’d screeched.
She’d then told him to calm down, take a breath. She’d been thoroughly annoyed. Mulhaney was just one of those guys who threw blame around like confetti. He also looked like he could use an electrical shock to reset all those screaming nerves.
“You’re saying that Joe Ford has lost you, and other investors, money by putting your assets into risky deals. I don’t see how that’s a crime, unless he invested in criminal ventures.”
“Cardaman’s was criminal!”
She’d tried again. “You’re saying Joseph Ford knowingly put investors’ funds into Cardaman’s illegal deals.”
“Yes!”
“This is where you need to bring me proof.”
Mulhaney had then collapsed in on himself, a hulk of a middle-aged man, dispirited and upset. Head in his hands, he’d moaned, “Can’t you just write about it? Kick start them a little, y’know? Worry them?”
She’d felt a little sorry for him, her Achilles’ heel. “I’ll see what I dig up.”
So, she’d blindly started nosing around, asking questions of Joe Ford and Walter Hapstell Junior and Senior and others. She’d tried to talk to Cardaman, but his lawyers weren’t interested and neither was he. She noted that Joe Ford’s wife, Julia, was employed at Joseph Ford Investments, and learned that Julia had worked part-time there for some time, long before a disgruntled Denny Mulhaney left in a huff. Phoenix had asked Joe why Mulhaney was no longer there, and Joe had told her easily enough that Denny wanted to be more involved with the whole company, not just work in bookkeeping. When he was told that wasn’t going to happen, he’d quit.
“Was he able to get all of his investment money returned?” she’d tried, but Joe had said he couldn’t reveal anything concerning his clients’ private accounts.
In any case, it had all been a far cry from the tale of financial shenanigans Mulhaney had wanted exposed. There was no doubt Cardaman was a crook, in Phoenix’s opinion, but the jury was still out on Joe Ford and the Hapstells.
And then Denny had disappeared. Relocated to Portland without telling her. She’d followed up enough to learn that Denny Mulhaney had moved into a slightly rundown apartment on Portland’s west side and had taken a bookkeeping job at a local electrical company. When she’d contacted him, he hadn’t been interested in talking to her any longer. She’d asked him if he’d gotten his investment back, and he’d snorted and said it was more like a payoff than a return.
Hmmm . . . That had sounded suspiciously like sour grapes, so she’d put the story on the back burner.
Until Julia Ford showed up with the Cardaman file. Joe’s wife had clearly believed the file held information Phoenix needed to know about. Denny had warned her about her h
usband’s dealings with Cardaman, but she’d ignored him, until she’d found the file on Joe’s computer. She’d known Mulhaney had been talking to Phoenix—Denny wasn’t exactly a paragon of discretion—and so she’d brought her the file. Phoenix had pressed her for more information, but had gotten nowhere. Follow-up calls had gone unanswered.
Then the boating accident . . . and now Julia’s amnesia.
A little too convenient.
Phoenix had examined the Cardaman file with a hard eye, but the list of names of people who’d invested with both Joe Ford and Ike Cardaman was hardly damning. They were just people. A lot of them around Salchuk. A lot of them from Portland, the Northwest, and even one who lived in São Paulo, Brazil. She had their addresses and had begun to check with them, asking general questions, as she was on a fishing trip, seeing what would pop up. She wasn’t clear on what they could tell her that would amount to a story beyond the fact Cardaman had taken them, something that had already been all over the news. If Ford had taken them in some way, too, she didn’t have any information to support it, and none of the Cardaman investors was blaming him.
So nothing. To date. Except that Joseph Ford was dead.
The answers, if there were any, were floating around in Julia Ford’s head.
Now Phoenix picked up the file and looked at it once more. Anyone remotely involved in the Cardaman fiasco was doing some serious ass-covering. Cardaman was in jail, and that’s where it stood. Millions of dollars lost. The houses Cardaman had sold to hoodwinked investors twenty times over were sitting fallow along Summit Ridge Road in Salchuk. Cardaman had sold them sight unseen to people across the country based on beautiful renderings in a brochure. Someone had discovered the crime and reported it and investors were reeling. Those same investors had also been seduced by double digit investment interest and had offered up hundreds of thousands of dollars that had been since seized by government-regulating industries, now that Cardaman was found out.
But Joe Ford’s biggest crime, as far as Phoenix could see, was that he’d initially believed in Cardaman, as had the Hapstells. Cardaman, the flimflam man, had hoodwinked investors and friends alike. Investment fraud was laid at his doorstep, but there was no hint of it outside of Ike Cardaman, no matter what Denny Mulhaney believed.
“Joe Ford is dead, though,” Phoenix said to herself.
Was it an accident? The brother, Samuel Ford, believed it was foul play, but maybe that was grief talking. Still, the man had been a police officer, and he seemed levelheaded and thoughtful. Phoenix was leaning his way.
And if it was foul play, then what had happened? Joe Ford must have learned something, she felt, something damaging, maybe something that would further nail Cardaman’s coffin closed. Or, maybe Ford learned something else entirely. She’d posed as much to Sheriff Vandra when she’d stopped into the Sheriff’s Department after the accident. He’d told her she’d better not publicize her “half-baked, inflammatory” ideas. She in turn told him it really wasn’t up to him, what she reported on.
She caught herself tapping her pencil on her desk, so she put it between her teeth and leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling, thinking.
She needed answers from Julia Ford. She’d pushed her some, but maybe she needed to push her a little harder.
She glanced down at the open Cardaman file on her desk, examining the list of investors’ names. She was about to call the next one, which was about halfway down the list, a Mr. P. J. Simpson, but changed her mind. Instead she scrolled through her contact list on her cell phone, found the number for Tillamook Hospital, dialed, and asked to be connected with Julia Ford.
* * *
Jules sat tensely in her bed. The clock on the wall showed it was climbing toward noon. She’d been released. All the tests had been done. All the paperwork was ready. She just needed Sam to get here with her clothes....
Sam. She was remembering him more and more. It made her feel guilty as hell that she didn’t remember Joe, her husband, the same way.
Brrriinnngg!
She about leapt out of her skin at the sound of the telephone. Sam. Thank God! She snatched up the receiver and said eagerly, “Hello?”
“Julia? Hi, it’s Phoenix Delacourt.”
Her heart sank. “Oh, hi.”
“I was hoping I’d catch you before you left the hospital. I’ve got the Cardaman file open in front of me. I’ve been going down the list, calling some of these investors. I’m about two-thirds through it. So far, no one in this file has blamed your husband for any wrongdoing.”
“Good.”
“I know Dennis Mulhaney made you worry something illegal was going on, but I’ve no indication of that.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to come by your house and talk to you later about the boat accident.”
“I don’t remember it,” she said tightly.
“I know that. I also know your brother-in-law doesn’t think it was an accident, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”
“I wish I could help you, but I can’t.” Her pulse was starting to race again and she glanced at the door. Was someone out there? Someone waiting for her?
Stop. Don’t panic. There’s no one there.
You’re okay. You’re okay....
She had a sudden memory of Sam and her at a diner . . . French fries . . . sand in her hair and on her face, in her mouth . . . her father upset at the time she got home because her mother was . . . was . . . acting oddly.
“. . . you there?” Phoenix asked.
“Yes, yes . . . sorry,” Jules said into the phone. She was breathing rapidly.
More fries, Sandy? Sam asked.
No, no, I’m stuffed . . . Sandy, she answered. I’ve got to get home or there’ll be hell to pay.
They called each other Sandy.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and she turned in fear, dropping the receiver.
The door pushed inward and Sam, holding a duffel bag in one hand, appeared. Her clothes, she realized.
“Julia? Julia? Are you there?”
Phoenix’s tinny voice brought her back to the moment. She grabbed the telephone cord and hauled up the receiver. “I can’t talk now,” she said.
“I’ve got an appointment with one of the names on the list. I’ll stop by your house later.”
Her eyes were on Sam. “Okay . . . and wait . . . when you come by? Bring the Cardaman file.”
She hung up before Phoenix could say anything else, but Sam was staring at her, frozen.
“The Cardaman file?” he repeated. “What do you mean? You have the Cardaman file?”
“Phoenix said I gave it to her. She’s been going over it.”
“Phoenix? Wait. Phoenix Delacourt, the reporter? She has it? You gave it to her? My God . . .” He shook his head. “Did Joe know?”
He’d stopped just inside the door and now she reached an arm toward him, beckoning him forward. “My clothes . . . I really appreciate you bringing them.”
He stepped forward and handed her the bag, distracted. “Joe wrote out that note about the Cardaman file. The one that’s missing. Right?”
“Maybe . . . I don’t know.... Phoenix acts like I took the file without his knowing.”
“That was his handwriting,” he said positively, but she could tell that wheels were turning in his mind; he was trying to cobble something together. “I saw a sample of it in his office. Oh, damn. Sky Harbor. Jesus. That’s the name of the Phoenix airport. Joe was referencing Phoenix Delacourt in some kind of code. Why? What was going on?”
Sky Harbor . . . ? Jules sensed tiny pieces were trying to break through the fog. They’d poke up out of it, then disappear again.
“Why did Phoenix call you?” he demanded. “What’s she doing?”
“She said she was going over the Cardaman file, which is apparently a list of names. She’s calling each one of them and talking to them about Joe and Cardaman and . . . I don’t know. Whatever else.”
&nb
sp; “She says you gave her the file?”
“Yes. She said I met her at the coffee shop next door to the newspaper office.”
“She didn’t say a word about this when I talked to her.”
“Maybe you should talk to her again,” Jules suggested.
He zeroed in on her, his intense appraisal making her swallow hard. The thoughts she’d been having about him, the memories, still swirled around in her mind. “What else is in the file besides a list of names?”
“She just said the names.”
“You don’t remember?”
“If I did, I would tell you,” she snapped, then caught herself and took a deep breath, tried to calm down. “Some things are coming back. Dr. Lillard was right. But there’s still the gray fog.”
“What’s coming back? What have you remembered?”
Jules couldn’t tell him that she was recalling their relationship. . . how they’d been walking on the beach . . . calling each other Sandy . . . making love on his father’s couch.... She could almost see it, feel it.
But she was afraid. Afraid to recall too much. Something was there that she didn’t want to remember.
A look passed between them and she wondered if he, too, remembered those days long ago, if . . . Oh, Lord. Get real, Jules. That was a lifetime ago. . . . She gave herself a quick mental shake.
“Anything about Joe? The boat? What happened two days ago?” He threw the questions at her fast and furiously.
“No!”
Sam drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “Fine. Good. I’ll let you get dressed,” he said, turning away.
“I’m not lying about this.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t sound like he believed her, which pissed her off. “The paperwork for my release is ready. It’s at administration.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He left without looking back. Jules sat for a moment, aware that she felt alone and unnerved as soon as he disappeared. You should have told him about the man in your room. Why didn’t you? Afraid he was a figment of your imagination?