by Rod Collins
“No jail time?”
Wilcox looked around the pristine galley and down the stairway to the state rooms and said, “You deserve it, but probably not. I don’t know if you’ll get to keep the yacht and all the money you took.”
Butler shook his head. “The yacht wasn’t purchased with dirty money. My father left me a two-million-dollar life insurance policy when he died. I bought The Runaway with that money. And I made damned sure my ex-wife couldn’t touch it.”
Wilcox frowned and said, “And that should make us feel better?”
Butler shook his head. “No, but I did help you bust Al-Alwani’s sex slave business. That makes me feel better.”
“Okay,” Brandt said. “What are we going to do with Miss Millicent
Andrews … and with this yacht?”
Butler looked at Millicent and patted her hand. “I’ve signed the title to The Runaway over to Milly. I’ll give her one of my credit cards and what cash I have on board. That should carry her for a few months. If you don’t throw me in jail, I’ll be back. I suggest we move The Runaway to the Ketchikan harbor and let Milly rent a slip.”
Millicent, tears in her eyes said, “I don’t want to be left alone. I want to go with you.”
Butler put an arm around her shoulder. “You can do this. Stay clean. And buy a cell phone.” He fished a notepad from a drawer and wrote a number on the top sheet. “This is my number. Call me anytime … day or night. As soon as I can, I’ll be back.”
Chief Jones walked into the galley. “Mister Kojak, your boat passed inspection, but your flare-gun cartridges are getting old. They haven’t passed the expiration date, but you need some new ones soon. Otherwise, you are good to go.”
Chief Jones looked at Wilcox and Butler, then said “I’d like to say something personal to Mister Kojak and the young lady … if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly,” Wilcox said. “Speak your mind.”
Chief Jones looked at Milly. “Okay. Here goes. You’re trying to kick a drug habit, aren’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business, but you look like my daughter did when she was trying to get clean. But, maybe I’m wrong.”
“And did she?” Millicent asked.
“Yes, but she works at it every day. Goes to meetings three times a week. If you would like, I think you should meet her. She could help you, give you someone to talk with while your friend is away. It helps her stay clean when she helps others. Okay?”
Milly stared at her coffee cup before looking at Chief Jones. “I’m not sure I can do it on my own. Please introduce us.”
Butler held his hand out to Chief Jones. The Lord works in mysterious ways, he thought.
An hour later, The Runaway was moored safely in a marina slip. Millicent had tears running down her cheeks. Butler gave her a hug, then turned and followed his companions to a Coast Guard SUV waiting to take them to the airfield.
Chapter 83
Campaign
THE SMELL OF BACON and the sound of domestic clatter woke Bud from a restful night’s sleep. It was the second morning of their A-frame honeymoon. Bud wished for a few more days, but he knew he had to get back to the business of being sheriff.
Showered, shaved, dressed in his uniform, Bud walked stocking-footed to the kitchen and sneaked up on Nancy, who was turning strips of sizzling bacon in a big cast-iron skillet. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled the collar down on her blue terry cloth robe, and kissed the back of her neck. “I know, let’s take a leave day. I’m not ready to go back.”
A red Ford F-150 rolled to a stop in the driveway, and Bud turned to look.
“Who is it?” Nancy asked.
“BB. He’s trying out a pickup … until his Lexus gets fixed.”
BB, wearing blue jeans, a short sleeved western style shirt, and polished cowboy boots, rapped on the front door and opened it, without waiting for an invitation.
He grinned and sang, “Honeymooners, at last alone…”
“Or trying to be,” Bud said without a hint of rancor. He handed BB a fresh cup of coffee. “What are you up to, BB? Dressed like a cowboy.”
BB pulled a chair out and sat down, put his elbows on the table, hands clasped under his chin. “You have the honor of looking at the Henry Bud Blair for Sheriff campaign manager. I figured ‘when in Rome,’ so if I’m your campaign manager, I might as well be Western. Besides, I think the style fits me.”
Nancy smiled. “How does that work, BB? The campaign business.”
“Well, first Bud has to file for the office. I have the papers in my pickup. He signs and I run them to town. The deadline is tomorrow, which I know he forgot about. Then I register us as a PAC and raise some money.”
BB turned serious and said, “Bud, I think we need to get moving. Your opponent was just on KQIK saying he plans to modernize the sheriff’s department and bring state of the art police techniques to Lake County, including the use of drones to patrol the far reaches of the county. And he implied you are old-fashioned.”
“He did, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t that take the cake? Get married and then lose my job.”
BB shook his head. “Not going to happen. Now then, I have a debate scheduled between you and your challenger next Saturday at the Lakeview High School gym. News Watch 12 from Klamath Falls will film it. That nice blonde anchor lady will be the moderator. She is developing a set of questions, and she’ll email them to each of you ASAP. The debate will proceed from those questions.”
Bud frowned. “How did you arrange that?”
BB grinned like a kid pulling a joke on a friend. “I did not. Your secret pal, Carol Connor arranged it. And that really is a secret. Carol does not want to let that cat out of the bag. As your campaign manager, I okayed the debate.”
Bud pulled a chair out from the little table and sat. He stared at BB before shaking his head to say, “Self-appointed campaign manager.”
BB was obviously enjoying himself. “Yes. You have excellent skills as an investigator, and you’re a pretty good sheriff, but you lack political savvy. Think of me as your political body guard.”
Nancy slipped around the table to give BB a hug. “Thank you, BB. He’s a wonder, he is, but he hates the press. And he hates politics even more.”
Bud finally rocked forward and reached across the table. BB smiled again, thoroughly enjoying himself, and shook hands.
“Thanks, BB. I accept your generous help and concern. By the way, what’s this guy’s name?”
BB’s cell phone chimed, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. “Miranda,” he said. “Do you mind?”
Bud shrugged and Nancy raised her eyebrows in speculation.
Phone to his ear, BB pulled the door open and walked outside.
Bud said, “Nancy, I’m pretty green at this. I’ve never had to campaign for my job. And it sounds like I’d better dig up some money. Maybe we could sell my house in town, and then I’ll move in with you.”
Standing beside him, Nancy put her arm around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, Bud Blair.”
Bud nodded, but still had trouble saying “I love you too” aloud. He slipped an arm around her waist and held her. They stayed that way until BB shut his phone off and walked back inside.
“Miranda says Portland’s still a mess. Local authorities are getting things moving again, but looting is still going on. She’s been pretty much stuck at headquarters for the last couple of days. Says she wants clean clothes and a shower. She got a call from the Portland Police Bureau to let her know her apartment has been ransacked. I offered my apartment, until she gets hers put back together.”
Nancy cocked her head and looked sideways at BB. “Wow. That sounds awful for Miranda, but do I detect a budding romance?”
BB just shrugged, grinned, and said, “I don’t know. We’ll see. Right now, I’m just helping her out.”
Bud nodded. “Good. N
ow back to business. What’s this guy’s name again? My opponent.”
“Clay Oliver.”
“What do we know about him?”
BB grinned again, “Why, Mister Sheriff, Deputy Roger Hildebrand will have a background file on your desk before the day is out. Suffice it to say, what we know at this point is that he’s wealthy – but unnamed sources in Montana are saying he didn’t get all of his money by honest means.”
“Won’t that backfire … if I accuse him of being dishonest?”
BB shook his head. “First rule of campaigning: let others do the dirty work. It will come out … but only if you and I say so.”
“Disgusting,” Bud said.
Chapter 84
Grand Jury and Return
WILCOX AND BRANDT spent a good share of the flight back to Whidbey Island pumping Butler for information, taking notes, refining questions, and looking for any small detail that could be used later for the prosecution of Al-Alwani.
Osama turned out to be just a shadow figure in Butler’s world. “I heard him mentioned, but never met him. Good old Al-Alwani often tried to impress me talking about what a badass he worked for. He said Osama would get me if I ever turned on him. And that’s all I can tell you about Osama. There is a connection, though.”
Brandt nodded. “Do you think this Osama character knew about the kidnaps and sex trafficking?”
“I don’t know. What I think is that Osama had bigger fish to fry, and he might have gotten pissed if he had known Al-Alwani was taking chances. These guys like to fly under the radar. Send their jihadi friends out to do the damage and remain anonymous themselves.”
Wilcox had decided sometime back he didn’t care for Butler, and that Butler should be going to jail – not back to his young girlfriend and his expensive yacht. He shook his head before he asked, “How did you get hooked up with Al-Alwani?”
Butler nodded. “Good question. It was so easy. Or maybe I was so easy. I spent a lot of time in a downtown bar called The White Swan. I was a regular. Had my own special stool at the bar, ran a weekly tab.
That was after some pasty-faced lawyer convinced a liberal female judge that not only was my soon-to-be ex-wife entitled to half of my retirement, she was also entitled to my house and my car. I walked away with my possessions in two suitcases. I didn’t even get to keep my PC. So … wiped out, after twenty-five years of marriage, I managed to drink my way into feeling sorry for myself.
“And one night, I let it slip that I was an FBI agent. The next night, Al-Alwani is buying me drinks and sending me home to Guy’s Marina in a limo … paid for. A month later, I’m getting cash gifts, nights in the Hyatt with a lovely young woman, and the promise of more. All I had to do was keep my ear to the ground and let Al-Alwani know of FBI surveillance or planned raids.”
“So, you sold us out,” Wilcox said, disgust in his voice.
“The money was huge … at least to me. Like twenty thousand a month. I gave him limited information about actions I didn’t think would hurt us that much. That’s about the time when my father died. I’d developed a taste for cruising, including one hairy trip over the bar in that little boat I was living on. That’s when I decided spending Dad’s insurance money on The Runaway was the right idea.
“And then I found out that Al-Alwani was kidnapping young women and shipping them to a bunch of Arab assholes in Yemen. Somehow, that tipped the scales for me. So, I started watching him, and that led me to the shipping container. That’s when I called you guys.”
“Oh, goodie,” Wilcox said.
Angered by the disregard Wilcox had for his actions, Butler said, “Damn right. I may have been a fool, but I put my life on the line to tell you about that container, and you ran with it. I know I can’t make up for what I did. I’m not sure that God himself will ever forgive me, but at least I could do that much and help put a stop to the kidnapping.”
“And run away with a woman young enough to be your daughter. How about that, Douglas? He betrays us and reaps the glory.”
Stung, Butler said, “Milly is a recovering drug addict. I’m trying to help her. She has no one else in this whole miserable world. You’re right. She’s not much more than a girl, and that’s as far as it goes. You can believe me or not. Nothing I can do about that.”
The C-21 intercom broke the tension. “Seat belts, gentlemen. We’ll be landing in twenty minutes.”
***
The return to Portland was via FBI helicopter from Whidbey Island to the Portland FBI’s rooftop heliport. Traffic was beginning to move again, slowly, but any movement was a blessing. A beleaguered Assistant U.S. attorney was once again getting witness testimony scheduled before the federal grand jury. Wilcox and Brandt took Butler to the FBI safe house atop the West Hills to await an appearance at the Justice Building.
Chapter 85
Debate
CLAY OLIVER WAS an impressive figure, a solid six-foot-two, dressed in an expensive western-style suit, black Justin boots highly polished, silver hair swept back, piercing blue eyes sweeping the crowd in the high school gym. When Oliver gave the crowd a big smile and waved, Bud thought, “Damn, but he’s a good-looking guy. I’ll bet he turns the heads of all the ladies. But I’m in uniform and he’s not. That should count for something. I’m a lousy debater, but I know I’m a better sheriff than he would be. Suck it up, Bud. Get this guy.”
Introductions made, Anna McBride, co-anchor of News Watch 12, said “Gentlemen, you have each been given a list of questions to prepare for this debate. There is a copy of the questions on your podiums. I will give you one minute to answer each question. At the end of the half-hour, you will both be given time for a five-minute summary, and then we give members of the audience reasonable time to ask questions. Understood?”
They both nodded, and Anna smiled. “Good luck, Gentlemen. Mister Oliver, since you are the challenger, you will go first. Please tell this audience, what qualifies you to be sheriff of Lake County?”
Oliver smiled and said, “Thank you. In Missoula, where I lived before buying the Z-BAR ranch, I was part of the sheriff’s posse and a member of the sheriff’s reserves. This gave me a lot of hands-on experience in support of law enforcement officers. I also trained with firearms, and I took crime scene forensics classes through Montana State. All in all, I’m extremely familiar with police procedures. I’m up to date on current technology … and I’m smart.” He flashed a smile and was reward with a smattering of chuckles.
Bud thought, “Well, here we go.” Heads were nodding as Bud described his nearly eight years with the Lake County Sheriff’s office, his master’s degree in criminology, and his eleven years with the Portland Police Bureau. A smattering of applause followed Bud’s “Thank you.”
BB whispered to Nancy, “Round one to Bud.”
Anna McBride moved to the next question. “Mr. Oliver, you’ve said you’ll bring new methodologies to the sheriff’s office. Would you tell us about that, please?”
“Yes,” Oliver smiled. “Glad to. I mean no disrespect to the experience of Sheriff Blair, but I think we could cover more ground and be less intrusive with the use of drone patrols, like the military uses, and do it cheaper than officer patrols. We could track cars, monitor speeds, find poachers, and get video of rustlers. In Montana, our sheriff used a drone to break up a large rustling operation that included on-the-spot slaughter trucks that sold direct to a string of butcher shops. That one saved our local ranchers one-million dollars a year. That’s the kind of thinking I’ll bring to the job.”