by Janet Dawson
The driver made a turn, heading out of the town, away from buildings and houses, into the countryside. Then he slowed and turned off the pavement onto a dirt road, the vehicle bouncing over ruts as it headed up a hill and into a curve. Then the driver stopped.
Several armed men surrounded the vehicle.
Thirty
Willow told me that the road leading to the cabin kept going, intersecting with Green Valley Road. I left the Hargis ranch, drove back toward Graton, then cut to the north on Sullivan Road. A left turn took me west, onto Green Valley Road, which ultimately met Highway 116 between Forestville and Guerneville. I drove slowly, looking for the road Willow had described.
I spotted it just past a curve, on the left side of the road, a narrow gravel track barred by a gate, similar to the one near Willow’s house. At the first opportunity I made a U-turn and drove back to the gate, parking where the two roads met. I got out and walked around to examine the gate. It was secured with a padlock and the road beyond had thick stands of pines and oaks on either side. I saw broken branches indicating that vehicles had passed this way. Then I looked at the gate and saw a spot where something, probably a vehicle, had scraped against the gate while it was open. I examined it more closely.
Red paint, a dull red, just like the paint on Brian’s Jeep.
I got back in my car and pulled out my map of Sonoma County. The quarry where the Jeep had been abandoned was west of Forestville, not far from here.
I started the engine and drove back the way I’d come, heading east on Green Valley Road. North of Graton I crossed Highway 116 and continued east on Guerneville Road. My cell phone rang and I hit the button on my headset to answer it.
“Scott Cruz has a record,” Rita Lydecker said.
“I’m not surprised. What did he do?”
“Assault with a deadly, over in Vallejo, his home town. Cruz has a juvenile record, too, but that’s sealed.”
“Serious charge, assault with a deadly weapon. Who did he beat up?”
“Got into a fight with some guy in a bar and went after him with a tire iron. Beat the crap out of him.”
“Who was the defense attorney?” Had it by chance been Lowell Rhine? But maybe the San Rafael attorney was too high-powered for the likes of Scott Cruz.
“Public defender. Scott did time in the Solano County jail. About a year after he got out, he moved to Sonoma County. Worked in a couple of motorcycle shops, one in Petaluma and the place near Santa Rosa where he works now.”
“You do good work,” I said.
“Thanks. Any closer to finding your brother?”
“So far I’m coming up blank. But I know where he’s been.” I gave Rita an overview of my conversation with Willow. I told her where Brian’s Jeep had been found, and about the red paint I’d discovered on the gate at the other end of Hargis Ranch Road.
“It looks to me like Rick Newman faked his own death, with the help of his buddy Harry Vann. I don’t know why yet, but my guess is Rick got involved in something that he couldn’t handle. It looks like he was hiding out at the cabin on his grandfather’s property and planned to take the boat to get away. Brian went up to the ‘empty’ cabin, thinking he was going to stay there while doing some hikes in this part of the county. And...” I let her fill in the blanks. “Now Harry Vann is dead and Rick’s on the run. My guess is that he has another bolt-hole, with a friend of his named Tony, who has a pot plantation somewhere. But I don’t have a last name and I don’t have a location.”
“We can start with Sonoma County,” Rita said. “I’ll put out some feelers.”
“I will, too,” I said. We ended the conversation. I was moving into the outskirts of Santa Rosa. In the distance I saw Vann’s Motorcycle Shop. I slowed and pulled over to the side of the road to make another phone call.
Donna answered her cell phone on the second ring. “Hi, Jeri. Any news?”
“Hi, cuz. I’m making progress, piecing together what happened. I have a question for you. It’s about something you said when we talked a couple of days ago. You busted a grower last year, for planting marijuana on public land, at Annadel State Park.”
“That’s right,” Donna said. “He had a big plantation on private land west of Oakmont. He expanded over the park boundaries and we caught him.”
“You also said he got away with a slap on the wrist, because he had a slick lawyer. What was the grower’s name, and who was the lawyer?”
“I don’t remember, but I can sure find out. Where are you now?”
“Outskirts of Santa Rosa. I have to talk with someone there.”
“I’m in Cazadero, following up on that poaching case. I’ll make some calls and get some information on the pot grower and get back to you. We’re both in Sonoma County at the moment. Maybe we can meet up.”
“That would be great. I’ll be in touch.” My next moves would depend on my upcoming conversation with Carla Vann.
I disconnected the call and pulled back on the highway. Carla Vann’s Hyundai hatchback was parked at the motorcycle shop. I didn’t see the blue-and-white Tahoe Scott Cruz had been driving. Scott wasn’t in the service bay when I drove into the lot and parked. There was a large Harley-Davidson in the bay, in the middle of repairs, I guessed, from the parts and tools strewn on the floor and the nearby workbench.
Carla sat at the desk, a pile of papers in front of her, and another can of Diet Coke at the ready. She had emptied the ashtray into the wastebasket and set it on the counter. When I walked into the office, she looked up. “You’re back. Got more questions?”
“I need to talk with you, Carla. Where’s Scott?”
“He went to grab some food. Should be back soon.”
I reached into my bag and took out the newspaper illustration of the man who’d died on the boat. “Take a look at this picture.”
She frowned and took the sketch from me. Holding it with both hands, she looked it over, a growing sense of disquiet evident on her face. “This looks a lot like Harry. What’s the deal? Where did you get this picture?”
“It’s from an article in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat yesterday. Early Sunday morning, there was a fire on a boat out at Newman’s Marina. When the fire was put out, the firemen found a body on board. This is an artist’s sketch of that man.”
Carla’s face went white. “What? Oh, my God. You’re telling me Harry’s dead?”
“It’s possible.”
Carla looked at the sketch and shook her head. “No. No, it can’t be. You’re wrong.”
“You should at least check it out. Call the detectives at the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. Their names are Griffin and Harris. They can give you more details.” I took out one of the cards, Harris’s, and jotted Griffin’s name on it as well. I handed the card to Carla. Her fingers closed over it and tears leaked from her eyes.
“This man, he died... It was an accident, right?”
I shook my head. “No. The dead man was shot.”
Now she looked stunned. “Oh, my God. If it really is Harry... How... What am I gonna tell Mom?”
I couldn’t answer that question. Whatever she told her mother, it would be difficult to relay this unwelcome news. I thought of my own mother—and father—waiting at Aunt Caro’s house for any news about Brian’s disappearance.
Now Carla had a few more questions of her own. “Newman’s Marina. What happened? If it’s Harry, and I’m not saying it is, what the hell was he doing down at the marina?”
“I think he was with Rick.”
Carla shook her head, looking baffled. “What are you talking about? Rick’s dead.”
“Maybe not. They never found a body.”
She stopped and considered this for a moment, hands clenching, then opening. “That would explain...”
“What would it explain?”
Carla looked wary. Then she opened up. “Harry was cooking up some scheme. I knew it, I could feel it, ever since Rick’s accident in June. I don’t know what, but Harry was keyed up,
wired. He was definitely up to something.”
Up to something, I wondered, as in helping Rick get away on the boat? Or had Harry been planning to go with Rick?
“How well did you know Rick?”
“He worked here, repairing bikes. That was off and on. And...” Carla looked sad. “Well, I used to go out with him, a couple of years back. But that relationship was over. I liked the guy, but he’s not what you’d call reliable. I gotta stay away from those bad boys. But there’s something about them. Rick could be really charming when he wanted to be.”
The blue-and-white Tahoe pulled into the parking lot, and Scott got out, carrying a pizza box and a liter of Pepsi. He went into the service bay without glancing into the office.
Carla got up from the desk and went into the bay, carrying the artist’s sketch. I followed her. Scott had set the pizza box on one of the work benches. He had the lid open and was lifting a slice laden with pepperoni and sausage from the box.
He didn’t look pleased to see me again. “What’s up?” he asked.
Carla stumbled over the words. “I just found out... It could be...oh, hell, maybe Harry’s dead.”
Scott dropped the pizza slice back into the box. “What makes you think that?”
Carla showed him the sketch. “This picture. It looks like Harry, doesn’t it?”
Scott wiped the tomato sauce from his fingers with a wad of napkins, squinting his brown eyes at the sketch. He shrugged. “Could be him, I guess.”
“This person got shot down at Newman’s on Sunday morning,” Carla said.
Scott reached for the Pepsi and opened the bottle, taking a drink. “No shit.”
No interest, I thought. Scott Cruz’s reaction to the possible death of his employer was flat, unemotional, without curiosity. I saw none of the emotion that Carla was expressing, with her facial expressions, her voice, her tears. Some people are more shut down, showing little or no emotion. Maybe Scott was one of those people. Or maybe there was another reason. Scott’s reaction, or lack of it, made me wonder if he already knew Harry Vann was dead. I also wanted to know where Scott had been early Sunday morning when everything went down at Newman’s Marina.
Carla turned, heading back toward the office. “I gotta go. I gotta make some calls. And tell Mom.”
“Sure thing. I gotta finish this bike. I’ll close up at five, like I always do.” Scott took another long drink from the bottle of Pepsi. Then he reached for another slice of pizza.
I left when Carla did. She got into her hatchback and drove off, heading east in the direction of Santa Rosa. I drove out of the parking lot heading west, then I made a U-turn and pulled to the side of the road at a spot where the motorcycle shop was clearly visible.
Inside the service bay, Scott Cruz wasn’t eating his pizza, nor was he working on the Harley. He was pacing back and forth, talking on a cell phone. He ended the call and jammed the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he went to a control box on the side wall of the bay and lowered the metal door, closing off the bay. A moment later he came out of the office and locked the door.
I glanced at my watch. A quarter to four. So much for closing up at five.
Thirty-One
Scott got into his Tahoe and started the engine. He turned east onto Guerneville Road. I followed him into Santa Rosa. At U.S. 101, he got onto the freeway, heading south. He drove fast but I kept up with him. When we got to Petaluma, he took the exit for Lakeville Highway and headed east.
Was he going to the marina down in Lakeville?
No, he wasn’t. Just past South McDowell Boulevard, the Tahoe turned right into the lot of a small strip mall and parked in front of a Starbucks.
Long way to go for a cup of coffee, I thought. I pulled my Toyota into a spot where I could see both the Tahoe and the coffee shop.
But Scott didn’t go inside. He got out of his Tahoe and looked around the parking lot. Then he leaned against the hood and lit up a cigarette. He stood there, watching the entrance to the parking lot. He was waiting for someone.
I kept an eye on Scott as I pulled out my cell phone and Detective Griffin’s business card. Griffin wasn’t available, but I left a voice mail message, telling him the dead man was most likely Harry Vann, and that he’d be getting a call from Harry’s sister, Carla.
A moment after I disconnected the call, my phone rang. I glanced at the number. It was Donna. I answered the call.
“The grower I arrested last year,” she said, “the one that walked, his name’s Anthony Busto. The slick lawyer was a guy named Rhine.”
“Thanks. That clarifies a few things.” I’d been keeping an eye on Scott, slouched against the hood of his Tahoe as he smoked his cigarette and tossed the butt to the pavement. Now he straightened and looked toward the parking lot entrance. Whoever he was meeting had arrived.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m tailing someone and it’s about to get interesting.”
“Call me later,” Donna said, and hung up.
A silver BMW pulled into the lot and parked at the end of a row of cars. Scott walked toward it as a tall man in a business suit unfolded himself from the driver’s side.
I recognized him from the pictures I’d seen on the Internet. Lowell Rhine.
What business did Scott Cruz have with the defense lawyer? Obviously the kind of business that couldn’t be conducted in the attorney’s San Rafael office.
The two men went inside the Starbucks. I followed. They queued up to order drinks, plain coffee for Scott, a cappuccino for Rhine, who paid for the drinks. When they got their coffees, I took my turn and ordered an iced latte. They found a table near the back. I got my latte and sat down at a nearby table, making sure Scott’s back was to me. I didn’t want him to see me, but his attention was on Rhine.
The conversation between the two men was conducted in low tones, so I couldn’t make out the words. But I was close enough to watch their body language. In an exchange between the motorcycle mechanic and the attorney, Rhine dominated the conversation, punctuating his words with quick hand gestures. And Scott didn’t like what he was hearing.
I got out my cell phone, pretending to take a call. I snapped a couple of photos of the two men, hoping the noise in the coffee shop would mask the sound of the shutter. Insurance of a different sort, I thought, just in case I needed something to hold over Rhine’s head. I tucked the phone in my bag and picked up a discarded copy of that morning’s San Francisco Chronicle.
The exchange grew more heated. Then Scott pushed back his chair and stood up. I raised the newspaper to shield my face as Scott left the coffee shop.
Rhine took another sip of his cappuccino, a frown on his face. At this distance, he looked older than the photo on his website. The attorney was in his forties, I guessed, edging toward fifty. His brown hair had threads of gray, and there were lines around his pale blue eyes. Over a white shirt, he wore a light gray suit. It looked expensive, tailored to fit him. Just as in the website photo, he wore a large diamond-and-gold pin anchoring his red striped tie.
Rhine shoved back his chair and stood to leave. I got up, too, blocking his exit. He looked down at me, his blue eyes hooded, waiting for me to move. I didn’t. Instead I handed him one of my business cards.
“I’m Jeri Howard, Mr. Rhine. You haven’t returned my phone call.”
He looked at my card through narrowed eyes. Then he tucked it into his jacket pocket. His voice was deep and resonant, just the voice for a trial lawyer. “You were calling about?”
“A boat called the Esmeralda.”
Rhine pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “In what connection?”
“The Esmeralda burned on Sunday morning, at Newman’s Marina in Lakeville. After the fire was put out, a body was found onboard. You’re listed as the owner of that boat, and two others berthed at the marina. But you’re not.”
“What has this got to do with a private investigator from Oakland?”
“I appreciate a good stall as much as the next person,
Mr. Rhine. But this private investigator’s not going away. My associate and I generated boat histories on all three vessels berthed by you at Newman’s Marina. They’re owned by a man named Enrique Lopez, one of your clients.”
Rhine didn’t react. He had a good poker face.
“The smaller boats are clean,” I said, “But the history on the Esmeralda says it was seized once before, for running drugs from Mexico to the United States. You got the boat back due to the most recent changes in the forfeiture laws.”
“You’re thorough,” Rhine said.
“Yes, I am.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re interested.”
“I’m working on a missing persons case.”
“Do you think the body on the boat is your missing person?”
“The body on the boat is Harry Vann.” That didn’t get a response from Rhine, but my next words did. “You knew that already. It was supposed to be Rick Newman. My guess is, Scott Cruz pulled the trigger. The question I have at this point is whether he was acting on his own, or whether he was following your orders.”
Rhine’s frown had deepened as I spoke. Now he gave me a look that was supposed to flash-freeze me. It might have worked on a witness in a courtroom, but this afternoon it wasn’t working on me.
The attorney’s mouth tightened. Then he gestured at the table he’d just vacated. “Let’s sit down and finish our coffee, Ms. Howard.”
“Certainly, Mr. Rhine.” I set my iced latte on the table and pulled out the chair Scott had vacated. Rhine sat down in front of his cappuccino. “Ball’s in your court,” I told him.
“I’m not in the practice of ordering hits,” he said.
“Glad to hear it, counselor. That would get you disbarred for sure. Though I do think the California Bar Association would take a dim view of your actions in hiding Mr. Lopez’s boats. And conspiring with Scott Cruz to do whatever Scott’s doing.”
“I’m not conspiring with Scott Cruz to do anything,” Rhine said.
“So Scott’s taking the initiative, acting on his own?”
Rhine took a sip of his cappuccino and drummed his fingers on the table. “Is this conversation off the record?”