Cold Trail
Page 18
I leaned forward. “Nothing’s off the record, Mr. Rhine. I will do anything I have to do to find my missing person. If that includes making you uncomfortable, or bringing certain of your activities to the attention of the sheriff’s department or the bar association, I will do it. Are we clear on that?”
For a second, he looked startled. Then he masked it. “Clear enough. All right, what do you know?”
“I know you defended Rick Newman on a drug charge last year. You got him off. Then he started working for you, doing errands. I know Enrique Lopez owns the boats. You stashed them at Newman’s Marina, probably on Rick’s suggestion. I know Rick’s not dead. He and his buddy Harry staged the motorcycle accident to make it look like he was. I think Rick and Harry were going to take the Esmeralda and get away, to Mexico, I assume. The question is why?”
Rhine’s mouth quirked in what might have passed for a smile. “You’re good at guessing. What’s your theory?”
“My theory?” I sipped the latte. “Rick took something that didn’t belong to him. A large sum of money.”
Rhine drummed his fingers again. “Very good theory. The term ‘large sum’ is relative. But large enough. A quarter of a million dollars.”
That sounded plenty large to me. It would have been catnip to Rick.
“What did Rick do?”
“He took the cash, which belongs to a client of mine. The client wants it back.”
“Bad enough to kill Rick?”
“I’m not going to answer that,” Rhine said.
“Suit yourself. How did Rick get his hands on the money?”
Now Rhine looked annoyed, with himself, it seemed. “As you say, I employed Rick to do various errands for me. In June, I sent him up the coast to fetch the cash from the client, who has a house up there. The cash was in a locked aluminum briefcase. Instead of bringing it back to my office, Rick stole it.”
“Stole it how? And how did you find out about it?”
“Rick and Harry staged the accident on his way back from the client’s house. I called the client that evening when Rick didn’t return with the briefcase. The client told me what time Rick had left, and said he’d had a friend with him. I guessed that it was Harry. So I tracked Harry down. Harry told me Rick had skidded off the highway and over a cliff. Although the motorcycle was found at the bottom of the cliff, the aluminum briefcase containing the cash was not. Harry claimed the briefcase was at the surf line with Rick’s body, and that both the body and briefcase must have been washed out to sea.”
“Did you believe Harry?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Rhine said. “The police report on the accident was straightforward. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rick had stolen the money and was hiding out somewhere.”
“So how does Scott fit into all of this? As far as I can tell you’ve never represented him. Scott got really nervous when I paid a visit to Vann’s Motorcycle Shop today. So nervous that I decided to follow him here. Why are you meeting him?”
“I decided to keep an eye on Harry. And Scott works for Harry. Eventually Harry said something out of turn, about Rick and the money. Scott figured out that Rick was still alive, hiding up in the hills somewhere, plotting the escape on the boat.”
“So Scott contacted you.”
Rhine was drumming his fingers again. When he realized it he stopped and reached for his cappuccino. “He did. Scott offered to retrieve the money, for a price. We discussed the matter and... Things didn’t go as planned.”
It sounded to me like Rhine had been conspiring with Scott, no matter how much the lawyer denied it.
“Scott went down to the marina,” I said, “planning to waylay Rick and Harry. He shot at Rick and hit Harry instead. Then the boat blew up, probably because of a propane leak, probably ignited by Harry’s cigarette or lighter.”
Now Rhine actually smiled, with mordant humor. “Tobacco kills. Scott called me because he wants money from me, even though he screwed things up royally. Rick still has the money, Harry’s dead, and my client’s boat is a total loss. Now I have a couple of Sonoma County homicide investigators asking me lots of questions.”
“And me.”
He nodded. “And you.”
“All right, Mr. Rhine. I want Rick Newman.”
“Is he your missing person?”
“No. But he may very well know where my missing person is.”
Rhine thought about it for a moment. “Scott says Rick has been hiding in a cabin on some land west of Graton.”
I dismissed this with a wave of my hand. “Old news, counselor. I’ve been to the cabin. Rick’s not there.”
“Then there’s another possibility. Rick has a friend named Tony Busto.”
“Would that be Anthony Busto? The pot grower you defended last year on charges of growing marijuana on state land, namely Annadel State Park?”
“You are thorough,” Rhine said. “Yes, that would be the same Tony Busto.”
“I understand he’s not in the same location. Where can I find him?”
Rhine finished the last of his cappuccino. “He moved to Guerneville.”
“A lot of countryside around Guerneville. I need specifics. Just where is Busto’s latest pot plantation?”
“I have no personal knowledge of the location.” Rhine sounded like the lawyer he was. “My information comes from Scott. He says Tony’s pot plantation is near Guerneville, on the north side of Sweetwater Springs Road. Access is up a dirt road, which is about half a mile south of some old mine.”
He paused. “If you’re going to make a move, I would say time is of the essence. Scott has turned into a loose cannon. He says he’s going to go up to Busto’s place and make another try for Rick and the money.”
Thirty-Two
“The guy’s a fucking liability.” The voice, a low growl, belonged to the man who owned this place. He and the other man, Rick Newman, were in the kitchen.
I have to get out of here, he thought. They’re not going to let me go. They’re going to kill me.
At least he wasn’t handcuffed anymore. He was locked in a small space that had once been a storage closet or a pantry. It was furnished with a narrow cot. At the foot of the cot was a bucket to be used as a toilet, and a couple of large bottles of water. Every now and then a man who didn’t speak unlocked the closet, fetched the bucket, and brought it back empty. A different man, also silent, brought him food and plastic bottles of water to drink.
As they’d brought him from the vehicle to the building, he realized what this was. A pot plantation. He’d heard about these places, read that they were all over Northern California.
He was in an old house. When they’d brought him inside early that morning, he’d had time for a brief look at his surroundings. The front part of the house was a living room–dining room arrangement. A hallway led to the back and he’d glimpsed a bathroom at the end of the hall. The kitchen was a walk-through, and the closet where he was locked up was in back of this, near a back door at the rear of the house.
It was dark when they’d arrived at the house, escorted by the men with guns. But he’d seen enough on the drive up here that he thought he knew where they were.
If I could just get loose, he told himself, I’m sure I could get out of here.
He tested the door. The two men were still in the kitchen. He heard the sound of something sizzling on the stove, smelled cooking meat. The man with the low growl said, “I say we shoot him, and dump the body down at the old mine.”
It was up to him to get away and save himself. He didn’t have much time.
Thirty-Three
Rhine left the Starbucks before I did. I watched him get into his silver BMW and drive away. Then I used the coffee shop’s rest room before returning to my car. I pulled out my cell phone and Detective Griffin’s business card. He was in his office.
“Carla Vann called me,” he said. “We’re making arrangements for her to identify her brother’s body. Thanks for your help on this.”
“Good. I want to hear what you have to say. Meet me at my office as soon as you can get up here.”
I headed back up Lakeville Highway and got on the freeway headed north. I called Donna back, bringing her up to date with what I’d learned that afternoon, from Willow, Carla, and now Rhine.
“The person I was tailing, Scott Cruz, met up with Rhine, the attorney who represented Busto last year. It looks like Rick Newman was hiding at the cabin on his grandfather’s property, planning to get away on the boat. Brian went up there and—”
“I get the picture,” Donna said. “So Brian walks in on these people and they grab him. Maybe they were planning to leave him at the marina when they left on the boat.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t express my deeper fear, which was that Rick and Harry had killed Brian back on Friday, when he’d gone to the cabin.
“Scott had figured out Rick was alive and offered to get back the money Rick stole. He went to the marina and shot Harry. Rick ran. He’s friends with Busto. Maybe he went up there and took Brian with him.”
“You could be right,” Donna said. “Listen, I’m on River Road, probably fifteen minutes from Santa Rosa. I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s office. Given my past encounter with Busto, I figure I’ll horn in on this investigation.”
Donna was waiting for me outside the front door. We gave our names to the deputy at the lobby window, who called up to the Investigations Division.
“If this guy Busto is growing pot on state land again, I want to nail him,” Donna said. “The problems we’ve had, both state land and federal. These people are planting in the tens of thousands of pot plants. Marijuana needs lots of light and lots of water. To get the light, the growers are cutting down trees. To get the water, they’re diverting creeks with dams and sucking out all the water. Each pot plant needs up to fifteen gallons a day. Multiply that by forty thousand plants.”
I did the math. “Six hundred thousand gallons. Damn. And we’re in a drought.”
“And the damage. Hell, Jeri, you wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve seen. Huge amounts of trash strewn all over the landscape. And the ground drenched in toxic crap like herbicides, fungicides, and fertilizers. The contaminated soil has to be scraped up and carted off. The growers kill animals to keep them away from the plants. Even if the grow isn’t on public land, it’s still a Fish and Wildlife issue. Because they’re killing the fish and the wildlife.”
This time it was Harris who came to meet us. Donna stuck out her hand. “Agent Doyle, California Department of Fish and Wildlife. I have an interest in the case.”
Harris took us back to the office where Griffin waited. Donna introduced herself and disclosed our family relationship.
I told the two detectives about Willow and the cabin on her grandfather’s land—and the likelihood that Brian had gone up there. I also told them what I’d learned from Rhine, whom I didn’t name, at least not at this point.
“My informant says Rick Newman stole a large sum of money, a quarter of a million dollars. Then Rick faked his death back in June, with Harry Vann’s help. Since then, he’s been hiding out at the cabin. Brian must have gone up there last Friday, and walked in on them. Rick was planning to take the boat from the marina and get out of the country. Maybe Harry was coming with him. But Scott Cruz, the mechanic who works for Carla and Harry Vann, learned that Rick was alive. Scott wanted to get his hands on the money. He went to the marina early Sunday morning. His target was Rick, but he shot Harry instead. Both Rick and Harry are smokers. I assume the propane explosion was set off by a match or a cigarette lighter.”
“Cigarette lighter,” Harris said. “We found one on the scene. Near the body, like we found your brother’s MedicAlert bracelet.”
I showed them the link that I’d found at the cabin. “I believe this link goes with the band of Brian’s bracelet. I think the band broke when it got caught on something, Harry picked up the bracelet, and put it in his pocket.”
Griffin looked as though he were turning all this over in his mind. “Okay, if Newman isn’t dead, where is he now?”
“Rick has a friend named Anthony Busto, who’s a large-scale pot grower. In fact, Rick’s sister told me Rick was hoping to use their grandfather’s land for a marijuana plantation, going into partnership with his buddy. Busto already has a pot plantation. It’s located outside of Guerneville, on the north side of Sweetwater Springs Road.”
“Busto and I have met before,” Donna added. “He had a big grow operation in the east part of the county. He was initially on private land and then he expanded his grow onto state land at Annadel State Park. Aerial photography showed us the location and the extent of the operation. Marijuana grows have a distinct green color that distinguishes them from the surrounding forest. I was part of the raid that shut down Busto’s operation last year. That was a joint operation with the feds and Sonoma County. Some of your people were involved in that.”
Harris was nodding. “I remember that one. Sergeant Lewis was in on that raid.”
“Call him,” Griffin said. “He might want to be in on this one. So Busto’s moved to West County.”
“Looks like it,” I said. “I was told that there’s a dirt road leading up to the place, about half a mile south of an old mine. If Rick Newman and Harry Vann captured Brian when he stumbled on them at the cabin, I think it’s likely my brother is with Newman, at Busto’s plantation.” I told them about the red paint I’d found on the gate where Hargis Ranch Road met Green Valley Road. “Who else would know about that road except Willow, and her brother?”
“That would explain a few things,” Griffin said. “That’s not far from where your brother’s Jeep was found, near Forestville.” He unfolded a Sonoma County map and spread it across the surface of his desk, tracing a line with his finger. “Here’s Sweetwater Springs Road. I ride my bike up there. The road starts here, at Westside Road southwest of Healdsburg and goes all the way to Armstrong Woods Road outside of Guerneville. Definitely rugged and forested the closer you get to Guerneville.” He pointed. “The old mine’s been there since the nineteenth century. They used to mine quicksilver, which is what they called mercury in those days.”
Donna bent over the map. “The location Jeri’s talking about is really close to Armstrong Redwoods State Reserve and Austin Creek State Recreation Area. The two are contiguous. Given Busto’s history, I’m concerned that he might be encroaching on state land again.”
“You could be right,” Griffin said.
Harris was at the computer. “Here’s a shot of the mine.” He clicked into a picture of the old mercury mine as it looked now, with its derelict buildings and tailings, enclosed by a fence.
Now he clicked into a map that showed the area and zoomed in closer. “You’re right about it being close to the state park. Not far at all as the crow flies.” He pointed at the screen. “Sweetwater Creek follows the road. Redwood Creek is here, to the west. Fife Creek is north of that. Sweetwater Creek is too close to the road. My bet is Busto’s located his plantation close to Redwood Creek or Fife Creek, so he can draw water from one or both creeks.”
“Fife Creek flows through both state parks,” Donna said. “If he’s polluting that stream with all that toxic junk the growers use, my department definitely has a stake in this case.”
Griffin clicked from the map view to the satellite view, and zoomed in even closer. “I don’t see a road, but I see some buildings up there, in a clearing. Could be a house, some outbuildings. There are people living up there, in various places off Sweetwater Creek Road. This map doesn’t get me close enough.”
“Let’s keep an eye on Cruz,” Griffin said. “I don’t want him going up there and tippi
ng off Newman or Busto.”
Harris scribbled on a nearby pad. “I’ll check property records to see if any parcels on Sweetwater Springs Road have sold recently. And start working on a warrant. Got plenty of probable cause. Newman’s a material witness in the murder of Harry Vann. And if he’s got your brother, that’s kidnapping.” He looked at his watch. “It’s after five. We won’t be able to do this till tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“Are we invited to the party?” I asked.
The two detectives exchanged glances. “Agent Doyle, yes. She represents state interests. As for you, Ms. Howard, you’re a citizen, not law enforcement. We’ll see what we can do.”
Before leaving the building, Donna and I conferred in the lobby. “I don’t know that they’ll let you go along on the raid,” she said. “I’m law enforcement, you’re not. And these pot growers are armed, though they’d have to be crazy to fire on us. But you never know when you’ll get some hothead with a gun. I’m sure you’ll be able to come up right after.”
“I just hope I’m right, and Brian’s up there. Or maybe he’s been able to get away.”
Donna and I looked at each other, without my voicing the concern that was nagging at me. I was guessing that Rick had gone to his second bolt-hole, Busto’s pot plantation, on Sunday, after things went sour at the marina. It was now Thursday afternoon, four days later. Would they keep Brian a prisoner there? What if they decided that Brian was a liability? What if they killed him?
I drove home to Oakland. I still hadn’t stowed away my hiking gear from the trip to Lassen. Now I loaded everything into the trunk of my car—hiking boots, hiking poles, binoculars, and a backpack stuffed with the essentials. I carried several water bottles, a couple of bandannas, a small first-aid kit, and an assortment of food, including trail mix, jerky and candy bars. I tossed in a small jar of peanut butter, a pack of crackers, and several of the Gravenstein apples I’d gotten from Pat as well. If I had to hike into the woods to find Brian, I’d be ready.