Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  Traffic on Highway 84 heading into town was traveling at glacial speed. Cursing the dawdling Sunday-like drivers, Sam dodged in and out of the passing lane until he figured he could make better time by driving on the narrow shoulder. Unfettered by the speed limit, he floored the Chevy all the way to Front Street. He braked the truck to a screeching halt in front of Rossi’s Real Estate and grabbed his service weapon.

  Except for target practice and routine cleaning, it was the first time since he’d come to The Dalles that he’d taken the Smith and Wesson out of the glove box. If he’d been following FBI protocol, Sam would’ve approached the office with caution; he was thinking as a father, not an agent. A furious surge of adrenaline and deadly intent propelled him through the office door, but he stopped abruptly when he got a good look at the interior. The trashing was thorough: chairs upended, contents of desks emptied and tossed onto the floor, file cabinet drawers opened and hanging askew.

  His first thought was that vandals—maybe even Danny and his gang—had ransacked the place. Whoever they were, they were long gone. The only person in the room was a silver-haired man in a rumpled suit standing next to one of the file cabinets. He was short and stocky with a belly gone soft around the middle. Chomping on an unlit cigar at the corner of his mouth, he eyed the gun Sam pointed at him, more irritated than alarmed.

  “Where’s Tony?” Sam demanded.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “The man who’s going to kill the S.O.B.”

  The old man broke into a yellow-toothed grin, dropped the papers clutched in his liver-spotted fist onto a nearby desk and shuffled toward Sam. “Pleased to meet you, mister. But you’ll have to stand in line. I plan on taking down Tony myself.” He pointed to Sam’s weapon. “Why don’t you put that thing away and let’s discuss the matter.”

  Sam didn’t know what to make of the guy. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Solomon Rossi,” he said, “the S.O.B.’s uncle.”

  Sam hesitated a moment before stuffing the gun in his belt. “Where is he?”

  Rossi shrugged. “Damned if I know,” he said, dropping his fleshy frame into the only chair that was still upright. “No one’s been here all day, near as I can tell. Not even the secretary or the two jokers who call themselves salesmen that Tony has on my payroll. “Take a load off, yourself,” he said, motioning to a nearby chair, “and I’ll tell you what I do know.”

  Sam’s outrage over what Tony had done to Ellie hadn’t dissipated. He was determined to put him in the ground. He had enough adrenaline pumping through his body to keep him up all night searching if he had to. He decided to listen to what Rossi had to say. Maybe the man was full of hot air, but if nothing else, he might give Sam an idea where to look for the bastard.

  Sam found a chair, righted it, and sat down. Rossi continued, “My double-dealing nephew is a cheat. And he’s cheated me for the last time.” He shook his head in disgust. “What’s your beef with him?”

  “It doesn’t concern you,” Sam said as he surveyed the mess around him. “What happened to the office?”

  Rossi chuckled. “That was my doing. I’ve been hunting for evidence.”

  “What do you mean, ‘evidence’?”

  If Solomon Rossi had any qualms about sharing his findings with a total stranger, a stranger with a gun no less, he didn’t show it. He seemed more than eager to tell what he meant, starting with how he owned the real estate business and why he’d sent Nick to spy on his cousin. “I suspected that Tony was cheating me from day one, but I wanted proof to show my brother what an ass he’d raised. More important, I wanted to get my money back. Nick didn’t find out squat and then he got killed. I figured I owed it to him to come out here and finish his job. I probably should’ve done it myself in the first place.”

  He got up and went to the file cabinet where he’d been standing earlier. He brought back a couple of bound ledger books and a stack of papers. He laid them on a nearby desk and tapped the ledgers with a stubby finger. “It’s all right there. I saw right away how he’d been cheating me. Simple skimming the top off my commissions. It looks like Tony has something else going on, too—something that pulled in a lot more dough. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

  Rossi caught Sam studying the dried blood on the ledgers. “You think that’s something, you should see the mop in the storage room. Looks like it cleaned up a bloodbath. That or a very bad nosebleed.”

  The news that Tony had been cheating his uncle wasn’t surprising and Sam didn’t much care. The blood was another matter. Reba said Ellie had been attacked at Baker Bluff. If the blood wasn’t hers, whose was it? Standing, Sam said, “Show me.”

  “But, that isn’t . . .” Sam’s determined look made Rossi close his mouth. He led the way to the storeroom at the back of the office. The mop hung on the wall by a small safe that had been jimmied. As Sam examined the mop, Rossi explained the safe. “It took me awhile, but I managed to pry the stubborn thing open. I thought I’d find the money Tony stole in it, but all it had was a bunch of paperwork.”

  Sam rubbed his chin. He could think of only one reason why there would be enough blood in the office to require a mop and it wasn’t due to anything as innocent as a nosebleed. In the corner was a waste can stuffed with wadded rags caked with dried blood. He had a hunch that Solomon Rossi’s “evidence” was linked to the blood. And Tony was right in the middle of the whole thing. To Rossi, he said, “I’d like to take another look at those ledgers and the paperwork, also, if you don’t mind. Maybe I can help you figure it out.”

  Rossi appraised Sam, cocking an eyebrow at his work clothes. “I consider myself a savvy businessman and I haven’t been able to put the pieces together. No offense, but you look like you belong on a construction crew somewhere. What makes you think you can . . .”

  Sam pulled out his wallet and flashed his FBI identification and badge.

  “You’re a G-man?

  “Not for much longer.”

  “I guess offing Tony would sort of end your career.”

  An hour and several phone calls to a financial analyst at FBI headquarters later, Sam had the answers Rossi was looking for. As Sam explained, “It looks like your nephew used his knowledge of the real estate market to identify houses in the area that suited his purposes.”

  “What purposes?”

  Sam pointed to an entry in the ledger. “See how some of the houses listed as sold have the initials ‘DG’ alongside them?”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.”

  “The paperwork you discovered in the safe identified DG as the initials of a company called the Destiny Group. It’s supposedly run by a woman named Mildred Simmons.”

  “That’s the name of Tony’s secretary. How would she know anything about running a company?”

  “She didn’t have to. It’s just a shell business. A way of purchasing the houses Tony identified without his name being involved.”

  Rossi ran a finger down the list of houses the Destiny Group bought. “Looks like she bought them for a song.”

  “That was the deal. Find the houses they could snap up with very little capital and then turn around and sell them at an inflated price.”

  “Tony always was hell on wheels when it came to selling.”

  “He didn’t have to do much selling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He used straw buyers.” A confused look flickered across Rossi’s face so Sam explained further. “He recruited a couple of guys named Jensen and Hoffman to enter into purchase agreements to buy the houses at the higher price.”

  “Ha! He didn’t have to do much recruiting, either. Hoffman and Jensen are the part-time salesmen here. I never understoo
d why Tony hired them. They weren’t even licensed. The idiots couldn’t possibly have made enough money to buy a pup tent, let alone a house at an inflated price.”

  “That’s the beauty of straw buyers. They don’t have to have any money. The paperwork is phony, made to appear that they are qualified for the mortgage loans and planned to occupy the houses.”

  “How did it get by the bank? They have some sharp cookies working there.”

  “I suspect a bank employee, probably the loan officer and an insider at the escrow office were involved in the scheme. It would be easy for them to falsify the documents needed—like appraisals, verification of deposits, employment records, and closing documents.”

  “I get it now,” Rossi said, nodding. “The major players split the proceeds from the fraudulent mortgages and the straw buyers pocketed a fee for their role.”

  “Exactly. The homes eventually wound up in foreclosure and the bank sucked up the losses.”

  “You’d think the bank’s auditors would eventually catch on.”

  “It’s just a matter of time. If Tony and his accomplices are as smart as they seem to be, they’re probably making other plans for just that eventuality right now.”

  Solomon Rossi said he was impressed. “I can’t believe Tony came up with this scheme all on his own. Petty thievery, sure. But a scam like this is way beyond anything he could pull off.”

  Sam shrugged. “Maybe not, but I know for a fact that he’s capable of something a whole lot worse.”

  “Must be personal, the way you came storming in here. Otherwise, you’d have identified yourself right off as a Fed.”

  Sam didn’t take the bait, preferring to deal with the question that still nagged at him. He pointed to the storeroom. “Why do you think there’s so much blood in there?”

  “Somebody got to Tony before you?”

  “No, I think Tony got to Nick before he wound up at Baker Bluff.”

  “I was told he was shot by a drunken Indian who tried to steal Tony’s truck.”

  Sam shook his head. “The Indian in question was a diabetic and didn’t drink. He didn’t know how to drive, either. He was supposedly too drunk to walk which is why Nick gave him a ride out to his home in Celilo. Yet, he was sober enough to find Tony’s gun in the glove box, shoot him, and then drag his body out of the truck, and toss him over a cliff.”

  Rossi scratched his silver mane. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why was he arrested?”

  “The sheriff has a hang-up about Indians and George was convenient. Either that or Sheriff Pritchard was in on the cover-up.”

  “And you suspect that the cover-up involved my cheating nephew?”

  Sam pointed to the blood-stained ledgers. “What if Nick found these ledgers and Tony caught him. Tony would realize then that Nick was about to expose him and—”

  “Killed him first.” Rossi was quiet for a moment. “If that’s true, then you’d better catch up with Tony before I do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tony spent the night crumpled in a fetal position on the ground, fading in and out of consciousness. He was still disoriented by morning, but aware that someone had shaken his aching shoulder. His head hurt like the wrong end of a battering ram and his gut felt even worse. Whoever was manhandling him could take a hike. And he’d tell them so if he could just get his parched cotton mouth to work.

  “Hey, Buddy, what’s the matter? You hurt?”

  “Naw, he’s just hung over,” said another voice. “Seven o’clock in the morning is too early to sober up.”

  With great difficulty, Tony turned his head toward the speakers. His eyes were swollen slits, but he could make out two pairs of dirty work boots standing next to him. When one of the boots prodded his shoulder again, pain shot through him like a bolt of electricity and wrenched his bruised face into a grotesque grimace. Jesus! Have mercy!

  “Must’ve been quite a night. His pants are still down and he looks too wasted to know it.”

  Tony had no idea why he was on the ground and the subject of these clowns’ abuse. He just wanted them to go away.

  They apparently had no intention of doing so. “Party’s over, pal,” one of them said. The boots sprouted hands and rolled him onto his back. “You can sleep it off at home.”

  Tony propped himself up on wobbly elbows to eyeball his tormentors. Despite his limited blurry vision, he saw what looked like construction workers; maybe government types in overalls, long-sleeved work shirts, and hard hats. He sat up and rubbed his aching shoulder. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  The bigger of the two men said, “None of your business, smart-ass.”

  His partner frowned. “Aw, Frank, cool it. The guy’s in a bad way.” Reaching for Tony’s hand, he said, “Here, let me help you.”

  Once on his feet, Tony pulled up his pants and leaned against the Caddy for support. Cold from lying on the dew-covered ground, he warmed himself by folding his arms on his chest. He shook his head in a wasted effort to clear it. His body ached all over, but aside from a wrinkled, bloody shirt and some grass-stained trousers ripped at the knees, he didn’t seem to be damaged too much. He had a vague notion of a fight, but he couldn’t remember who’d decked him or why. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was at Baker Bluff. He stared back at the two guys staring at him. A truck was parked next to his convertible with Cascade Survey Company printed on its side panel. “That your truck?” Tony asked.

  The fellow who’d helped Tony to his feet said, “Yep. Got a job here today.” He seemed friendly enough, but his partner wasn’t so inclined.

  “You’re trespassing on private property,” he said. He gestured to the convertible. “Time to shove off before the owners arrive.”

  The owners? Anger surged through Tony’s cold, wet body as the grim reality of the situation triggered his memory. He remembered full well now what had happened yesterday. Clarice’s betrayal had ruined his miserable life. She’d screwed him over royally. “I know the owners,” he said.

  The friendly guy seemed doubtful. “Warren Nestor?”

  “And his lovely wife, Clarice,” Tony sneered.

  Frank spit on the ground, just missing Tony’s shoes. “I’m duly impressed, but you still have to hit the road. We’ve got work to do before our meeting.”

  “Clarice and Warren are coming to Baker Bluff?” asked Tony.

  “Today at noon,” said Frank.

  ***

  Tony’s thoughts turned to Ellie as he drove through town. There was bound to be trouble with her father. He’d have to deal with him sooner or later, but maybe he could blame everything on the Indian kid. It would serve him right for butting in where he didn’t belong, not to mention the beating Tony had taken from him. Shifting blame on a redskin had worked for Clarice; maybe it would work for Tony, too. Mildred had warned him about Clarice, but he’d always assumed that she was just jealous. He should’ve paid attention to her nagging. If he’d kept his eyes open around her like Mildred had advised, he might not be in this stinking mess. He wouldn’t relish hearing her say that she’d told him so, but Mildred was the only person in town he trusted right now. Since it was too early for even Mildred to be at the office, he drove straight to her house.

  “What in the world happened to you?” Mildred asked upon answering his knock. “You look like death warmed over.”

  She didn’t look so hot herself in a ratty bathrobe and pink hair rollers. Under normal circumstances, Tony would’ve countered her cutting remark with one of his own. But these were not normal circumstances. If they were, he wouldn’t be standing on her front porch at seven-thirty in the morning. “Let me in, Mildred. I need to talk to you.” />
  She stepped aside so he could pass by and said, “Come into the kitchen. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on. You look like you could use a cup.”

  He’d never been to her place before, but it looked just like her – frumpy and old- fashioned. As he passed through the living room to the kitchen, he noted with some amusement that she must have gotten a good deal on lace doilies. The place looked like an explosion in a doily factory. The lacey doo-dads were everywhere—on table tops and the arms and backs of every chair and sofa in the place.

  In the kitchen, Tony sat down at a chrome dinette table while Mildred fussed with the coffee. The kitchen was painted a pale yellow with frilly curtains on the window over the sink. A collection of tiny ceramic cats sat next to a green leafy plant on the window ledge. The décor was much too girly-girl for Tony’s tastes, but it was a good fit with the doily theme Mildred had going.

  “You want some breakfast?” she asked as she set their mugs on the table. “I can scramble up some eggs real fast.”

  “No,” he said blowing on the coffee. “But if you could add a little nip to the java, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’m on the wagon, Tony. Don’t you remember?”

  “Come on, Millie, you’ve gotta have a little something stashed away. Have mercy on a wounded man.”

  She laughed and said, “Well, since you put it that way.” Standing on tiptoes, she retrieved a nearly empty whiskey bottle from a top shelf in the cupboard.

  “Hah! I knew you wouldn’t keep a completely dry house.”

  “For medicinal purposes only, boss,” she said, filling a shot glass for him. As soon as he’d added the whiskey to his coffee and downed a couple of quick sips, she asked. “Now, are you going tell me why you’re here so early in the morning looking like you got hit by a truck?”