In the Clearing (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 3)

by Robert Dugoni

CHAPTER 26

  Tracy passed on her run the next morning, telling herself she wanted to give her body a day to recover. In truth, she didn’t feel like running. She sensed she was reaching a dead end, and that frustrated her. Lionel was right. Her bravado and accusations wouldn’t get her very far, not without more. Her best bet remained Archibald Coe, but she had to find a way to somehow get him to open up.

  Her decision not to run became easier when she looked out the window. A light snow had fallen during the night, leaving a sparkling silver-and-white landscape. It was beautiful, but like a high mountain lake in winter is beautiful—unspoiled and pure, but also teeth-chatteringly, spine-numbingly cold. Mike Melton further dampened her mood when he called to tell her about the photograph of the tire on Eric Reynolds’s Bronco.

  “The lab worked overtime,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but there’s just not enough to be definitive. The photo didn’t cover enough of the tire for me to state with certainty it’s the same make and model as the tread captured in the photos taken in the field. It looks similar, Tracy. It could be the same tire, but there were other models by other manufacturers made back then that are too similar to rule out.”

  Tracy’s breath fogged the kitchen windowpane. “So you can’t say it’s that tire, only that it could be that tire.”

  “I can say the impressions in the ground captured in the photographs are similar to the impressions I would expect that tire would make. But no, I can’t say it was that tire. I’m sorry. I know that isn’t the answer you wanted.”

  And that was a problem.

  Tracy thanked Melton. His answer wasn’t totally unexpected, and it was certainly better than him telling her the tires were definitely not the ones that had made the impressions. But similar would not get her where she needed to go. She suspected Kelly Rosa would offer the same conclusion—the pattern of bruising on Kimi Kanasket’s back and shoulder was of the type she would expect to be left by that make of tire, but she couldn’t definitely say the bruising was made by that tire.

  Tracy left the window and sat at the table to reassess what she knew and where that put the investigation. Certainly there was plenty of circumstantial evidence pointing to Kimi Kanasket having been chased and run down by a truck with all-terrain tires. Eric Reynolds drove a vehicle with that kind of tire, but so did Tommy Moore and Élan Kanasket, and Hastey and Lionel Devoe had access to company vehicles that could have had similar tires, not to mention the many other trucks and SUVs in the county. The same was true of the shoe impressions. Except for the hunting boots, they were made by brands of shoes popular among young men at that time.

  Beyond that, as with any decades-old case, the evidence was riddled with uncertainty any defense attorney worth his salt would exploit. Jurors would question why the case was being brought now, and even convincing arguments about advances in technology could be trumped by a more practical and human argument—whether it was justified to prosecute three or four men who had never committed another known violent act against anyone on the basis of questionable evidence. Without more, the case would be near-impossible for a prosecutor to convince a jury to sacrifice those lives for the life of a young woman dead forty years.

  Someone knocked on the front door. Tracy was surprised to find Jenny standing on the porch. She looked troubled. “I just came from the Central Point Nursery,” she said, and Tracy felt her stomach drop. “An employee found Archibald Coe hanging in one of the hothouses.”

  They moved into the dining room, but neither Tracy nor Jenny sat. Tracy felt as though she’d taken a mule kick to the gut.

  Jenny had driven out to the nursery upon receiving the call earlier that morning. “He wasn’t answering his phone or responding to calls over the nursery’s loudspeakers,” Jenny said. “Someone noticed he’d never clocked out last night and took a walk over to the hothouse.”

  “Are you certain it was a suicide?”

  “The person who found him said the door was unlocked when he tried it. I got a CSI team over there, but there’s no indication of a struggle. He positioned some plants around himself in a circle, looped a rope over one of the overhead beams, stood on a ceramic pot, and kicked it over.”

  “A memorial. Like the clearing,” Tracy said.

  “Looks like that’s what he intended.”

  “Any note?”

  “Not that we’ve found,” Jenny said. “I sent detectives to his apartment. I think it best under the circumstances that you not get too close to this. Let my office handle it. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  Tracy couldn’t disagree, but that didn’t alleviate her frustration. She swore under her breath. “Maybe I should have anticipated this, given how fragile he seemed.”

  Jenny shrugged. “And what could you have done about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The police detective in Tracy couldn’t dismiss the thought that Coe had not willingly taken his own life, that it was all too convenient. Her civilian side was thinking that if Coe had taken his own life, she bore some measure of responsibility—that her questions about Kimi Kanasket had pushed an already fragile man over the edge. She felt horrible about it, but she also saw it as further validation that the cause of Coe’s nervous breakdown was the same nightmare that had haunted Darren Gallentine. The similarities between the two men’s circumstances could not be ignored. Each had problems when their children were born and when their daughters became teenagers. Tracy suspected that Coe, like Gallentine, had toed the ledge between living and taking his own life for years, and had only managed to subsist by following a structured routine. When Tracy disrupted that routine, it had shattered Coe’s tenuous existence, and this time it had been enough for him to step off that narrow ledge—if Coe had in fact killed himself.

  The only thing Tracy knew for certain was that she had just lost her best chance of finding out what had really happened that night in the clearing . . . and perhaps her last chance to prove it.

  After Jenny had gone back to Central Point, Tracy’s cell phone rang, a 509 area code, which she recognized as the area code for Eastern Washington, including Klickitat County. She didn’t recognize the number. Still, Tracy answered.

  “Detective Crosswhite?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Eric Reynolds. I understand you wish to speak to me.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Tracy had a difficult time finding a parking spot in the overflowing lot for the Columbia River Golf Course, and she eventually parallel parked in a questionable space that blocked several cars. She figured she’d be gone well before the golfers returned. The sun had burst through the cloud layer, and though it remained cold, any remnant of the dusting of snow that morning had melted. As Tracy approached the clubhouse, she noticed a large banner hanging from the roof eaves that explained the reason for the crowd—the Ron Reynolds Golf Tournament.

  Eric Reynolds had explained to Tracy during their brief telephone conversation that he had an 11:10 tee time but that Tracy could find him on the driving range an hour before, and Reynolds would be happy to speak to her. He sounded like he was scheduling a business lunch, not the least bit concerned that a Seattle homicide detective wanted to question him about the death of a young woman forty years earlier. Tracy could tell this would not be like interviewing Archibald Coe or Hastey Devoe.

  Tracy entered the pro shop, obtained directions to the driving range, and found golfers of varying ages from white-haired octogenarians to baby-faced recent high school graduates. Young men and women dressed in Stoneridge High letterman jackets and cheerleading outfits flittered around the area. Some drove golf carts or otherwise tried to look busy.

  Tracy had a copy of Eric Reynolds’s most recent driver’s license photo, but she didn’t need it. He was easy to find. He stood at the end of the range, alternately driving golf balls into a net 250 yards away and smiling and chatting with a group of admirers gathered behind him and seemingly hanging on his e
very word. He looked to still be Stoneridge High’s all-American. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, perhaps an inch or two over six feet, but he still had the muscular build of an athlete. The theme of the day was Stoneridge, and Reynolds wore the school colors proudly—red pants and sweater vest, white shirt and golf shoes.

  Tracy held back, watching Reynolds while listening to the pings and thwacks of a dozen golf clubs striking range balls. After a few minutes, Reynolds caught sight of her at the edge of the putting green. He clearly knew who she was, but if her presence unnerved him, his reaction did not reveal it. He gave her a nod and half a wave, as if they were old friends and he’d be with her in just a minute. Reynolds said a few more words to the gathered assembly, slid the shaft of his club into his bag, and removed his white golf glove as he approached.

  “Detective Crosswhite,” he said, extending a hand. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

  “Not at all,” Tracy said.

  Reynolds looked up at the sky, pale blue with large white clouds. “Thankfully, it looks like we’re going to have decent weather,” he said. “I told the organizers you tempt fate when you schedule a golf tournament in November. We usually hold it in late spring, but this year they were adamant it coincide with the reunion and the stadium dedication.”

  “So this is an annual event?”

  “It is. We started it to raise money for the Stoneridge High School scholarship fund.” He gestured in the direction of the clubhouse. “I’ve reserved a room for us to talk.”

  They walked side by side, making small talk. Along the way, half a dozen people called out to Reynolds, and he acknowledged each by name. At the clubhouse he held the door open for Tracy, and they stepped inside. The carpeted hall was adorned with plaques and photographs and a trophy case, but it was far less ostentatious than clubhouses to be found in Seattle.

  Reynolds led Tracy into a small banquet room set up for a formal lunch, with a dozen round tables covered in white tablecloths and place settings, and a podium and microphone at the front of the room. Reynolds led Tracy to a table with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.

  “Can I pour you a glass?” he asked.

  “Please,” she said.

  “It’s unsweetened.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, sitting in one of the banquet chairs, content for the moment to let Reynolds play host.

  Reynolds joined her, angling his knees away from the table, legs crossed, sipping his tea. “I understand you have questions for me about the night Kimi Kanasket disappeared.”

  “Who told you I had questions?”

  Reynolds smiled. “We both know the answer to that question,” he said. “Chief Devoe is a bit worked up about it; he thinks it will spoil the mood this weekend.”

  “What else did Chief Devoe have to say?”

  “He said you were in town and were investigating the death of Kimi Kanasket, that you had doubts Kimi had committed suicide, and that you were intimating that I, along with Hastey, and possibly Archie Coe and Darren Gallentine, might have had some part in it.”

  “Are you aware that Archibald Coe hung himself this morning?”

  “No.” Reynolds set down his glass. His surprise looked genuine. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “When’s the last time you saw or spoke to Mr. Coe?”

  Reynolds closed his eyes and blew out a breath. After a moment he shook his head and opened his eyes. “Wow.” He took another moment before reengaging. “It’s been a long time. Years.”

  “You didn’t stay in touch?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t come to any of the class reunions.”

  Reynolds sat up and uncrossed his legs, leaning toward Tracy. “No, he didn’t. I’d heard Archie had some issues when he came back from the Army.”

  “What kind of issues?”

  “Psychological issues—I heard he had a nervous breakdown—but I don’t know the details.”

  “Do you remember who told you that?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “No. That was a long time ago.”

  “You didn’t reach out to him?”

  “I was away at college, and with football practice every day I rarely went home.” Reynolds put his hands to his lips, like a child about to pray. “The town linked the four of us together, Detective. The Four Ironmen.” He sat up again, hands parting. “The truth was, we weren’t all that close off the field. We were friends, but Archie and Darren hung with a different group of kids than Hastey and me.”

  “When did you last speak to Darren Gallentine?”

  “He went to UW when I was there. I’d see him on campus and occasionally we’d stop and talk for a few minutes, but we didn’t hang out.”

  “You’re aware that he also killed himself.”

  “Yes. Years ago, I believe.”

  “But you and Hastey Devoe have remained close?”

  Reynolds shrugged as if to say What are you going to do? “Hastey and I grew up just a few houses apart. When we got to high school, he was a bit of a lost soul. I persuaded him to come out for football. Actually, my dad took one look at the size of him and mandated he come out for football.” Reynolds smiled. “He thought it would be good for Hastey’s self-confidence and conditioning. He told Hastey he’d make him a star, and he did. Hastey could have played in college if he’d kept his grades up, but he couldn’t do it. Hastey’s always needed structure, a guiding hand. He didn’t always get it at home.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “His father was hard on him. He was hard on all of them. They didn’t measure up to his standards, except for maybe Nathaniel, but he died—hunting accident. That just seemed to make it harder on Lionel and Hastey. Hastey Senior wasn’t bashful about telling his sons he was disappointed in them. He was a tough guy to like.”

  “So you and your father took Hastey Junior under your wing?”

  “In a sense I guess you could say that. It was just my dad and me. We lost my mom to cancer when I was eight. Hastey spent a lot of nights at my house. We’ve stayed close.”

  “Isn’t he a bit of a liability?”

  Reynolds smiled, closed lips. “That’s why we took him off driving and gave him a desk job.” He sat up. “Look, despite his faults, he’s good with people, affable. He’s self-effacing and doesn’t come on with a hard sell. Customers like him. So do I.”

  “You know he was arrested for another DUI.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So you’re not just keeping him on the payroll out of a sense of loyalty?”

  “That’s part of the reason, sure.” Reynolds set an elbow on the table. “He’s not a bad guy, Detective. He needs help. Lionel protects him and makes it too easy for him. Maybe this latest arrest will change that.”

  “I’m surprised Lionel doesn’t listen to you, given that you were a big supporter of his campaign for chief of police.”

  Another smile. “First of all, Lionel is his brother, and Hastey is a grown man. Second, ‘big supporter’ here doesn’t have the same meaning I suspect it might have in Seattle. A couple thousand bucks to buy posters, a billboard, and some bumper stickers isn’t much. Life’s been good to me. If I can spread some of that good to help old friends or people who can use it, I try. I’m no saint, but I try.”

  “Like this golf tournament?”

  “Exactly like this golf tournament. It raises money for the school. Some families have fallen on hard times with the economy, and the money helps pay for books, teachers’ salaries, those things.”

  “And a football stadium to be named after your father?”

  “No. The funds aren’t used for that.”

  “Straight out of your pocket?”

  “The company’s pocket.”

  “You drove a Ford Bronco in high school.”

  Reynolds looked mildly surprised at the sudden change in topic. “This is a trip down memory lane. That’s a long time ago. Yes, I drove a Ford Bronco, back before OJ made them infamous.” He smiled, seemingly at the r
ecollection. “It was canary yellow with running lights across the roof, a roll bar and black canopy, oversize tires, a winch mounted to the front grille, and one of those foghorns. If you couldn’t see us, you could hear us coming from a mile away. I’m not sure it could have been any more obnoxious. We’d pile in that thing and drive through town after games, and Hastey would blow the horn. People loved it.”

  “Did you hunt?”

  “My father did. I wasn’t much for killing animals. I liked to go four-wheeling, though, especially after a hard rain. That car would be caked in so much mud you couldn’t tell the color.”

  “You ever go four-wheeling in the clearing?”

  “The clearing off 141?”

  “Yeah.”

  Reynolds seemed to give it some thought before answering. “Probably once or twice, but that was more of a weekend party destination. We’d get six or seven cars out there, turn on the headlights, crank the music, and drink beer.” He shrugged. “It was harmless stuff.”

  “How’d you hear about Kimi Kanasket?”

  Reynolds rocked back on the legs of his banquet chair and slid the tips of his fingers beneath his belt buckle. His gaze shifted to the ceiling, and he spoke deliberately, as if trying to recall. “I believe we heard sometime that Sunday. We played the championship game Saturday night, and after the game we all went out—players, coaches, parents. We stayed the night in Yakima. On Sunday we boarded the bus and caravanned home. I believe someone said something on the bus. I remember being shocked. But it could have been an article in the paper . . . maybe on Monday. But don’t quote me. That part is a bit hazy.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  Reynolds shrugged one shoulder. “Same as everybody else. Shock. Dismay. It’s a small community, smaller back then. Everybody knows everybody. You think you’re invulnerable at that age. Then you hear something like that. It’s a shock. It was a shock.”

  “So you knew Kimi?”

  “Absolutely. We all knew each other.”

  “What was your relationship with her?”

  “Friendly. Kimi was smart and athletic. She was going to state in track, and I think she was also going to UW. We weren’t great friends, but I knew her.”