“What was the outcome?”
She rearranged herself on the couch. “Well, Walter eventually got his way, of course, and made a lot of money. Bexar wanted those parcels, even though they hadn’t gotten final approval for the project.”
“Got his way? You mean when your husband died?” She nodded. “What about you? I assume you inherited Sonny’s share of the company.”
A wan smile. “I sold my share several months after the funeral. I was even more adamant than my husband. I wanted nothing to do with that LNG abomination.”
I kept my eyes on her face. “Who did you sell to?”
She hesitated for what I took to be a crossing-the-Rubicon moment. “A woman named Maxine Sloat. She owns a trucking company in town. Her lawyer worked out the terms with mine.” She shrugged. “I suppose I could have held on and made more money, but I really didn’t care. I sold our big place on Crown Point and bought this place and a beach house. I also signed a lease on space for an art gallery”—she looked at me and smiled sarcastically—“and then I moved on.”
I took a first drink of my tea to gather myself. “Why are you telling me this now, Twila? Do you have doubts about Kenny’s guilt?”
A deep sigh. “I was in shock at the time, and with the confession and all, I guess I thought he was guilty.”
“And all?”
“Oh, I guess that woman who saw him in the vicinity, and the fact that my jewelry was stolen. It was passed down from my grandmother to my mother, then to me.” A wistful smile. “Some fine pieces and high sentimental value as well. That seemed like something an inexperienced kid would do. You know, go for the shiny objects.”
“None of the jewelry has turned up, right?”
“Unfortunately.” She raised her eyes and exhaled a deep sigh. “The truth is, I’ve been self-absorbed since Sonny’s death. But I’m coming out of it. Kenny was so young then. How could he have done something like that?” She paused and dabbed a tear from her eye with a curled index finger. “Will this information be of use to you?”
I figured she knew full well the incendiary nature of her revelations but let it slide. “Yes, all pertinent facts help. We’re fighting an uphill battle here, since most of the issues in the case have already been litigated. Would you be willing to recount this under oath?”
She hesitated for a couple of beats. “Yes, if I had to.”
I took another sip of tea. “I understand you’re a painter,” I said, shifting the subject, “and that you were painting at a downtown studio the night of the murder.” I stopped short of mentioning the affair between Sonny and Kenny’s mom, Krysta. Save it for another time, I told myself.
She smiled knowingly. “Oh, my turn to be a suspect? Yes, at that time I was renting a studio apartment in the Tioga, which I used as my artist studio. It had a view of the bay and good light in the afternoon. I was painting that night.”
“Was the back exit of the Tioga accessible to you?”
Her expression turned blank. “Well, I don’t know. I never tried it.”
“Did anybody else in the building use that exit?”
Another blank look. “Not to my knowledge.”
She was beginning to look uncomfortable. “Fine,” I said, cutting off the questions. “I appreciate your help, Twila. If you think of anything else, you can reach me at this number.”
I got up and handed her a card, and as she showed me out I stopped in front of a large painting hanging in the hallway. It had a haunting quality to it, representational enough for me to recognize the setting, yet the sky and the water swirled with an almost Van Gogh-like abstraction. “I think I know that vista,” I said. “Bastendorff Beach, looking toward the south jetty, right? Is this your work?”
She smiled with genuine modesty. “Yes. An earlier piece.” A half laugh. “My paintings are darker now, or so I’m told.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
* * *
I was brimming with news but running late for my appointment with Sheriff Stoddard, so I called Claire while driving south on Highway 101 and had her put the call on speaker so Nando could hear as well. When I finished filling them in, Claire said, “Cui bono, Dad. Who stands to gain? Sonny’s in the way of an LNG deal that Walter wants. Sonny dies, and Max pops up as Walter’s partner.”
“And they both make the boatload of money,” Nando added. “How considerate of the young man to get rid of Sonny for them.”
“Yep, if what Twila told me is true—and I have no reason to doubt her—both Walter and Max are prime suspects. Listen, Claire, go back and see if you missed anything on Condor’s real estate holdings and dealings with Bexar Energy. We need the whole picture—money, timing of transactions, that sort of thing.”
“I’m on it,” Claire answered. “Meanwhile, we’ve already downloaded rap sheets on all felons in Coos, Douglas, and Curry Counties between twenty-five and forty-five named Robert who are not in jail, all forty-seven of them. We’re going to try to find which ones have brothers next. Stay tuned.”
“We are hoping Robert has a record,” Nando added. “It is the only way to narrow the data set.”
I wished them luck, and just as I merged onto OR 42, signs urging me to vote for Sheriff Hershel Stoddard began appearing, a testament to his grassroots support, I supposed, since the guy was running unopposed. My cell phone riffed. “Cal? Walter Sanders here. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Walter. What’s up?”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“It’s going.” I waited as a car passed, unwilling to divulge anything.
“I, ah, talked to Rori about helping out with the legal expenses, Cal. Made her a damn generous offer, but she turned me down flat. Seems my money’s tainted or something. Listen, Cal, I still want to help. Maybe you and I could work something out, you know, just between us.”
“I’m late for an appointment right now and don’t have my calendar,” I told him. “But that sounds interesting. I’ll get back to you later today.” He thanked me and signed off. There was no way I could accept a dime from Walter in light of what I’d just learned from Twila Jenson, but I now had new questions to ask him.
I spent the rest of the drive thinking about how to approach Sheriff Stoddard. On the one hand, I had information that might inform his investigation of Howard Coleman’s murder. But how much to tell him? I recalled Mimi Yoshida’s warning that he engineered the coerced confession from Kenny. And Sissy Anderson was counting on us to keep her information in confidence. Then there was what I’d just learned from Twila Jenson—that was too fresh to share with anyone outside the investigation.
I would play it by ear, I decided, erring on the side of caution.
It must have been a slow day at the county seat, because I scored a parking place right in front of the Sheriff’s Office, a drab, two-story structure connected by a pedestrian bridge to the county courthouse. After checking in, I took a seat in front of a low table on which three tattered magazines were scattered—Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, and People. I picked up the SI, which was two years old, and leafed through it until a deputy appeared and escorted me through a security check, down a long hallway, and up one flight of stairs to Stoddard’s office.
Tall and lean with sandy hair, pale blue eyes, and a chin neatly cleaved as if by a scalpel, Stoddard wore a crisp, tan uniform and greeted me with a robust handshake. “What can I do for you, Mr. Claxton?”
“A couple of things, Sheriff.” I reached into my windbreaker and pulled out a coiled piece of the steel cable I’d picked up at Sloat Trucking, explaining that, in my opinion, it closely resembled what was used to tie Howard Coleman’s hands and feet.
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Claxton,” Stoddard said when I finished, his tone borderline patronizing. “Are you suggesting the cable’s unique to the Sloat maintenance shop? There’s probably a lot of
that in use around the bay.”
I shrugged. “That could be, but I thought your investigator could check it out.”
“Of course. I’ll pass it on to Detective Rice. Thanks for—”
I put a hand up. “There’s one more thing.” I went on to tell him the story of how I’d been forced off the Umpqua Highway by a logging truck, that it was being investigated by the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office, and gave him the name of the officer in charge of the investigation.
When I finished, Stoddard said, “I’m glad you, your daughter, and your dog are okay, Mr. Claxton. Are you suggesting the two crimes are connected?”
“Yes, I think they could be.”
Stoddard leaned in and placed his elbows on the desk separating us. “How so?”
“It’s a hunch more than anything. Howard Coleman was killed by at least two men, and the attempt on my life was by two men, one in a logging truck. Coleman drove for Sloat Trucking, right? And I spotted the steel cable at Sloat Trucking. Maybe one or both of the killers work at Sloat.”
Stoddard straightened in his seat, and his forehead grew lines. “What were you doing at Max Sloat’s yard?”
“Trying to get some information about the situation. She was uncooperative.”
“Why would these men—if there were two—attack you, Mr. Claxton?”
“Good question.” I met his eyes. They were direct and unblinking. “As you know, Coleman was involved in Kenny Sanders’ conviction four years ago. By sheer coincidence, I became Kenny’s attorney recently. I’m trying to prove he’s innocent.” Stoddard’s face stiffened. It was clear he didn’t know about that. Apparently, the Coos Bay grapevine didn’t extend into the county. “I think the attack on the Umpqua was in response to my taking the case.”
He leaned back and seemed to take a more careful look at me. “Do you have any other evidence to support this claim?”
I shook my head. “No, nothing more than the timing, but I’m working on it.” I stopped there and held his probing gaze. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in, Sheriff. Now you know as much as I do.”
Suddenly more interested, he took me back over the story, asking more detailed questions, most of which I couldn’t or didn’t answer. When we finished, he said, “I’ll pass this on to Detective Rice and have him contact you. I’ll also make sure he gets with Douglas County to get their input on the hit-and-run.”
“That works for me,” I said as we both stood and shook hands. “Maybe you and Douglas County can sort this out.”
When I got to the door, Stoddard said, “Can I give you some advice, Mr. Claxton?”
I turned back to face him.
He smiled, but his eyes didn’t participate. “You’re an attorney, so you probably won’t listen, but if I were you, I’d think carefully about representing Kenny Sanders. That was a righteous conviction, and we won every damn appeal. People around here think he’s right where he belongs—in the State Penitentiary. Don’t waste your time on him.”
I wanted to tell Stoddard exactly what I thought of his open-and-shut case, but this wasn’t the time or the place. I walked out without responding.
On my way to the beach house, I mulled over the conversation, reasonably satisfied that I’d gone about as far as I could go without revealing the bigger picture of how Howard Coleman’s murder might be related to Kenny Sanders.
But one nagging question kept recurring—was the advice Sheriff Stoddard offered me just that, or was it a veiled threat?
Chapter Nineteen
After dinner that night, Claire got a call and immediately retreated to her room, with Archie tagging along. The fact that her ears turned a shade of red when she looked at the screen before answering tipped me that it might be a call from Gabriel. She’d had that ear-blush tell since she was a little girl, and her mother and I made good use of it when she was growing up, without her ever knowing. A devious trick, admittedly, and it occurred to me that I should fess up one of these days, although I knew I would pay a heavy price.
Armed with glasses of Rémy Martin, Nando and I retired into the living room and sat down below the Jackson Pollock. The glow of the setting sun faded, and the sea became a deep, black cavern. The search for Robert had progressed. Out of the forty-seven felons with that first name, seventeen had at least one brother, although our data on family members was sketchy and incomplete. Those names were now circulating with Nando’s contacts to see if any of them were in the drug trade. It was a long shot, but we had to start somewhere.
Nando inhaled the rich aroma of the cognac, took a sip, and said, “I had a look around this house. The windows on the first floor have locks that are not easily defeated, and the doors have solid deadbolts. Keep everything locked.”
“I intend to. I’ve checked out the neighborhood. If someone wanted to approach the house unseen, the best method would be from Lighthouse Beach. There’s a steep, narrow gully leading down to the beach at Yoakam Point. They would probably use the trail access at the highway—there’s a trailhead marker there. Then they would descend via the gully to the beach and come back up at our staircase.”
“It makes sense,” Nando said. “Your best intruder alarm has four legs. And when you’re home during the day, keep the Glock downstairs just in case.”
“Will do.” The chances of needing a gun in broad daylight were slim, but it was a disquieting thought. “And whatever plans get made, Claire’s never going to be here alone.”
“That would be very wise, Calvin.”
Our conversation drifted off to other topics and finally came around to how I got myself into this situation. Like Gertie, Nando always considered the financial implications of his actions, a trait I sorely lacked. At one point he said, “What if this case drags on? This is a very nice place, but you cannot stay here indefinitely without jeopardizing your livelihood.”
I shrugged. “I know. The original plan was a two-week vacation, and it’s been, what, twelve days? I can spend another week or so working full time on this without any major blowback in Dundee and Portland. After that, I’ll have to go to plan B.”
“Which would be?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
He looked dubious but managed a smile. “Well, in that case, we will have to make fast work of it.”
“Right. And this isn’t about finding some new avenue of appeal. That would take too long, and time’s not Kenny Sanders’ friend. This is about finding who really killed Sonny Jenson and proving it.” I drank some more Rémy and exhaled a long breath. “We need a break or two to have any chance at all.”
* * *
Claire came into the kitchen the next morning, her eyes tinged red and the tone of her voice making it clear she was upset. Nando looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Never one to postpone the inevitable, I said, “Was that Gabriel who called last night?”
She shot me a lethal look. “Unfortunately.”
Nando said, “Gabriel? Who is this person who has upset you?”
She looked at me, then swung her eyes to my friend. “He’s, ah, was my boyfriend in Cambridge. We broke up last night.”
“What happened?” Nando said, his face filled with obvious concern.
Claire turned her head and glared out the kitchen window. “Machismo. That’s what happened.”
“Vaya cabrón. Where is Gabriel from?”
“Argentina.”
“Ah, the Argentinians, they have this problem. It is well known.”
“And Cubans don’t?” she spat.
I swallowed a laugh, and Nando put his hands up, looking a little cornered. “It is less of a problem in Cuba, where many strong women live.”
Claire looked at me. “Gabriel doesn’t get it. He thinks I’m unprofessional for taking this hiatus to help you. ‘Your work’s too important,’ he told me. Okay, I get that, but it’s not his call. God forbid I
should make my own career decisions, right? Then last night he reminds me that I’m supposed to meet his parents next week.” She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand, a mock blow. “I completely forgot, and I can’t make it now, anyway.”
I cringed. “You’re surprised he got upset?”
Her eyes swelled in exasperation. “Of course not. But I am surprised that after I explained again how important this was to me, he still seemed pissed.”
“You can still make it, you know.”
Daggers flew from her sapphire eyes. “I’m staying here as long as you do, Dad. Helping Kenny’s the right thing to do. Meeting somebody’s parents is not that big a deal.”
“Even if they’ve come all the way from Argentina?” Nando ventured.
Claire shot him the same withering look. “They didn’t come to Boston just to meet me.”
I started to comment but was saved when Claire’s cell went off. She was an integral part of this effort, but on the other hand I didn’t want her to blow up a relationship that obviously meant a great deal to her. She glanced down at the screen anxiously and then walked into the dining room to take the call, looking disappointed. When she returned she said, “That was the surfer we met at Bastendorff, Stu Foster. He wants to meet me for coffee this morning. I told him okay.”
“Good,” I said, more relieved that she had something to focus on than excited about what she might learn from Kenny’s friend. “It’s worth a shot.”
* * *
Claire left about ten that morning to meet Foster, and by then I’d left Walter Sanders a voice mail indicating I had a flexible schedule that day. Meanwhile, Nando worked the phones for a good hour—without learning anything new, it turned out—and then found an image online of a dark blue Peterbilt logging truck that I agreed looked like the one that knocked us in the river.
“I am going to have this printed out and then ask around the area of Coos Bay–North Bend this afternoon. I will ask about two brothers who might own or be associated with such a logging truck,” he explained. “Even if the Douglas County Sheriffs have done something similar, people are not always comfortable talking to the law.”
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