“Did she say why?”
Claire smiled. “Yeah, she said Kenny was a surfer, that he took all his aggression out on the waves at Bastendorff. She thought it was a robbery. ‘Whacked-out meth heads’ was the term she used. But when I mentioned Walter Sanders, she slammed the brakes on. ‘Kenny’s stepdad? I hardly knew the guy.’ We danced around that for a while. Finally, I told her we had reliable information that she was seeing Walter around the time of the murder. Talk about a deer in the headlights. She looked terrified, Dad. ‘I’m married now,’ she said. ‘I have a little girl. I don’t want to stir up the past. And, besides, how could I possibly help you?’”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said we were in fact-finding mode, and her cooperation could be vital in helping Kenny get out of prison. I also told her we’d do everything in our power to keep her information confidential.”
“Good. You didn’t promise anything.”
Claire laughed and shot me a look. “I know better than that. Kathy said she needed some time to think, that she’d get back to me. I left her with a gentle reminder that a lot of her sisters were coming forward these days.”
“Do you think she’ll cooperate?”
Claire shrugged and made a face. “Hard to say. “Coming forward’s one thing—and the right thing—but facing the consequences is daunting. Women who speak truth to power still run the risk of having their lives blown apart.”
“Point taken.” I paused. “Listen, Claire, there’s something else—did you leave the gate to the beach stairs open?”
“No, not that I know of. Why?” I explained the trail of tobacco juice Archie discovered and the two sets of footprints I’d seen. She said, “The Brothers B were here? Last night?”
“That’s my conclusion.”
She picked up the aspirin bottle, peered at it, and said, “Nice of one of them to leave his calling card.” A wry smile. “At least we know we’re not dealing with master criminals, Dad.”
I had to laugh, although I had a more serious message in mind. “Not master criminals but dangerous as hell, Claire. Listen, I think you should—”
My phone riffed. “Take it, Dad,” Claire said, her look making it clear she knew what I was about to say and didn’t want to hear it.
It was Rori Dennison. “Cal, it’s Kenny. He’s been stabbed.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s a lucky fellow,” the surgeon said, a small woman with a quick smile and intense, dark eyes and a name tag that read N. Nguyen. She’d taken Rori’s hands in hers, a spontaneous show of compassion I didn’t expect to see at a prison infirmary. “The blade missed his heart and lungs and only nicked one of his vertebrae. I repaired most of the damage. His body will do the rest.”
Relief flooded Rori’s face. “Oh, thank God.” Her magenta hair was in a magnificent tangle as she bent slightly to accommodate the surgeon’s diminutive stature. “When can we see him? We have visitor clearance.”
The surgeon hesitated. “Let’s see how he feels when he comes out of the anesthesia. Why don’t you wait, and I’ll let you know?”
The time crept by, and it was nearly the end of visiting hours when the surgeon returned. She was smiling. “He’s an amazingly strong young man. You can go directly to the recovery room.” She put a finger up. “But, only ten minutes.”
I gestured in Claire’s direction and said to the doctor, “We’re his legal team. We’d like to speak to him separately, if that’s possible.”
“Okay. Five minutes each.”
Rori was allowed in first and returned obviously sobered by the visit. “He looks awful, and they have him manacled to the bed, but I got a smile out of him. He wouldn’t talk about what happened, said he didn’t want to worry me.” She rolled her eyes. “Like I’m not going to worry. He’s glad you’re here, Cal. I think he might open up to you.” Her eyes filled, and a tear cleared her lower lid and traced a path down her cheek. “How can he go back into that hellhole?”
When we entered the room, Kenny looked at Claire first and managed a faint smile. “An angel. Have I died and gone to heaven?”
Claire suppressed a return smile. “No such luck, Kenny.”
To me, he said, “Hello Mr. Claxton. Thanks for coming.” His cheeks were hollow, and his blond beard and slate blue eyes stood out against skin that was white as the sheets on the gurney.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Not so hot, but it beats the alternative.”
“What happened?”
He sighed a weak breath. “I was out in the yard when a group of EKs kind of drifted over, a few at a time so I didn’t notice. Then they surrounded me to block the view, and bam, I had a shiv in my back before I could do anything.” He closed his eyes and grimaced. “Worst pain I’ve ever felt. They left it in me.” His mouth curled up on one side. “I guess they figured I mean what I said about not joining them.”
“You know it was somebody in the European Kindred?”
“Positive.” He glanced at Claire, then back at me. His eyes seemed sunken compared to the last time I’d seen him, but they burned with intensity. “But that doesn’t mean shit in this place.” He grasped my arm with surprising strength, then grimaced in pain and let go. “I can’t go back in there, Mr. Claxton. They won’t miss next time. If I go back, I’m a dead man.”
I resisted the temptation to promise something I couldn’t deliver. “Can you give us some names, something to work with?”
“I already told Security that it was the Kindred. They know all the players, but they can’t do squat. It’s my word against theirs, and nobody else will talk, even if they saw it.” He looked at me, his eyes suddenly desperate. “Can you do anything? People get transferred to other prisons, but I don’t know how they do it. I can’t go back in there, Mr. Claxton.”
“I know that, Kenny. We’ll find a way,” I said, although I didn’t know the ins and outs of moving prisoners around in Oregon. “Meanwhile, you’re safe here in the infirmary, and the doc says it’ll be a while before you’re ready to go back in.”
That seemed to calm him somewhat. “How’s the investigation coming?”
“We’re making steady progress,” I said, “but we still have a lot of dots that need connecting.”
“We’ve hired a top-notch private investigator from Portland to help us out,” Claire chimed in.
He smiled. “Good.” A nurse appeared at this point and shooed us out. As we were leaving, he said to Claire, “How’s the surf been?”
“We had a nice swell yesterday, but it was blown out this morning. Onshore wind.”
Kenny smiled. “Damn on shores. They screw everything up this time of year.”
Claire and Rori went out to the parking lot to give Archie a much-needed break. I joined them ten minutes later, after talking to a clerk in the Prison Services Office about prison transfer procedures. “Kenny needs to talk to his counselor about filling out a transfer request called a 1206. That goes up the line for approval. As his attorney, I can provide a letter in support of his request,” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed for I-5.
“How long would that take?” Rori said, her voice filled with concern. She knew better than me how slowly the prison bureaucracy moved.
“They were vague on that. If approved, the move can take place rapidly, but there’re two catches. First, there has to be an opening, and Oregon prisons are overcrowded, and second, transfer of someone doing a life sentence needs the approval of the DOC Director.” What I didn’t say was that the clerk also told me that that kind of approval was rarely, if ever, granted.
“Where would he go?” Claire asked.
“The clerk said the only option is the prison at Pendleton in eastern Oregon.”
“Pendleton?” Rori said. “Jesus, Cal, that’s hundreds of miles from here.”
; “I know. It’s a stopgap until we get him out, Rori. He says he can’t go back in here, and I believe him.”
Her expression turned contrite. “Of course. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that it’s eastern Oregon. They’re probably more skinheads over there than here at Salem.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that, but it’s still our only option.”
Claire said, “He can start over there. It’ll buy us some time, if nothing else. We’ll contact Kenny tomorrow and get the ball rolling on the transfer.”
Rori agreed, and we drove on, shrouded in discouraged silence. We’d already discussed the case on the way to the prison, and the truth was we were spinning our wheels. And now the timing was even more imperative. It wasn’t just Kenny’s freedom at stake but his life. The transfer would keep him safe, at least temporarily, but the best scenario would be to get him out before he went anywhere. The doc hadn’t given us any timing, but he’d probably be well enough to go back into the general population in two weeks, if not sooner.
I marveled at the absurdity of it. Two weeks.
I didn’t need any more incentive for this case, but there it was.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I am cooking dinner tonight,” Nando announced when Claire and I arrived at the beach house after dropping Rori off. He was back from Portland, and we couldn’t help noticing the two large pizza boxes sitting on the kitchen counter. “We are having my specialty—thin crust pizza with fennel sausage, roasted onions, basil, and Calabrian chiles.”
Claire looked closer at the boxes, and a smile bloomed on her face. “Oh, bless you. Ken’s Artisan Pizza. You have good taste, Nando.”
I laughed, and Nando maintained a straight face. “Okay. I confess I brought them from Portland, but I plan to reheat them perfectly, so they do not become soggy. This requires considerable culinary skill.”
While we ate pizza and drank beer, Claire and I brought Nando up to date. Most of the discussion centered on Kenny’s stabbing and the time pressure that placed on the investigation, but after I described the night visitors we’d had, Nando said, “You were right about the approach to the beach house the Brothers B would take, Calvin. These men are relentless. And nice work on the tobacco juice.”
Claire said, “We can thank Archie for that. He found those loogies first.” On hearing his name, Archie’s ears popped up, and his jaw dropped open in a doggy grin.
Laughter all around. Then Nando grew serious and started to say what I’d intended to, “Claire, this has become a very dangerous situation. I—”
Claire shot a hand up. “Stop. It’s dangerous for all of us.” She turned from Nando to me and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t patronize me, damn it. I’m not some helpless damsel in distress.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m the one who pulled you out of the river, Dad. Remember? Treat me like an equal, please.”
Nando and I sat there searching for something to say. Claire was my only child, my baby, but she was right, of course. We were both acting like condescending jerks. I glanced at my friend and heaved a sigh. I was, indeed, hoisted on my own petard. “Alright. I can’t argue with that. We all need to recognize the threat level’s at maximum.” I looked at Claire. “And I don’t want you off on your own—down to the beach or into town, whatever—unless you clear it with me or Nando. Okay?”
“Fair enough.”
Looking a bit relieved, Nando said, “We need to address the threat. Calvin, if you are right about last night being a reconnaissance run by the Brothers B, we can be sure they will be back, and probably very soon.”
Claire asked, “What should we do?”
“How quickly can Harmon Scott turn the DNA sample around?” Nando said.
I shook my head. “I didn’t get any promises, but if he’s able to sneak it in at the head of the queue, the lab can do the analysis in two days. But that’s a huge if.”
Nando nodded. “I agree. We cannot assume we will get any near-term help from Scott. And my sources have turned up nothing so far. So, we need a plan.” He stroked his cheek and chin with a big hand. “In Cuba, my father used to say, ‘If you want to catch sharks you must chum the waters.’”
He described a plan, and we kicked it around. I didn’t like it. It was a long shot and seemed risky, but I had to admit I didn’t have a better idea. “Okay,” I finally conceded, “we’ll try it for a couple of nights.”
Claire described her conversation with Kathy Harper next. “One thing stood out,” she concluded. “Before Kathy shut down when I mentioned Walter Sanders, she said she remembered the events around the time of the murder well. I’ve got a feeling she might know something relevant.”
“Then, you must persuade her to talk,” Nando said.
“Working on it.”
After dinner I brought us back around to Sonny Jenson. “I know we favor Max for the murder because of her financial motive, her connection to the Brothers B—”
“And the fact that she may have murdered her father,” Claire interjected.
“—Yeah, that, too. But we can’t rule out Walter. He had the same financial motive, a flaky alibi, and may have known his wife was sleeping with Sonny.”
“If we can believe Max about that,” Claire added.
“Right. So, what does this suggest we should be doing besides trying to find the Brothers B as soon as possible?”
“Excellent question,” Nando said. “Both Max and Walter have secrets, and it’s quite possible that even if Walter was not in on the killing, he suspects her guilt. Perhaps we should drive a wedge between them to get Walter to give her up.”
“Or, vice-versa,” Claire chipped in.
I tipped my beer bottle at them both and flashed a broad smile. “Yes, the thin end of the wedge. Excellent idea.”
We came up with a couple of ideas, although we realized we weren’t quite ready. More work was needed, a full court press.
* * *
A blanket of wet fog greeted us the next morning, and the only evidence of the Pacific out beyond the beach house was the muffled thrashing of the surf and the intermittent squawking of seagulls. After breakfast, Nando was ready to set out for the Umpqua Highway with his Peterbilt truck photo in hand. “The Peterbilt appeared behind you from a dirt road about fifteen miles east of Reedsport,” he said. “This suggests the Brothers B had some familiarity with the terrain. I am going to scour the area for possible witnesses. Somebody living or working along that stretch of highway could have seen something. A truck that big is hard to hide.”
Archie, Claire, and I left soon after that for the North Bend Library. Claire had research and data analysis work related to her Gulf Coast study that needed immediate attention. After dropping her off, my next stop was Coffee and Subversion to check in on Rori and get one of Anthony’s double cappuccinos.
Stirred by Rori’s act of civil disobedience, a raucous crowd had gathered for another day of collecting signatures for the Stop the LNG Petition. Rori was up front, giving last minute directions. Little half-moons of discoloration showed below her eyes, but she spoke in a firm, clear voice. “We need at least another five thousand signatures before this petition will have any impact on the Governor. Stick to the script and be enthusiastic but not discourteous.”
“Like when you handcuffed yourself to that limo?” someone called out, causing the group to erupt in applause, cheers, and laughter.
She waved them off, smiling a bit sheepishly. “That needed doing. Corporations like Bexar don’t want people to know what they’re up to. They’d rather you read about the fait accompli in the paper when it’s too late.” She flashed a look of determination and raised a fist. “Now get the hell out of here and collect those signatures.”
“Are you okay?” I said, as we sat having coffee after the throng departed. “You look a little tired.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t get much sleep las
t night, but that’s nothing new.” She sipped her coffee and looked at me. “What are you up to today?”
“I just dropped Claire at the library. She’s doing postdoc stuff. I left a voice mail for Kenny earlier this morning with instructions for how to get the ball rolling on the transfer.” Rori nodded enthusiastically. “Then I’m off to see Twila Jenson. She called this morning and said she had something important to give me.”
“Did she say what?”
“No, and I didn’t press her on the phone.” I paused. “One thing I haven’t asked you, Rori—do you think she knew about her husband’s affair with Krysta?”
Rori studied her cup for a few moments, then looked up at me. “I saw no hint of that, and she was terribly grief-stricken after Sonny’s death—depressed, really. Took her a long time to recover. That would be a hard thing to fake.” She looked at me. “You don’t suspect her, do you?”
“Nobody’s ruled out at the moment.”
“Well, she seems to have gotten her life back on track, and her painting’s gotten a lot better—darker but more interesting.” She paused and held my gaze with sad, tired eyes. “Do we have a prayer, Cal?”
“Yes. We do. Stay positive.”
That admonishment applied to me as well.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twila Jenson was at her artist getaway off Seven Devils Road, so I headed south again. By this time the sun had vanquished the fog, and Archie had his head thrust out the back window of the Subaru with a big doggie grin, proving he wasn’t immune to that universal canine compulsion for rushing fresh air. It made me laugh. It always did.
“How’s the painting going?” I said when she came to the door.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s always a struggle.” Then she knelt down and made a big fuss over my dog. I followed her down the hall, and as I passed the portrait of her grandmother wearing the jade necklace, I was struck again by the resemblance.
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