With a view of the ocean through a scattering of pines, the kitchen sported an AGA cast iron range, a ceiling rack holding an assortment of copper pots, and some striking seascapes on the walls. She offered me tea. Her hair was down, brushing her shoulders, and her dark eyes were devoid of makeup. I said yes to the tea but apparently without sufficient enthusiasm.
“Oh, dear. You’re a coffee drinker, aren’t you? I don’t own a coffee machine. I’ll make the tea strong.”
Archie took stock from a corner while she brewed the tea, and we chatted about the weather. A haunting soprano voice drifted down from the cupola. “Who’s that singing?” I asked.
“Renée Fleming.” Her face brightened somewhat. “Did you see her sing Danny Boy at John McCain’s funeral?” I shook my head. “That’s a shame. It was incredibly moving. She’s performing on opening night in San Francisco later this month—“La Traviata.”
“Are you going?”
She handed me my tea in a delicate porcelain cup and saucer. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be at the Fairmont.” She allowed a smile. “The opera’s an excuse to play dress-up.” She took a few sips, then looked up and asked, “Are you making any progress on the investigation?”
“Yes, but we’ve had a setback.”
I told her about Kenny’s stabbing, and by the time I finished her eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, that poor boy. Surely they’ll allow him to change prisons.”
“I’m told it’s not easy for someone with a life sentence. We’ll see.” I paused and drank some of my tea. “You, uh, said you found something that might be important?”
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, her face noticeably paler than the last time I’d seen her. “Yes, I have, and now I feel even better about my decision to share it with you.” She managed a smile. “I told you I was a pack rat.” She put her cup and saucer down and walked over to a counter where a file folder lay. She turned and looked at me. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I had Sonny’s clothes hanging in a closet in the Coos Bay house until recently. It was just too hard to throw them out, to admit he was really gone, you know?”
“Yes, I do know.”
Her eyebrows arched at my comment, but she continued her train of thought. “Well, I finally got around to some housecleaning. His clothes are now at the Goodwill.” She smiled with a little less effort. “When I sold the house, I had everything packed up, moved, and stored in a spare bedroom in the Coos Bay house. Never looked at the damn stuff until yesterday.” She picked up the folder and handed it to me. “I found this in a box of his office files. I thought it might interest you.”
The tab on the folder had LNG handwritten on it. I opened it and withdrew a map, which I unfolded and laid on the kitchen table. A heavy red line traced a route from the California border through southern Oregon and terminated at Jackson Point on Coos Bay. I looked up. “The proposed route of the pipeline.”
Twila nodded.
I leafed through the rest of the papers in the folder—a series of detailed plat maps of the same area, showing property lines and proposed easements, along with a listing of names, addresses, and phone numbers with dollar amounts and comments next to each, indicating “yes,” “no,” and “maybe.” Finally, several pages of financial calculations were appended, suggesting some very attractive profits, depending on assumptions made. “This looks like the business case and supporting data for Walter’s real estate deal.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“Did the investigators see this at the time of the murder?”
“No, I don’t think so. They went through Sonny’s files, his computer, his calendar, but this had been tucked into an unmarked folder. I was tossing all the folders out when it literally fell on the floor. Those detectives weren’t very thorough. I’m not surprised they missed it.” She pointed at the folder. “There’s, ah, a note in the back from Sonny to Walter that you should see.”
I found the note, read it, then looked back at her as my heart pumped a little faster. “This is a copy. Did Sonny send the original to Walter?”
“I assume so, but he never said a word to me. That’s definitely his signature.”
“This is important evidence, Twila. I’d like to take some photos of the file with my phone, if you don’t mind.” She readily agreed, and after I finished, I said, “I think it’s better that the file stays in your possession to preserve its integrity. I want you to keep it in a safe place. Don’t add or remove anything, don’t show it to anyone, and don’t discuss it with anyone without checking with me first. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” She paused, and her eyes narrowed down. “Do you think Walter and Max Sloat were behind my husband’s death, Cal?”
“I can’t say at this juncture, but what you just showed me certainly demands follow-up.” That’s all I could give her.
She’d lost whatever color was left in her face, and when she closed her eyes, her lower lip trembled. “God, I thought this was all behind me,” she said in a barely audible voice. She reached out, put her hand on my arm as if to steady herself, and got up. “More tea?” I said yes and after she filled my cup, she added, “You, um, said a while ago you knew about loss. What did you mean?”
I exhaled a breath. “I lost my wife. It’s been over a decade now. She was a painter like you, watercolors mainly, and she taught art at Occidental College in L.A. She suffered from depression and committed suicide. Pills. So, I have some inkling of what you’re going through. We, uh, find ways of blaming ourselves in these situations.”
She put a hand to her mouth, her face registering a mix of surprise and compassion. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, Cal. That makes us kindred spirits, I guess.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I hope you don’t blame yourself.”
I shrugged. “It’s a process. The same goes for you.”
She looked away, focusing on something in the distance. “Well, you know, it’s what got left unsaid, what could have been, that sort of thing. We always assume we have all the time in the world.” A deep sigh. “God, I want justice for Sonny, and I want justice for Kenny Sanders. It’s just that…all this drama is ripping the scab off the whole festering wound.”
I felt a stab of guilt. “I know it’s painful, Twila, but it’s cathartic, too. You’re doing the right thing, and that will help you regain your footing in the long run.”
She nodded slowly, as if considering my words with great care. The conversation drifted off to her love of opera and painting, and after we finished our tea, she showed Archie and me to the door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I texted Claire that I was on my way to the library and got this text in return:
Hey, finished up. Thought of Twila since you were with her, so I walked over to the Tioga Building to have a look at the layout. Pick me up there.
The Tioga Building, I’d learned, was on the National Register, and along with its counterpart, the Egyptian Theater, had elegantly anchored downtown Coos Bay during its halcyon timber and fishing days. At nine stories, the Tioga was still the tallest building on the Oregon Coast and boasted a four-story sign out front that proclaimed its name in retro neon. This is where Twila was painting the night of the murder. She’d been picked up on a security camera coming and going through the front of the building. Claire, I assumed, was assessing the feasibility of an exit out the back, an item on our to-do list.
She was standing outside the building when I drove up, and after she hopped in, said, “Okay, the front of the building is retail—a seafood restaurant and an antique store—and the elevator up to the apartments is further back. There’s a rear exit down a hallway next to a set of public restrooms and the fire stairs. It’s a one-way emergency exit with a sign that says using it will activate an alarm.”
“So, she couldn’t have snuck out that way,” I said.
“Not likely, unless it wasn’t an alarmed exit fo
ur years ago, and the police report is vague on that point. I asked around at the restaurant and the antique store, but nobody’d been around that long except one waiter, but he wasn’t working today. I asked one of the other waiters to have him call me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll get a definitive answer on that. It’d be nice to eliminate a suspect.” She paused as I turned onto Ocean Boulevard. “How’d it go with Twila this time?”
“She showed me a file that proves Walter was pushing the LNG deal with Sonny and that Max was completely in on it.” I handed her my phone. “I took photos of the file and told her to hang on to it. The first three shots are of a note Sonny wrote to Walter dated nine days before he was killed. Check it out.”
Claire tapped on the screen and squinted at the small print of the typewritten note—recorded in three separate photos—
Walter,
I’ve looked over your proposal, and I think you’re being conservative. There’s the potential to make even more money. Bexar may be anxious to lock in the properties and easements, and your asking price might look like chump change to them. I don’t know and don’t wish to know how you determined the pipeline route, and I appreciate the fact that whatever you paid was not charged to Condor.
Having said this, let me be clear. As a managing partner in Condor Enterprises with a fifty percent equity stake, I don’t agree to proceed with this. First and foremost, I’m against the proposed LNG facility at Jackson Point based on environmental and safety considerations. You know the arguments by now. Second, what you are proposing may be illegal and is certainly highly unethical. Third, setting aside the legality and ethics, there’s a considerable risk that Bexar may balk at buying the properties before they know for sure if the project is approved or if the powers that be decide on a change in the pipeline route. Do you really want to bet the company on this?
One final point—if you and Max decide to go around me somehow, I will divulge everything I know publicly to stop you. We’ll talk, of course, but I wanted to set this down in writing so there’s no misunderstanding. Incidentally, Maxine called me yesterday, and the discussion devolved into a shouting match. Tell her that threatening me will get her nowhere.
Sonny
“This is incredible, Dad,” Claire said after reading the note. “Did Sonny actually send this to Walter?”
“I assume he did. The note was a copy, and Twila said it was definitely Sonny’s signature. It was stuck in the back of the file, which apparently was overlooked when the investigators went through his office. Twila found it by accident yesterday while she was doing some housecleaning.”
“Wow. And nine days after Sonny sends the note, he’s dead, and the LNG deal eventually goes through, enriching both Walter and Max. Motives on steroids.”
“And there’s evidence of a direct threat from Max,” I added.
“If Walter received the letter, he must have worried it would surface, right?”
I nodded, slowing down for a truck loaded with timber. “The cash stolen the night of the murder came from Sonny’s home office, which suggests the killer could have been looking for the note. The fact that it wasn’t found isn’t surprising. The investigators missed it, too.”
“Is this enough? I mean, can Max and Walter be charged, or Kenny’s case reopened?”
“No. This is the first hard evidence we have, and it goes strongly to motive for both Walter and Max. But we still have no direct evidence linking either one of them to the murder scene.”
Claire slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms. “Then how does this help us?”
“Well, in the absence of a smoking gun, which we do not have, the note and the supporting file showing the huge financial stake might give us the ability to squeeze Walter, get him to talk.”
“Assuming Max did it and Walter knows it,” Claire said.
“That seems to be the most likely scenario. Walter must know something or suspect something. That’s why he’s been cozying up to me and Rori, to find out how much we know. And we’ll have even more leverage if you can persuade Kathy Harper to come forward. It’s not likely he’ll want that to get out.”
Claire looked at me, alarm in her eyes. “Oh, Dad, this feels so tenuous. What if we don’t find a smoking gun?”
“We will, Claire. We’re getting damn close.” She regarded me for a moment longer and nodded, but I’m not sure she bought the optimism. Maybe I didn’t buy it, either.
* * *
We stopped for a game of slobber ball with Archie at a soccer field and then drove on to the Portside Restaurant in Charleston, where we’d arranged to meet Nando for dinner. We arrived first and scored a table with a view of the bay, although an offshore cloud bank spoiled our chance to see a dramatic sunset.
Nando arrived a half hour later. “This private detective work is difficult,” he said as he took a seat, his face in a pout. “I was unsuccessful today.” The waiter appeared, and he ordered a Dos Equis. “It’s hard to believe, but people in the Umpqua Valley seemed suspicious of a Cuban man asking a lot of questions.” He cast his eyes down. “And even my secret weapon didn’t work so well.”
He paused, and Claire took the bait. “What is it?”
He laughed, pointed an index finger at his mouth, and smiled broadly. “This. It disarms many, especially the women.”
“But not today?” I asked.
He waved a hand in disgust. “No. No one saw anything, or, if they did, they weren’t about to share it with me. But I am not finished. I am going to search the area around the Millicoma River next, where you and Claire found the body of Howard Coleman. Somebody could have seen something there as well. I will need another day or two, at least.”
A waiter appeared, and after we ordered I told Nando about the LNG file and Sonny Jenson’s note to Walter Sanders. When I finished he smiled with approval. “This will provide the thin end of the wedge, Calvin.” He turned to Claire. “And I agree with your father that Walter will be even more willing to talk if he thinks we might reveal his dalliance with the young cheerleader.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Jeez, guys, I don’t need any more pressure.”
By the time we finished our meal, we had turned to the shark-chumming plan we hatched the night before. Nando said, “We have been away from the beach house all day. As we discussed last night, the only reason for the Brothers B to case the place is in preparation for some kind of attack.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “And I doubt they realize we’re on to them.”
Claire laughed. “Well, they’re not exactly the brightest lights in the harbor.”
“Please,” Nando said, shooting her a look, “hubris is dangerous. As we discussed last night, if the brothers are intent on attacking us, they will most likely deploy themselves somewhere around the beach house. They could ambush us as we enter, or they could even hide inside, hoping to make it look like a robbery in either case.”
“There’s not much cover on the outside of the house, so assuming we’re right, they’ll opt to strike from inside,” I added.
“Agreed. And leaving the two most readily accessible windows on the deck unlocked should make it an easy choice for them.”
Claire made a face. “The thought of them waiting for us in the house creeps me out.” She looked at Nando with a dubious smile. “Using thread is so low-tech. You think it’ll work?”
I stifled a laugh.
Nando smiled. “Sometimes low-tech is best, Claire. They will approach using the stairs from the beach. They will not notice the fine thread I placed low across the gate.” He looked at his watch. “Now, we have more time to kill. Let’s go into the bar.”
* * *
At a little past midnight, we set off for the beach house. Nando took the lead in his Lexus, and Claire, Archie, and I followed in the Subaru. We pulled over a couple of blocks from the turn-off to Sunset Lane, and Nando walke
d back to our car. “Okay, I am going in now. Once I confirm they are not lying in wait outside, I will check the thread. If they are inside, I’ll pull back and we can call the sheriff to report a burglary in progress.”
I tensed up as he strolled into the darkness, because checking the outside was the most dangerous part of our scheme, and Nando insisted on doing it. “It was my idea,” he said when I raised the question. “I will take the risk.”
We sat in silence in the Subaru as time dragged by. Fourteen agonizing minutes later my cell phone riffed.
“All is clear. There are no sharks in the tank.”
Chapter Thirty
“I’m okay, I guess, but my back hurts like hell every time I move,” Kenny Sanders said.
“That’s good, Kenny. If you’re able to move, it means you’re on the mend,” Rori responded. It was the next morning in her office at Coffee and Subversion. She’d arranged a call with Kenny, and her speakerphone was turned on so that Claire and I could listen in.
Kenny laughed softly. “Yeah, well they’ve gotten the message here about opioids being addictive. Either that or they’re cutting costs on medications.”
Rori wrung her hands. “Well, I’ve got a lot of confidence in your surgeon, Dr. Nguyen. If you have a problem with pain, ask to see her.”
“It’s okay, Grandma, I’m just bitching. Got nothing else to do right now, and, besides, I’ll probably heal faster without taking a bunch of drugs.”
“Kenny, this is Cal,” I cut in. “Have you been able to start the transfer request procedure?”
He laughed again, more strongly this time. “Yeah, I told them I wanted to get the hell out of here. They sent a dude from security right away. He, ah, told me I was wasting my time, that the DOC Director would never approve a transfer for a lifer like me. He told me not to worry, that they’re taking steps to, quote-unquote, neutralize the threat to me.” He laughed again. “I think a transfer request makes the STM look bad.”
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