No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  I don’t know how long I was asleep before a sound awoke me. Distant at first, it grew louder and louder, like an approaching patrol car, except that instead of a siren I heard the digital excuse for a blues riff. I made a mental note to change the damn ring tone on my phone.

  “Yeah? This is Cal,” I growled.

  “Top of the day to you, too, Sunshine. It’s Harmon Scott. I’ve got something for you.”

  My head cleared in a millisecond. “Great, Harmon. Give me the headlines.”

  “Not on the phone, my friend. Sorry. I’m overnighting a package to you. I called to confirm your address down there.”

  “You got a hit.”

  “Yes. What address do you want me to use?” I gave him the beach house address, barely able to contain my excitement. “How’s the vacation going?” he asked.

  I exhaled a long breath into the phone. “Let me put it this way. Your package can’t come soon enough, Harmon.”

  Whatever sleep I’d managed to get, it was enough. I popped up and went into the kitchen, clearheaded and suddenly ravaged by hunger. I made a double cappuccino first, then toasted four slices of wheat bread and proceeded to build a couple of sandwiches, using a can of locally packed albacore tuna, some jalapeños, a little mayo, and, of course, some fresh lemon juice. As I ate, Arch sat beside me, watching my every move with his big, doleful eyes. A true denizen of the Northwest, my dog loved albacore tuna.

  “Okay, Big Boy, you win.” I dug out a nice chunk from the can and dropped it in his dish. It was gone in one gulp.

  With my energy restored, I called Rori to inquire whether she’d been in contact with Kenny. “He called this morning,” she said. “He’s feeling a little better, although his voice didn’t sound strong at all. He said he’s heard nothing about the transfer request.”

  “It’s too early,” I said. “I expect they’ll take some time to respond.” I went on to describe our encounter with the Brothers B the night before.

  “Oh, what next?” she gasped, when I told her about Nando. “Where is he?”

  “Bay Area Hospital. We’re going to visit him later this afternoon. We can swing by the shop and pick you up.” She agreed, thanking me.

  I made another cappuccino and sat at the kitchen table deep in thought. Although I’d given Rice most of what I had on Max Sloat, it still might not have been enough for him to justify seeking a search warrant to force her to open up Sloat Trucking’s books. Not that I expected him to find an obvious paper trail connecting her to the older Brother B. Max was too smart for that.

  I thought about Walter Sanders. Nando and I were planning a good cop, bad cop party for him, but now I was missing my bad cop. Could I play both roles? It was worth a try. I reached Walter’s voice mail and left a message for him to call me.

  I just punched off the call when Claire staggered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, hair in a tangle. I made her a coffee and fixed her a tuna sandwich. As she began eating, I told her the good news—that Scott had gotten a hit on the tobacco juice DNA—and we talked about next steps. Between hungry bites, she said, “After we visit Nando, you can drop me at the library. I need an hour or two to go through Coleman’s credit card receipts.”

  “That’ll work,” I said. “If Walter doesn’t call me back, I’m going to cold call him at his office, anyway. That reminds me, what about Kathy Harper? Any way you can work your charms on her, get her to meet with us?”

  Claire made a face. “We’ve been playing text tag. She’s agreed to at least meet, but she’s been evasive. I think she’s afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” I asked. “Could Walter be threatening her?”

  Claire shook the question off. “My guess is it’s closer to home. It’s probably still about her husband and family.” Claire’s look turned sour. “And, she’s the victim.”

  * * *

  “I know firsthand how bad the food is in this hospital, so I brought you a little something from the shop,” Rori said to Nando, setting a bakery bag down. “Almond croissant, pain au chocolat, and pumpkin bread, baked this morning.” We had just descended on my friend, who had regained some color but still looked like a shadow of himself.

  Nando showed a weak smile. “Thank you, Rori. That is very kind of you.” He looked at a nurse who was adjusting a drip medication, then back at Rori and winked. “I will have to hide this from Gloria, here. She is not to be trusted.”

  The nurse laughed and rolled her eyes dramatically as she left the room. “You’re the one not to be trusted, Hernando,” she called over her shoulder.

  Rori stepped up to Nando’s bed and began a tearful apology, but he cut her off in mid-sentence. “What happened to Calvin and Claire and now to me is not your fault, Rori,” he told her. “I came here because my friends were attacked, and I see now that the people behind these acts are afraid the truth about your grandson’s innocence will be exposed. I am honored to work on his behalf.”

  Rori was dabbing her eyes when Sissy Anderson came through the open door, surprising all of us. After greetings were exchanged, Sissy looked at Nando with obvious shyness. “I just came here to see how you’re feeling. I’m sorry about what those two brothers did to you.”

  Claire shot me a look and suppressed a smile. Nando’s Latin charms were in clear evidence.

  Nando seemed touched. He said, “Thank you, Sissy. This is nothing compared to the loss you suffered.”

  An awkward silence followed, after which we kept the banter light with Nando sprinkling in jokes—mostly at my expense. After a short time he began to tire. Sissy stayed silent the whole time and was the first to leave. Judging from her demeanor, the grief she’d suffered was turning into seething anger.

  * * *

  I hadn’t heard back from Walter Sanders, but I dropped off Claire at the library and drove over to the headquarters of Condor Enterprises. Located on North 6th, just east of Tremont, the reception area of the building was on the second floor to show off an expansive view of the Bay. An attractive young woman greeted me from behind a marble top desk. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m Cal Claxton. I’d like to see Walter Sanders.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Well, I called earlier. If you could just tell him I’m here, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course,” she said with a look that made it clear people didn’t just pop in on Walter. As I stood there, she relayed my message, and a long pause ensued as she listened intently. Then she shot me a different, more attentive look. “Have a seat, Mr. Claxton. Mr. Sanders will be right with you.”

  I sat down, put my briefcase aside, and hauled out my phone to check my email while I waited. “Hello Cal,” Walter Sanders’ voice boomed out a few minutes later, stirring me from a fatigue-induced stupor. “To what do I owe the honor?” Looking like he just stepped off the campaign bus, he wore a pinstripe suit, powder blue button-down shirt, solid red tie and his best bleached-white, gap-toothed smile.

  I stood up and smiled reflexively. “I wanted to update you on the investigation.”

  “Great,” he said, upping the smile ante. “I hope it’s good news. We can talk in my office.”

  Why do I find this man so annoying? I said to myself as I followed him down a hallway. By the time we reached his corner office, I realized it had a lot to do with the phony affability he used to mask an aggressive nature. That and the narrow gap in his front teeth that bugged me for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The seat Walter offered me in front of his desk afforded a nice view of the bay, which was more green than blue in the afternoon light and corrugated by a stiff breeze blowing east to west. The office smelled like a combination of air freshener and cigarette smoke and sported an oval glass desktop of impressive breadth and thickness, upscale leather furniture, and an obligatory bragging wall of photos and certificates attest
ing to his business prowess and social outreach. A large, well-executed seascape hanging on the opposite wall spoke to his good taste in art.

  I sat down and pointed at the painting. “Is that a Twila Jenson?”

  He beamed a proud smile. “Yes. One of my favorites.” His face clouded slightly. “She painted that before Sonny died. I’m glad she’s painting again, but her stuff’s a lot moodier now, not so much to my taste. A shame.” He swung his eyes from the painting to me. They were eager. “So, what’s the latest?”

  I opened my briefcase and pulled out a file folder stuffed with papers. Most of the papers were blank, but I didn’t let on to Walter. A thick file suggested lots of facts and evidence, the impression I wanted to impart. This was a bluff, pure and simple.

  “We’re getting close to wrapping this up,” I lied, “and I’ve got some concerns about your situation. Since you offered to help Rori out, I figure I owe you this.”

  His head recoiled slightly, as if my words had buffeted it. “My situation?”

  Here goes, I said to myself, feeling like I was about to take the first step on a high wire. Playing Walter off against Max would either split them—which is what I was after—or unite them against a common enemy—me. “We have mounting evidence that your business partner, Maxine Sloat, is behind the murder of Sonny Jenson.”

  His forehead became a crosshatch of deep furrows. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Max wanted in on the LNG deal, but Sonny was in the way.”

  He raised a corner of his mouth dismissively. “That’s nonsense. I told you Sonny bought in.”

  I opened the file, removed a single sheet of paper, and slid it across the glass surface to him. It was a copy of the letter Twila Jenson gave me. “Yeah, you did, but that was a lie, Walter.”

  He took the paper, scanned it, and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in choppy water. “Oh, this. Well, Sonny sent it, then changed his—”

  “Bullshit, Walter,” I cut in. “You’re joined at the hip with Max Sloat. I don’t believe you’re involved in the murder, but if you don’t start telling me the truth, you might find yourself in hot water. And Max could easily turn on you, you know. Somebody’s going down for this, trust me.”

  He leaned back in his chair and absently squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other until his knuckles went white. “Sounds like I should talk to my attorney.”

  “You can do that, of course, but it’s going to make you look like you’re involved in this. And you’ll be impeding my ability to get Kenny out of prison. Helping Kenny is something you care about, right? Look, Walter, I know a lot more than I’m telling you, including the identity of others Max recruited to do her dirty work. The smartest thing you can do is tell me everything you know and make a clean break from her.”

  He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips for what seemed an age. The wind had increased, with gusts now buffeting the large window and streaking the bay with nascent whitecaps. An antique clock behind his desk marked the time with faint, audible clicks. He finally sighed and leaned forward, avoiding my eyes as usual. “There was something that bothered me,” he said. “I mean, besides the fact that Max threatened Sonny. Hell, I chalked that up to her business style, you know, the take-no-prisoners type. But the night Sonny was killed, Max called me, said she wanted the three of us to meet, to try and iron things out.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. She asked me if Twila was painting that night at the Tioga. Yeah, I said, she is, but why? ‘Because I think she’s a sticking point in this,’ Max says. ‘It’s better if she’s not around.’”

  “How did you know Twila was at the Tioga that night?”

  Walter shrugged. “I don’t remember. Maybe Sonny said something. I mean, she spent a lot of time there. Anyway, I reminded Max that I was in Newport getting ready for an important meeting the next morning, that I wasn’t about to drive back to Coos Bay. She says, ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. Well, forget it, then.’” Walter looked at me. “I remember thinking how weird that was.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this to the investigators?”

  He shrugged. “By the time I heard about the murder, Kenny had already been picked up. I figured the sheriff must’ve had something on him, and then, you know, he confessed and all. It happened really fast.”

  “You never suspected that Max could have killed Sonny? What about the letter Sonny wrote, the one I just showed you?”

  “Max asked me not to say anything about it. ‘It’ll make us both look bad,’ she said. I told her I wouldn’t but that the investigators would probably find Sonny’s copy. When they didn’t, I just forgot about it.”

  A slow bloom of anger rose inside me. “So, Max knew Sonny was alone at his house, and she asked you to suppress the letter that stated she threatened him.” Walter nodded sheepishly. “Do you realize how incredibly irresponsible it was not to report that?” I continued, my voice rising. He dropped his gaze. “What else do you know, Walter?”

  “That’s all I can think of.” He brought his eyes up and gave me a pleading look. “I’m sorry for that now. At the time, you know, word got out immediately that Kenny did it, that the sheriff had him. I guess I should have questioned it, but I did get him a lawyer, you know.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Yeah, you did. A total incompetent. From where I sit, it looks like it was just too damn convenient to question it. Exposing Max might’ve toppled your LNG scheme, so you let Kenny take the fall.”

  “That’s not true,” he shot back.

  “Let me ask you something else—why did you lie to me about Sonny wanting to do the LNG deal?”

  He swallowed, and a vein in his neck appeared and began to pulsate. “I, ah, I guess I didn’t trust you at that point. For all I knew you’d start blaming me for Sonny’s murder.”

  “Only if you did it, Walter. Only if you did it.” I met his eyes and managed to hold them this time. “I hope you’re telling me everything. God knows, Max isn’t holding back. She mentioned you were having an illicit affair at that time, and Sonny threatened to unmask you.”

  His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “That’s a damn lie!”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t been able to corroborate it. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  His neck acquired some color. “Yeah, well, Max is running drugs through her operation. She takes a cut on all the action.”

  I laughed with derision. “Tell me something I don’t know. For example, the names of two of the players, a couple of brothers, one of whom drives for her?”

  He shook the question off convincingly. “Nah, I don’t know anybody involved, but I know she’s been taking a cut for years.”

  The office went quiet, except for the antique clock. The whitecaps out on the bay were in full bloom. I said, finally, “You’ve been a help, Walter. I’ll be in touch as this unfolds. I assume you’ll hold this in the strictest confidence, particularly with Max. If you talk to her, it’ll look like you’re trying to coordinate your stories. You don’t want that, believe me.”

  I left Walter sitting at his desk with what I could only describe as a dazed look on his face. I had slipped the thin end of the wedge in and whacked it hard. Was Walter telling me the truth about the night Sonny was killed? Had Max signaled her murderous intent, either acting alone or through the Brothers B? It cheered me that the next day I would know the identity of one of the brothers. A solid lead, at last. Would that be the key to untangling this thing?

  I could only hope.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “So, DB stands for Darnell Barton,” Nando said, the name lingering on his lips as if he were savoring it. At the Bay Area Hospital the next morning, he was cranked up a little straighter in his bed, had regained some color, and the mischie
vous glint in his eye had returned for the most part. However, he still couldn’t move the fingers of his left hand. They were numb and tingling, a fact I had to pry out of him.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Forty-seven years old, grew up in the Coast Range in a little crossroads called Woodell, east of here. He got eight years at Salem for aggravated assault, got out six years ago on good behavior, was rearrested for sexual assault, but the charges were dropped when the woman he assaulted decided not to testify.” I handed him a printed copy of Darnell Barton’s mug shot.

  Nando shook his head in disgust. “A nasty fellow.” He looked at Claire. “Is this the man you saw in the restaurant?”

  She nodded. “The very same, only he now has longer hair and neck tats.”

  “He has no known current address,” I went on, “but get this—four years ago, at the time of Sonny Jenson’s murder, he was living in North Bend.”

  Nando’s eyebrows raised. “Opportunity.”

  “Yep.”

  “What about his brother?”

  “His name’s Robert Barton, consistent with the initials RB,” Claire responded. “He’s forty. He lived at the same address as Darnell four years ago, but no known current address, either. They both seem to be living off the grid.”

  “I called Chet Rice this morning,” I went on, “and told him what we had.”

  “What did you say about your source?” Nando asked.

  “I didn’t. He was happy to get the lead, didn’t press me. He’s got a murder and a home invasion to solve.”

  “What about the connection to Douglas County’s hit-and-run investigation?” Nando asked.

  “Rice said he would pass the information on. Between the two counties, maybe they can find these guys.”