No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  “But,” Claire chimed in, “we just learned Chet Rice thinks Robert’s the one who shot you, Nando. So, there’s that.”

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “They were both shooting at me. It was one or the other. I don’t really care.”

  “The second possibility,” I continued, “is what we’ve been working up to these last three weeks. Let’s assume, for a moment, that Max Sloat decided to get rid of Sonny that night four years ago. The idiot was about to screw up a multi-million-dollar deal, after all. She confirms he’s alone that Friday night by talking to Walter, goes over to his place and dispatches him with a hammer from his workshop. Makes it look like a robbery. After that, the whole comedy of errors plays out that resulted in Kenny being arrested and coerced into confessing.”

  Claire laughed, a harsh, derisive note. “Max was probably amazed at her good luck.”

  “Right. So, everything’s cool for Max, and she even puts the jailhouse snitch Howard Coleman on her payroll. Why not? He did her an unwitting favor.”

  “Or, maybe it was part of a payoff, we just don’t know,” Claire interjected.

  “That’s right,” I said. “In any case, Howard starts distributing fentanyl with the Barton brothers, and Max begins taking her cut. Everything’s still cool.”

  Claire laughed. “Fast forward four years. Howard grows a conscience and sets up a meeting with Mimi Yoshida to atone for sending Kenny to prison. That could unravel the whole thing.”

  “And Max gets wind of it,” I went on, “probably through the Barton brothers, who are Howard’s fishing buddies as well as his partners in crime. So, she has them take Howard fishing one last time, just to make sure she’s never found out.”

  “In which case,” Nando said, “the apprehension of Robert Barton is vital.”

  “Exactly,” I said, “if—and it’s a big if—he knows why she had them kill Coleman.”

  Nando stroked his chin stubble with a big paw. “It seems likely the Barton brothers warned her about Howard’s intentions, which suggests they knew about Sonny’s murder. Who knows, perhaps Maxine let something slip?”

  “I hope you’re right. The brothers ran an exceedingly sloppy criminal enterprise, but so far Rice has found nothing that directly connects them to Max.”

  Nando grimaced, and with his left arm wrapped tight against his chest, used his right arm to help himself stand. His color was good, his voice strong, but the worry in his eyes was still apparent. “I like your scenario. It fits the evidence like the glove.”

  Claire laughed again, derisively. “Circumstantial evidence. We know what happened, but we can’t prove it.”

  Nando sat down wearily on the edge of the bed, and Claire helped him get in and covered him with a sheet. He thanked her and smiled with a tinge of embarrassment as he lay his head back on a pillow. “I tire too easily. Tell me, what are the next steps?”

  Claire and I looked at each other. “Other than waiting for Robert to surface, we’re stymied,” I answered. “When he’s caught, I’m confident Rice will squeeze him hard to implicate Max and find out what Robert knows about her motives.” I exhaled a breath and shook my head. “It’s shaky, at best.”

  The room got quiet. A gurney rattled by out in the hall. Nando said, “The situation is indeed precarious. I am wondering about Walter Sanders. Has he told you everything he knows? After all, he is trying to have it both ways—casting suspicion on his partner and maintaining his secrets. Perhaps you should shake his cage once more, Calvin?”

  I shrugged. “I can try, but I’m not sure it will yield anything.”

  Claire said, “Rori told us he came to her in a pretty emotional state yesterday. There must be a reason for that. He’s anxious about the investigation for obvious reasons, and he could be worried about what Max Sloat might do to him. Maybe we can play off his anxieties.”

  Nando looked at me and smiled. “Your daughter makes a very good point, Calvin.”

  * * *

  There’s no time like the present. Claire and I left the Bay Area Hospital that day and drove directly to the headquarters of Condor Enterprises on North 6th. It was midafternoon, and the sun was a hazy silver disk behind a layer of fast-moving clouds. Claire and I both went in but were informed that Walter Sanders had left for the day. I asked the receptionist to have him call me as soon as possible. “Tell him it’s urgent,” I said.

  Back at the beach house, Claire and I took Archie for a well-deserved jaunt on Lighthouse Beach. The plovers weren’t around, so I was given permission to unleash my dog, who dashed off with reckless abandon, at least until he got near the waterline. A stiff breeze blew off the ocean, and the air had that good sea aroma. I mentioned liking the salty smell, and Claire laughed. “You can’t smell salt, Dad. What you’re smelling is actually a sulfide compound produced by an enzyme associated with the algae in the water.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Didn’t know that. Sulfides, enzymes? Somehow, that takes the romance out of it.” That made us both laugh, the first levity we’d shared in quite a while.

  We just got back to the house when the doorbell rang. I said to Claire, “Bet you ten bucks that’s Walter Sanders. He always shows up uninvited.”

  I opened the front door, and there he stood. “I know, you were just in the neighborhood, Walter.” His gap-toothed smile fell a little at my remark. “Just kidding. Come in.” The wind had become blustery, so I led him into the living room and offered him a seat below the Jackson Pollock print. Claire joined us. I said, “Thanks for coming by on short notice, Walter. We’re, uh, about ready to wrap this investigation up, and, at the request of my client, Rori, I’m giving you a chance to get out ahead of it.” I locked onto his eyes. “Kenny Sanders did not kill Sonny Jenson. That’s a settled fact. His business partner—you—and a potential partner—Maxine Sloat—both had strong financial motives to silence him. The letter Sonny wrote to you is—”

  “That letter was just business, for Christ’s sake,” Walter cut in, holding my gaze. “Sonny loved brinksmanship. And it was Max who threatened him, not me. I had nothing to do with Sonny’s death. I was cleared in the investigation. I was in Newport.”

  Claire let a half laugh slip out.

  I said, “There you go again, Walter, lying to us. You were at the Slumber Lodge Motel that night with a sixteen-year-old girl with whom you were having an ongoing affair.”

  The blood drained from his head like a plug had been pulled. “I, uh, that was a big mistake, something I regret very much.”

  I waited, letting him twist in the wind for a while. “It does provide you with an alibi for that night. However, that would be a costly thing to have surface here in Coos Bay, considering your standing in the community and all.” He looked at me in disbelief. “If you don’t want the focus of attention on you, I strongly recommend you tell me everything you know about Max Sloat during that time.”

  He licked his lips, swallowed, and his small eyes seemed to retract into their sockets. “Okay, okay. About a week before the murder, Max and I were talking about that goddamn letter. Max was really pissed. She said something like, ‘We should kill the bastard. I know a couple of guys.’ I laughed, thought she was kidding. That’s all she said, I swear.”

  “What happened after that?”

  He exhaled. “When I heard what happened—that was before they arrested Kenny—I went to Max’s place. I said, ‘What the hell have you done?’ She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Are you fucking crazy? I was kidding about that. I was at my office last night. I can prove it.’”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Claire lean in. I said, “Did she prove it?”

  He shrugged with a sheepish look. “I don’t know. I guess I took her word for it. I guess I believed her over my stepson. It’s, ah, not anything I’m proud of. It seems so different now, looking back on it.”

  Claire said, “Do you know of anyone else
who could speak to her alibi, one way or the other?”

  Walter shook his head. “Nah. You might ask someone who was working that night at the yard. They usually have a guy at the gate, but it was a long time ago.”

  “That’s all you got, Walter? You’re not holding back anything else?” I asked.

  He raised his palms in a gesture of appeasement. “That’s it, I swear.” In a lower tone, he added, “I wish I’d done the right thing in the first place.”

  As I walked him to the door, he asked me what I was going to do with the information about his affair. I bit down a strong urge to tell him exactly what I thought of his actions, but this wasn’t the time for that. I said, “Nothing, unless it’s necessary to prove Kenny’s innocence.” It wasn’t the reassurance he was looking for, I’m sure. I added to his anxiety by saying, “Max Sloat knows you’re a potential witness. If I were you, I would watch my back.”

  After he left, Claire looked at me, crestfallen. “That didn’t go anywhere, did it?”

  “No, not really. But at least it showed that Walter suspected Max. Hell, he accused her of doing the murder.”

  “But it’s still not enough to charge her with anything.”

  “Afraid not.”

  She exhaled and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Jeez, what does it take?”

  “To vacate a jury conviction, a lot, Claire, a lot.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The wind, which usually dies down after the sun sets on the Oregon coast, maintained its blustery ways that night, which made for some strange noises as the cedars brushed and scraped the side of the house. About three in the morning, Archie barked—two sharp yelps indicating he didn’t like one of those noises for whatever reason. I was already sleeping on the edge of consciousness—that weird, floating state between being awake and asleep—so his barks snapped me to attention with a start.

  I sat up, withdrew the Smith and Wesson from the nightstand drawer, and moved cautiously downstairs, with my dog leading the way. We stood in the shadows and watched the deck through the window for a long time. Nothing moved, except tree branches animated by the wind. “Okay, Big Boy,” I said, finally, “false alarm.” He looked up at me as we took to the stairs, and I patted his head. “I know, just doing your job.”

  * * *

  I got up early the next morning, and after a couple of cappuccinos, started cooking breakfast, a five-egg omelet to which I added nearly everything I found in the refrigerator—green onion, red bell pepper, some leafy spinach, Gruyere cheese, and some bacon I’d nuked in the microwave. An even less perky morning person than her father, Claire staggered in just as I laid the concoction out on the table along with toast and a jar of local honey.

  Despite the latest admission by Walter Sanders that seemed to seal the deal on Max Sloat, our mood had shifted. Maybe it was because Chet Rice hadn’t called, meaning Robert Barton was still at large, or more likely a sense that we were running out of actions we could take to advance the case.

  Had we hit the wall? It was beginning to feel like it.

  Over breakfast, we did discuss the possibility of chasing down Max’s whereabouts the night of the murder. “What about that guy at the gate at the truck yard who let you in that first day?” Claire asked. “Maybe he was around four years earlier or knows someone who was.”

  I shrugged. “It didn’t look like they kept any written records, so it would be next to impossible to prove, even if he or someone else remembered back four years. The most we could hope for would be that Max wasn’t where she told Walter she was that night.”

  Fortunately, we stayed busy that morning. Claire was engrossed in a conference call with her research teammates regarding interpretation of some new data. From her comments afterwards, it appeared the Gulf oil spill was an even worse catastrophe than anyone imagined. “If Coos Bay only knew what they were getting themselves into,” she told me, “they wouldn’t touch that LNG proposal with a barge pole. The science doesn’t lie.”

  For my part, I was engrossed in a couple of conversations with prospective clients back in Dundee. One was a high stakes divorce case—the kind I hated but always paid well—and the other an ownership dispute over a prime chunk of acreage in the Red Hills, with a southern exposure preferred for growing pinot noir grapes. I took the business. I also called Gertie to make sure she’d gotten my billable hours for the month. “Your cash flow’s down forty percent,” she told me. “You better transfer five thousand from your savings to your business account so I can pay your quarterly taxes.” I told her I would.

  The pressure to return to Dundee was up several notches. I could feel it.

  * * *

  That afternoon, we called Rori and told her we were coming into town to update her and then swing by to visit Nando. The wind finally died down, and as we crossed the Cape Arago Highway Bridge, the sun glittered like a billion silver coins on the mirrored surface of the bay. At that point, the car’s Bluetooth connected to my ringing cell phone, and I tapped it on. “Claxton? This is Max Sloat. We need to talk.”

  “Sure,” I answered, trying not to sound surprised. “Your place or mine?”

  “I’m in my office at the yard.”

  “Fine. I’m in the vicinity, it turns out. I’ll see you in ten.”

  When I punched off, Claire looked at me and smiled. “Synchronicity, Dad?”

  A faint tingling slithered down my spine. “Maybe so.”

  * * *

  “You again?” It was my favorite dispatcher leering at me at the entrance to the yard at Sloat Trucking. Claire had dropped me off and gone on to see Rori.

  I smiled. “Back on days, I see.”

  “Only because Arnie Bloom’s sick today,” he fired back, without returning the smile.

  “Say, I’m wondering—do you keep any written records of who comes and goes around here?”

  He shook his head. “Just the trucks, no humans.” He handed me a badge. “The boss is expecting you.”

  I made my way across the yard, which bustled with activity, and took the stairs next to Max’s cherry red truck, which appeared even shinier than the last time I’d seen it. Only one person waited in the reception area—a red-headed man who looked like he could bench press a logging truck as well as drive one—and when Max’s assistant told me to go right in, Red gave me the stink eye.

  Max looked up from her desk as I entered, her eyes locked on me, her lips drawn together, thin and ruler straight. “What the fuck’s going on, Claxton? I just got through dealing with two Douglas County Sheriff deputies, who wanted to know all about a contractor I use occasionally. They said he was involved in a hit-and-run, the one that put you in the Umpqua. I hardly knew the driver and sure as hell can’t be responsible for what he does when he’s not working for me. The deputies had warrants and took copies of all my records around that time, like I might be involved or something. They acted like a bunch of goddamn Nazis.”

  I stood in front of her desk and waited, sensing she had a lot more to say.

  Her neck took on a little color. “That’s not even half of it. Some detective named Rice and some other dude from the Coos County sheriff’s office showed up to question me about Howard Coleman’s murder and fentanyl trafficking involving that same driver.” She stood up and shook her head. “Had to call my lawyer at that point. We’re going in this afternoon to chat about that.” The color reached her cheeks. “Then to top it off, my business partner’s acting all weird, like I had something to do with Sonny Jenson’s murder.”

  I said, “Those are serious crimes. You’ll be doing the community a real service if you can shed more light on what happened.”

  She placed her thick arms on the desk and leaned forward, glaring at me, now red faced. “This is all your doing, isn’t it?” I shrugged. “You come into town—Mr. Do-Gooder, trying to rescue a confessed murderer—and start turning rocks over and
stirring things up and—”

  “You can’t go in there!” the voice of the assistant called out, just as the door to the office burst open and Sissy Anderson walked in.

  Sissy registered surprise at seeing me but quickly turned her attention to Max, her eyes burning with ferocity. “Hello, Maxine. I just stopped by to tell you you’re not getting away with killing Howard and my dog.”

  The assistant came in behind Sissy. Red stood behind him. “Shall I call someone, Max?” the assistant said, concern in his eyes.

  Max laughed. It rang with a mixture of disdain and arrogance. “No, Wendell. You two go on out, I’ll handle this.” She looked back at Sissy with genuine curiosity. “What in the name of hell are you talking about?”

  Sissy stepped forward and faced Max. “I’m talking about your having Darnell and Robert Barton tie Howard up and throw him in the Millicoma River. Cold-blooded murder. And my dog, they shot my dog, for Christ’s sake.” She jerked a thumb in my direction, and when she spoke next, her chin trembled. “And they forced this man and his daughter into the Umpqua and shot his—”

  “Shut up.” Max’s voice was sharp and threatening. “You’re talking like a crazy woman.” She looked at me and laughed again, with bitterness this time. “See what I’m talking about? This must be pile-on-Max-Sloat day.” Then she turned her glare back to Sissy. “Now, get out of here, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

  The room went silent as the two women faced each other. In an attempt to de-escalate the situation, I said, “Sissy, why don’t you and I go outside and talk this over?”

  Without taking her eyes off Max, she said, “Stay out of this, Cal. I just want her to know she’s not going to get away with—”

  Before Sissy could finish the sentence, Max stepped around the desk and pushed the smaller woman hard in the chest. “I said get out, you dumb bitch. Out.”

  Sissy staggered back and collided with the table on which Max’s bowling trophies sat. Struggling to recover her balance, she grasped one of the trophies in her right hand, and without even looking, whirled around and swung the thing. The marble base of the trophy caught Max square in the temple. She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.