by E B Corbin
Chapter Three
Nah, it couldn’t be. What were the odds? She pushed the thought out of her head as she shoved out of her chair and landed on the couch next to Henry. “Let me see the first section of the paper.”
“Okay, geez. Give me a minute.” Henry snapped the paper shut and handed it to her.
She scanned the article for a name. “Goddammit!”
“What? I gave it to you. What’s wrong now?”
“Norman Bledsoe has been arrested on suspicion of murdering his wife.” Sam dropped the pages to her lap. “I don’t believe it!”
“Are you sure it’s the guy we’re looking for?” Henry took the paper and began to read the article in full.
“Sounds like it,” Sam said. “How many real estate brokers with the name Norman Bledsoe can there be in Portland?”
Henry shrugged. “According to this article, he claims he’s innocent.”
“Don’t they all.” Sam banged her shin on the coffee table when she stood. “Shit!”
“What do we do now, boss? You still want to give him his money back if he killed his wife?”
“I never considered something like this. I have to think.” Sam rubbed her shin before she started pacing.
Henry continued reading the article. “His wife had terminal cancer. She was only given six months to live. It might have been a mercy killing.”
“Doesn’t Oregon have some law about that? I thought it was legal.”
“It is, sort of.” Henry read further. “It’s called the Death with Dignity Act and it allows terminally ill residents to get prescriptions from their physicians for self-administered lethal medications. It doesn’t cover someone else helping them along. And according to this article, Norman smothered her in her sleep.”
Sam sighed. “At least he was trying to do what he considered the right thing. It’s not like he’s a cold-blooded murderer or something.”
“The cops say different. Seems there was a drug that could have extended her life by at least a couple of years. That’s why the docs wouldn’t give her the death drug.”
“So Norman took matters into his own hands.”
“Maybe, but the drug is experimental and it cost more than $12,000 a month. Insurance wouldn’t pay for it.”
“Great . . . if we’d come sooner, we could have saved two lives.” Sam pounded her fists against her legs.
“Maybe three. His daughter, name of Stacy Bledsoe, works with him at the real estate firm. She says she’s going to try to keep the office open, but she’s not sure if she can make it work.”
Sam looked at him with curiosity in her eyes. “There’s a lot of information in that article.”
“It’s a sidebar. Norman wouldn’t talk to the press, but Stacy had no qualms.”
“I guess we should try to contact the daughter,” Sam said.
“Definitely. We should consider returning the money to her so she can hire a good defense attorney for her father.” Henry put the paper down. “It’s our best move.”
“Our only move, under the circumstances.” Sam said. “If Norman goes to prison for murder, he won’t be able to touch any of the funds in his name. Besides, I don’t want what we’re doing to get any publicity. Think of the brouhaha the press could make if they find the reason we’re here.”
“And your dad would have a hitman here in no time too.” Henry scratched his chin. “We have to check out the daughter.”
“And hope she’s the kind of person who will do the right thing with the money.” Sam spun around to face Henry. “We could give her a portion of the amount I was planning, then keep the rest until we see what’s going to happen to Norman.”
“How do we explain giving her money? I mean, it’s kind of weird for two strangers from out of town to show up giving away cash with no explanation.”
Sam stared into space, then snapped her fingers. “We could actually buy a house and have her get the commission. Then we pretend one of our jobs fell through and we sell the place. She collects another commission. If Norman manages to score a good attorney and is found innocent, we give him the rest of the money.”
“It doesn’t look too good for him. The state’s trying to use him as an example—to keep people from killing someone and claiming immunity under that Death with Dignity Act.” Henry sat the paper aside. “He’ll need a damned great lawyer. Especially since he’s claiming he didn’t smother her. He says somebody else did it. But he doesn’t know who would want his wife dead.”
“That’s no surprise. But I doubt it’ll fly. Especially since her illness could have been draining them dry.”
“What if he’s telling the truth? I think we should at least give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Like I did with you?”
Henry turned his eyes away from her. “Yeah. It can’t hurt.”
Sam felt bad that she’d brought up the circumstances around their first meeting, but she still wasn’t 100 percent sold on trusting him. She feared that he might flip out if and when they were in the middle of a sensitive situation. But she knew there could come a time when she needed someone watching her back.
She kept in touch with the warden’s secretary at her father’s prison and knew when her father discovered his money missing. Apparently, he went into a rage and ranted about it in the dining hall. Several prisoners told the guards about Barry Gentile looking for a hit man. No way would he let some hacker make off with the millions he had scammed from unsuspecting victims.
It wouldn’t take her father long to realize she was the one who moved the funds. She’d been outspoken about her loathing of his schemes, refused the money he’d offered her when she turned twenty-one, and even testified against him at his trial. He knew she had the skills, she could only hope he underestimated her determination to stop him. Still, it shouldn’t take him long to conclude she was the logical person to take the stash.
When her mother had discovered that Barry was a con artist, moving from town to town raking in new suckers everywhere they lived, she’d taken six-year-old Sam and returned to her family home outside of Albuquerque. Barry Gentile’s wife felt so humiliated by her husband’s dealings that she wanted nothing to do with him. She had to save their daughter from lessons learned at her father’s knee. Sam soon forgot how to pick a pocket and promote worthless bonds to her teachers.
As a toddler, Sam delighted in the fancy parties and dresses her father provided for her. Her mother seemed happy to have some time alone, free from Sam’s constant inquisitiveness and reveled in her husband’s devotion to their daughter. For her part, Sam loved the attention from other adults who fussed over her. She never suspected she was being used as a diversion while her father sold worthless investments.
In her teens, Sam suffered from tremendous feelings of guilt, as if it were her fault her father scammed everyone he came in contact with. Her mother did all she could to distance them from the Gentile name. She went back to using her maiden name of Turner, even though that brought another set of problems when old acquaintances assumed her mother had never married and Sam was a product of some one-night stand or other indiscretion. Sam grew to hate her father and refused to take any of the cash he sent from time to time.
Since she wanted nothing to do with his ill-gotten gains, it seemed natural for her to take an interest in law enforcement. She dreamt of the day she would stop her father’s double-dealing and make up for her naive part in his schemes. Five years into her career with the FBI, she managed to become part of a team that indicted her father on ninety-seven counts of fraud. It was the happiest day of her life.
She decided to touch base with her friend at the prison to see if anything new had come up in the month or so since they’d been in contact with each other. Even with Henry around, she’d feel better knowing what to expect. “I think I’ll give Edna at my father’s prison a call. See if she has any news. Then I’ll try to reach Stacy Bledsoe.”
Edna had nothing to report, so Sam thanked her and prom
ised to send her some Portland specialty coffee. She figured it never hurt to be extra nice to the woman who might save her life someday with inside information.
Next, Sam tried to reach the Bledsoe Real Estate offices. After ten rings, a recorded voice came on stating the office was closed for the day but would be open again tomorrow at 8 a.m.
Sam punched off with a grunt and checked the time. “What kind of business closes at 4:30 on a weekday? No wonder the daughter doesn’t know if the company will survive. She doesn’t seem to be committed.”
“Give her a break. Her father’s just been arrested for killing her mother.” Henry folded the newspaper into a neat rectangle and stood. “They probably can’t afford extra help, so Stacy may be the only person available. If she’s out showing a property to someone, she can’t very well stop to take a call.”
“I can’t believe you’re sticking up for somebody you don’t even know!”
“And I can’t believe you’re condemning somebody you don’t know.” He glanced over his shoulder at her as he went into his bedroom to finish folding and placing his clothes in the dresser.
Sam sent him a dirty look, crossed her arms and returned to the chair with her laptop. She knew she should unpack, too, but she didn’t feel like it. If Henry was going to be a neatnik about their living arrangements, she’d try to get separate rooms the next time. For now, it seemed she was stuck with a tidy roommate in an apartment next to a dead woman—with cops bustling through the hall and throwing them dirty looks for living next door.
✽ ✽ ✽
The next morning, Sam set up an appointment with Stacy Bledsoe. Over the phone, the woman came across as reluctant to give up her time, even to potential new customers. But she ultimately agreed to meet them if they could make it within the next thirty minutes.
It took nearly that long for Sam to get showered and dressed. Henry waited for her in the kitchen, drinking coffee and stuffing blueberries muffins in his face. “’Bout time you’re ready.”
“How was I supposed to know the grieving daughter would insist on such a tight timeline?” Sam poured the last of the coffee into a cup and burned her mouth as she tried to gulp it in two swallows. “Damn, that’s hot! Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I suppose you’re going to blame me for making hot coffee.”
She shrugged. “Where did the muffins come from?”
“They were in the welcome basket. The same one with the coffee samples. There’s a chocolate chip muffin, if you want it.”
Sam grabbed the muffin and pulled on her trench coat. “Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Henry gulped the rest of his coffee, looked at the other half of his muffin with longing, then pulled on his leather jacket. “Who’s driving?”
“I am. Yesterday was an anomaly. I’ll drive from now on. You drive like an old lady.”
“Hey,” he called to her back. “We’re in a new town. I’m not familiar with the roads—besides, there must be ten thousand bicyclists and skateboarders on the road. I had to be careful.”
Sam took another bite of her muffin and did not respond. She hoped there was a coffee shop on the way to the parking garage. She needed more caffeine.
They found not one, but three coffee shops in the block and a half to the car. Sam got a large black coffee to go, and Henry got another muffin. A light drizzle fell as they hurried to the shelter of the parking garage.
On the twenty-minute drive to their meeting, she told Henry about Stacy’s ho-hum attitude. She wanted him to know she thought his compassion may have been misplaced.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Henry told her. “She may have another appointment later this morning. Don’t assume the worst in people. It’s not good for your chi.”
She took her eyes off the road long enough to shoot him a look. “Excuse me, Grand Master Samuels. I didn’t think you even understood the concept.”
“I’m not an idiot. I studied many of the martial arts. Chi is an important part.” Henry slumped against the door. “You need to give me more credit.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn your intelligence.” Sam vowed to try for a better balance between them. In her attempt to keep her authority as the boss, she knew she sometimes came across as a bitch. There must be a way to be the leader but still be friends. As a woman, that task proved difficult not only with Henry—she had the same problem when she was with the FBI.
They rode the rest of the way in an uncomfortable silence.
As they arrived at a small strip mall housing the real estate office sandwiched between a run-down diner and a laundromat, Sam gazed out the windshield. “I suppose you’re going to tell me not to assume this is a shitty office location.”
“Nah, it’s pretty shitty. But let’s step inside. Maybe we’ll be surprised.”
A bell tinkled above their heads as they entered a room with frayed carpeting, two plastic chairs facing a scarred wooden desk, and faded photographs of homes for sale lining the wood-paneled walls. A bulging computer monitor from the nineties sat on the right side of the desktop. They watched a woman’s head bob as she rummaged through a bottom drawer in the desk. She used her left arm to push into an upright position when the bell signaled their arrival.
They looked into dull, almost colorless gray eyes surrounded by limp brown hair stopping at her shoulders. She pushed scraggly bangs out of her eyes to study them. “Can I help you?”
Her voice came out nasally but Sam guessed it was due to the size of her nose. She had never seen one quite like it. The woman’s nose took up most of her face. It was long and narrow with a bump in the center causing the bottom half to turn down at a forty-five-degree angle—like it had been broken and never properly set. Sam found it hard not to stare at the protruding appendage.
“We have an appointment with Stacy Bledsoe?” Sam turned her statement into a question, unsure if they were in the right place. It was a real estate office, but she’d never seen such a sad, run-down business.
“I’m Stacy,” the woman said without a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“We talked on the phone this morning. My husband and I are moving to Portland and hope to find a house to buy.”
“Yeah, well, you might as well have a seat and tell me what you’re looking for.” Stacy Bledsoe mouthed the right words but she sounded as if she would rather be anyplace else, doing anything else.
Henry stepped forward and held one of the dark-green chairs for Sam. “Honey, you can tell her what we’re looking for better than me.”
When he smiled at Stacy, the woman returned his smile—the first time any emotion popped out on her face since they’d arrived.
Sam wanted to punch him but she had to play the game. If his smiles continued to work their magic, she’d live with it. “We’re looking for three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms, with a little bit of land.”
“Your price range?”
“A million to a million and a half.”
Stacy grunted and raised her eyebrows at the amount. “You know Portland is a booming housing market. We might be able to find a fixer-upper for you in your price range.”
Sam shook her head before she looked to Henry pretending to seek his agreement. “We don’t want to do any renovations. If need be, we can go higher on the price.”
Stacy grunted again before she reached under the desk to flip a switch on the computer tower at her feet. “Let’s see what we can find.”
While the computer whirred and groaned to life, Stacy pulled a legal pad from the desk drawer and grabbed a cheap plastic pen from a holder on the desk. “I’ll need your full names and employment status. Have you been prequalified for a mortgage?”
“We won’t be needing a mortgage,” Sam said. “We’ll pay cash.”
The pen stilled in Stacy’s hand. “Cash?”
Henry realized paying cash for a million-dollar home had to raise some doubts in her mind. To Sam it was business as usual, but he understood Stacy had t
o be cautious. Like Stacy, he did not have close to a billion dollars lying around in some offshore account the way Sam did.
Sam treated the cash almost as if it were Monopoly money but Henry knew how it felt to be penniless. He cleared his throat to give him time to think up a reasonable explanation. “We both owned separate houses back East and sold them. Combined, we had enough equity in them to pay cash for a new home. Is that a problem?”
“No, um, no, not at all.” Stacy’s attitude did a one-eighty. She even managed a small smile—at Sam this time. “Let’s see what we can find. Do you have a particular area in mind?”
“In the western part of the city.” Sam thanked her lucky stars for Google Maps. Her request sounded legitimate. “We’d like to be close to downtown, but my job will require traveling to the Nike complex. Easy access to Route 26 is necessary.”
Stacy turned into a professional saleswoman. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she watched the computer screen. It took several seconds for the pages to come up, but she swiveled the monitor to show them the search results when it did. “We have several possibilities, but if you want close to the city center, it will take you a good forty-five minutes to get to work every day. Perhaps you should consider something in Cedar Hill. It’s only a few minutes away from Nike headquarters.”
Henry poked Sam in the arm to gain her attention. “That’s not a bad idea. I think we’d be open to looking in another area.”
Sam smiled at Henry as if she really meant it. “I had my heart set on the Pearl District, but . . .” She shrugged. “I’m willing to look elsewhere.”
“In the Pearl District, most of the places are condos. Would you prefer a single-family home?”
Sam almost blurted that either was fine but she forced herself to look at Henry as if seeking his input. “What do you think, dear?”
Henry almost choked in surprise. He covered it with a cough and looked at Stacy. “Which has the best resale value? And which would be easier to unload when we start a family?”