A Dangerous Identity

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A Dangerous Identity Page 9

by Russell Fee


  Jackson almost missed the trail’s roadside entrance. The weathered wooden sign marking the trail was virtually invisible behind an overgrowth of pine saplings. And even if it had been fully visible, the paint had flaked off from the engraved letters announcing Dog Tail Trail, making them barely legible. He only found the entrance because another jogger emerged from the woods there as he drove by.

  After a few perfunctory stretching exercises, Jackson began his jog. The trail’s beginning narrowed, flanked by fluttering broad-leafed trees. But in less than a hundred yards, it became a ridge between two ravines that dropped precipitously along both sides. Crosshatchings of deadfall from moss-covered conifers filled the depressions. The conifers reached above the trail and swayed overhead. Almost imperceptibly, the ravine to his left swelled to a high, tree-clogged bluff that blocked the sun and plunged the trail into a dappled darkness. As he ran, the bluff to his left lost height, and the ravine to his right rose. He had to squint as the trail suddenly sliced through a fern-covered meadow before entering the woods again. The abrupt change of scenery startled him, and he felt as if he had been transported to another planet. He slowed his pace to better take in his surroundings.

  For the first time, he realized the beauty of the island and how much Susan must have liked living on it. He thought too of how leaving it with him would have been a sacrifice for her. She had established a new life here.

  A rafter of wild turkeys exited the woods and bunched up at the edge of the trail in front of Jackson. He had to stop while they cautiously stepped across the trail as if it were a pond covered in thin ice. Each bird inched forward, carefully lowering one leg to test the ground, head bobbing at the end of a long neck, before deciding it was safe to raise the other leg. Completely ignored by all, he stood just a few yards away and watched until the last turkey crossed. It took some time.

  While Jackson continued running, he forced himself to face making a needed decision. As far as the United States Marshals Office was concerned, Susan Gibbons’ death resulted from a boating accident. His investigation report filed with the office contained that conclusion, and the autopsy and objective facts supported it. Her file was now closed; the office would never know of their relationship nor of their plan to disappear together. But he knew in his gut that she had been murdered. He had asked for vacation time to remain on the island. On his own and off the clock, he would search for the ones responsible for Susan’s death. When he found them, he would kill them. But to find them, he need Callahan’s help. Callahan and his deputy knew the island and its people; knew who belonged on the island and who didn’t. And Callahan also did not buy that Susan’s death was an accident. Not yet. He still pursued an open file on her death. That made him an asset but also a loose cannon. Handled right, Callahan could help him. Handled wrong, Callahan could bring down his house of cards.

  The trail ended in the wet grass at the shallow end of Bartlett Lake. As Jackson turned to head back, he knew what he had to do. He would tell Callahan about the purchaser of Susan’s art but not the meaning of the note attached to the trillium painting. Not yet.

  Chapter 33

  The sun had peeked over the horizon when Callahan pulled up behind the carriage house that Amanda rented. She was waiting for him on the stairs. Callahan leaned over and pushed open the cruiser’s passenger door. When Amanda climbed in, he handed her a to-go cup of coffee. “It’s from the Dock Café. Advertised as the best coffee in town. Thought you might need it this early in the morning.”

  Amanda grabbed the coffee in both hands. “Thanks. You thought right,” she said and took a sip. “And it is the best coffee in town.”

  They were headed to a secluded but dangerous beach on the island’s north side to retrieve an abandoned canoe that had washed up between the rocks. The rip current there was treacherous with hidden boulders strewn under the water. Summer homes perched on the steep bluff above the beach. That meant that the continued presence of the canoe would be an attractive nuisance to the kids from those homes. The canoe was an accident waiting to happen, and Callahan wanted to get rid of it quickly.

  Callahan had hitched a trailer to the cruiser, and as he backed out of the gravel driveway and onto the road, he carefully maneuvered the trailer so it rolled into the proper lane.

  Amanda waited until Callahan was safely on the road and then said, “I’ve completed the file on the break-in. No prints on the door knob and no blood on the glass. Whoever broke into Susan’s cottage took their time. It was not a smash and grab. The door itself was clean of prints, and the glass shards were free of any cloth fibers. My guess is that the intruder or intruders had done this sort of thing before. That would eliminate anyone from the island. Far as I know, we’ve no professional thieves living here. Although it could have been a tourist or someone from a vacation rental.”

  “Maybe, but there were things of value in the cottage that weren’t taken but easily could have been. It didn’t look like anything had been disturbed from the first time I was there with Jackson, except for that note attached to the frame of one of the paintings. It may be just faulty memory, but I could swear that I had multi-folded it and taped it back to the frame with the original tape. When I saw the note after the break-in, it was folded only once and wasn’t taped but stuck between the canvas and frame.”

  “Tell me again what the note said,” said Amanda.

  “It was just one word, Rahu,” said Callahan.

  “Sounds like a backwards cheer,” chuckled Amanda.

  Callahan smiled. “Not spelled that way though,” he said.

  “Any idea what it means?” asked Amanda.

  “None. It could be nothing, but considering Susan’s history, who knows? Jackson got back from Grand Rapids yesterday. He went down there to check out the gallery where she was sending her paintings for sale. I’m meeting him at the Arranmore Pub later this morning. I want you there.”

  * * *

  Callahan drove down a narrow fire lane until it stopped at the end of the woods along the bluff above the lake. He reached into the back seat and grabbed a coil of thick nylon rope as Amanda exited the cruiser and walked to the edge of the bluff. He caught up with her, and they both looked down a steep slope to the rocky bottom thirty feet below. The canoe had wedged itself between two boulders in shallow water about ten feet from the shore.

  Callahan tied one end of the rope to a stump and pulled hard a few times to make sure it could hold their weight. Then he tossed the other end over the edge. When it hit the narrow strip of sand along the water, he said, “We can slide down this dune easy enough, but getting back up will be a pain. Let’s retrieve the canoe and tie it to the rope. Then we’ll scale the dune using the rope and pull the canoe up after us. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Amanda, and she grabbed the rope and was over the side.

  * * *

  Retrieving the canoe had taken longer than they thought, and Callahan called in to Julie to tell Jackson they would be late for their meeting. Julie called back to say that Jackson was already at the Arranmore Pub waiting for them.

  The pub was waking up when Callahan and Amanda arrived. The place had the early-morning look of a face reflected in a bathroom mirror—naked exposure to the probing glare of unnatural light. The waitstaff shuffled about, preparing for the breakfast crowd, sweeping the floor and folding napkins. Jackson sat at a table by the empty fireplace nursing a cup of coffee. He waved them over.

  “This place sure looks different in the daytime,” he said when they sat down.

  “They’ll dim the lighting soon and make it soothing. They turn all the lights on when they first open,” said Amanda. “I used to work here as a waitress when I was in high school.”

  Callahan turned toward the bar and nodded, and a waitress came over to take their order. Jackson stuck with coffee; Callahan ordered two eggs over medium with bacon; and Amanda requested the farmer’s skillet with extra sides of hash browns and sausage and a large orange juice.
Jackson’s eyes widened as the waitress took Amanda’s order.

  Callahan noticed his reaction and commiserated. By the standards of any culture in the world, Amanda was stunningly beautiful. Yet, she seemed untouched by her beauty; almost unaware of it. And she ate like a horse. He simply couldn’t comprehend how she kept her figure.

  “So, did you discover anything in Grand Rapids?” Callahan asked when the waitress left.

  “I did,” said Jackson. “Susan had just one art patron, a man always at the gallery on the days her paintings arrived and who purchased only the most expensive painting of the lot.”

  “Hmm. Did you get a name?” asked Callahan.

  “Unfortunately, no. He always paid cash; never check or credit”

  “A description?”

  “Yes,” said Jackson. “Male, as I said, white, younger than me but not by much, long dark hair, and tall but apparently burdened by a permanent stoop.”

  The lights dimmed, and the harsh glare morphed into a comforting glow.

  “Do you believe she sent notes to him using her paintings?” queried Callahan.

  “I think that’s a good probability,” answered Jackson.

  “But that’s a strange way to communicate. Why would she do it like that?” asked Amanda.

  Jackson shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to guarantee her communications were secure, and this was the safest way she could think of.”

  “Yes, but she must have known about the encrypted messaging apps that are available for secure communications. Everybody does. She could have used any one of those,” said Amanda.

  “They might have used that method too, or, if not, maybe the recipient was not technologically savvy. Who knows? In any case, the written communication seems to have been a one-way street”

  Jackson stopped speaking and Callahan remained silent. Both appeared to be thinking. Amanda broke the silence.

  “It just occurred to me that selling her paintings was more than a way to communicate,” she said.

  “How so?” asked Jackson.

  “It could have been a way to supply her with funds that appeared legit. Launder the money to hide the source, something like that. You said she was overpaid for her artwork.”

  “That’s what the manager of the gallery thought,” said Jackson. “I guess over time that money would add up.”

  “Then what was she really selling, or what was the money used for?” said Callahan. Everyone got quiet again. Then Callahan spoke.

  “Miles, it’s possible your man from Grand Rapids is on the island. I believe I’ve seen him,” he said.

  “What? When?” asked Jackson.

  “I think he was here at the pub a couple of days ago,” said Callahan. “Someone who fits that description bumped into me and watched me after that.”

  Jackson lightly tapped the knuckles of his right hand on the table in a staccato beat as if he were trying to come to a decision. He stopped and looked intently at Callahan. “Matt, there’s something else you should know about the—”

  Just then a middle-aged man in camo overalls strode into the restaurant and over to their table. He stopped and faced Callahan with his hands on his hips. “Sheriff, what the hell is my canoe doing on your trailer?” he said.

  Chapter 34

  Captain Kevin Lynch picked up the receiver of the Island Ferry office phone and dialed the sheriff’s station. When Julie answered, he said, “Julie, this is Kevin. Tell Callahan I’m not positive, but I think the man he asked me to look out for just bought a ticket to the mainland. He’s sitting in the waiting room now. The ferry leaves in forty minutes.” He hung up and looked out the office window into the waiting room.

  The man sat on a bench along the wall with a backpack on the floor between his legs. Lynch noticed that he hadn’t worn the backpack when he’d bought his ticket but had carried it into the ferry ticket office. The two twenty-something girls on either side of him sat transfixed with their eyes glued to the screens of their phones, while the man stared straight ahead with his arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. Although he leaned slightly forward, there was nothing in front of him to see but a wall. The panoramic window overlooking the dock and the bay was to his left. Lynch couldn’t decipher the expression on his face. Placid was as close as he could come to describing it, and, except for his age, he looked like a schoolboy sitting out detention. He wondered about Callahan’s interest in him. But he couldn’t waste time on such idle speculation. A record number of state politicians from Lansing had been arriving on the ferry and departing after touring the outer islands on Bland’s yacht and partying in the evenings. It was all he and his crew could do to meet their incessant demands and professionally tolerate their boorish behavior. He had to make sure the ferry was ready for yet another load of the pricks.

  * * *

  Callahan arrived at the dock within ten minutes of Lynch’s call. When he entered the ticket office, he recognized the man on the bench as the one he had confronted at the Arranmore Pub. The man also fit Jackson’s description of Susan’s art patron.

  Callahan walked to where he sat and stood in front of him. The man did not look up but said, “Is there anything I can do for you, Sheriff?” The two girls glanced at each other and then up at Callahan.

  Callahan looked around the office. Everyone in it was watching him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you outside,” he said.

  The man reached for his backpack and stood up but didn’t reach his full height. He twisted his head to look up at Callahan, who motioned him towards the door. “After you,” said Callahan.

  Callahan led him to an empty bike rack in the dock loading area where there was no one around.

  “What’s this about, Sheriff?” said the man.

  “Do you have some identification on you?” asked Callahan.

  The man hesitated and then rummaged in a pouch of his backpack and pulled out a wallet. He removed a driver’s license and handed it to Callahan. As he did, Callahan noticed a scar running from the bottom of his right thumb over his wrist. The scar appeared to run higher up his arm, but the sleeve of his shirt covered it. On a warm day, he had also buttoned his shirt up to the neck.

  Callahan examined the license and then handed it back. “What are you doing on the island, Mr. Howard?”

  “At this moment, I’m trying to leave it. But until now, I was enjoying its beauty and charm as a tourist,” answered the man. “That’s not a crime here I hope,” he added.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Five days.”

  “Where were you staying?’

  “I rented a room at the hotel behind the church. Just over there,” he said and pointed. “Would you tell me now what this is about?”

  “Someone broke into one of the homes on the island. We’re simply making certain inquiries.”

  The man turned toward the ticket office where people exited the door and headed for the ferry boarding ramp. “And of all the people you could have chosen, you picked me to question. I’m honored, Sheriff,” he said.

  Callahan smiled. “Thank you for your time. Glad you enjoyed your stay here,” he said.

  Callahan remained by the bike rack as the man proceeded to the ramp where Kevin Lynch took his boarding ticket and tore it in half. After the man stepped passed him, Lynch put the torn half of the ticket in his pocket.

  * * *

  Amanda was waiting in the cruiser when Callahan returned. She had been watching the exchange out of sight as Callahan had ordered. “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “I got a name and address. And a physical marker. He has an ugly scar on the back of his right hand.”

  “And the way he was dressed: trousers, long-sleeved fully buttoned shirt. What’s that about? It’s not October,” said Amanda.

  “It’s my guess he’s hiding other injuries, or identifying tattoos, or both,” answered Callahan. “With the scar and that stooped back of his, he’s either been in a serious accident or led a very rou
gh life. Did you get the photos?”

  “I did,” said Amanda and held up the camera resting in her lap. “Do you think we got the prints?” she added.

  “We’ll have to wait until Lynch gets back from the mainland with the ticket to be sure,” said Callahan.

  Chapter 35

  Callahan and Jackson had met at the station and now were heading to Susan’s cottage to check Amanda’s money laundering theory: Was her art patron funding something that Susan was into, that they were both into, or was he paying her for something besides art? Callahan wanted to search the cottage again with fresh eyes to see if any evidence turned up. The cottage was still technically a crime scene, and Callahan had not yet returned the key to the owner, so he considered their entry legal. They had just dropped Amanda off at the school where she was to train the teachers and staff in responding to an active shooter when Callahan received a call on his cell phone.

  “You have ghosts on your island.” The voice was Peter Dempsey’s of the Detroit FBI office. Dempsey had headed the FBI’s terrorism task force that worked closely with Callahan and Amanda in uncovering a plot to assassinate a British royal on American soil. A professional and personal friendship ensued, and Callahan came to consider him the go-to guy at the FBI.

  “I don’t understand,” said Callahan into his cell phone.

  “The prints and photos you sent. They belong to Anatoly Volkov. He’s dead,” said Dempsey.

  “Who is Anatoly Volkov?” asked Callahan.

  “Was,” corrected Dempsey. “He was a very bad dude. Of Russian descent. Earned a solid reputation as a professional killer when working his way up the chain of command as a mercenary. Then a Russian crime syndicate in Thailand hired him as its enforcer. Very good at his job, too, until he died in a helicopter crash in the Phetchabun Mountains. According to witness accounts and photographs, no one could have survived; and all bodies were accounted for. That was five years ago. I’ve emailed you a detailed report along with photos.”

 

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