by William Cook
Whitehorse withdrew a folded photograph from his inside pocket. “You’ve never seen this girl anywhere around here?”
“Can’t say as I have. And I’d remember somebody that pretty.”
“May I ask your crew if they’ve seen anything?”
“Sure thing. I’ll be back in that office if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Mr. Mackey. I’ll show myself out when I’m done.”
Questioning the other men yielded nothing but the names and locations of other warehouses in the area. Back outside, he was relieved to be away from the cloying smell. The rain had lessened to a light shower and the wind was much calmer. He got into his car and looked at what he had written in the notepad he always carried. He determined not to take a break until he had explored at least three more warehouses.
Before he had a chance to begin, Chiara was on the radio again. “Hey, Charley. Wanted to let you know that before I got around to calling the Mayor’s office, she called for you. Wants to see you today at 3:00 PM sharp.” Whitehorse heard her hesitate. “She didn’t sound very happy.”
“Thanks. Just another day in the life.”
Three hours and four warehouses later found him tired and hungry as he pulled into a parking space in front of a warehouse announcing MID-COAST SEAFOOD/FINEST IN OREGON in faded red paint along the side. It was an anonymous gray building with no windows. As with some of the other warehouses he had seen, a door big enough to admit a fishing boat took up most of the front. A conical light on a curved arm hung over the office entrance door and its large keypad entry lock.
Overkill, he thought. What’s a shiny lock that size doing on the door of a place that looks this old?
It had stopped raining, but he kept his coat on in case the fickle weather changed its mind. He walked up to the door, which appeared to be much newer than the building it gave entrance to, and knocked three times. The solid oak and steel absorbed the sound. He made a fist and banged harder on the door twice more. No response.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. He walked back to the patrol car, sat down, and looked at his watch. He had intended this to be his last stop before returning to Driftwood for his meeting with the Mayor. A deep frown furrowed his face, to be replaced by a humorless smile. What if…? Once the idea struck him, he had to find out.
With a kind of grim determination, he stalked back to the front door and stared at the lock’s keypad. Then he looked up and down both sides of the street, as if worried someone might be watching. From his inside pocket, he withdrew his notepad. Fanning through the pages, he soon found what he was looking for. With the extended index finger of his right hand, he punched in M-X-Y-Z-T-P-L-K. Nothing happened. He cursed silently. As he was about to return to the car and head back, another idea occurred to him. On a whim, he keyed the letters in backwards, remembering what Chiara had said. K-L-P-T-Z-Y-X-M. The lock gave a resounding click and the door opened.
“Holy shit!” he whispered. “I’ve got you, you bastard!”
But I don’t have a warrant! He paused on the threshold. I don’t want to ruin the whole investigation. He hesitated another moment. Screw it! I’m fearing for the victim’s life, and I’m afraid evidence is going to be destroyed if I delay. That’s my in. And that’s not really stretching the truth so much.
He drew his gun and burst in. The darkness was so total, it seemed as though he had fallen into an underground cave.
“Hello?” he yelled. “Anybody here? This is the police.” His voice echoed in the cavernous enclosure. He grabbed the flashlight from his belt and found a bank of switches to the left of the door. In moments, large lights high overhead illuminated the entire structure. It was mostly empty space, with the exception of what looked like a stack of old crab pots rusting in the far corner. A three-foot wide shelf ran the length of the east wall, festooned with what he assumed was a collection of motor parts for diesel engines. He could smell diesel, in fact, along with other smells of oil and cleaning solutions and the faintest odor of fish, likely from the crab traps. Two closed office-style doors, one with windows and one without, occupied the north wall. On the west wall, an open door displayed a small bathroom, with a toilet and a pedestal sink. He holstered his gun, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and headed toward the closed doors.
He entered the windowed office first. A three-drawer filing cabinet stood next to a nondescript steel desk. No papers or pens decorated the desktop. Eager to find bills of sale or receipts of any kind that might identify the owners of the warehouse, he opened each cabinet drawer in rapid succession. All were empty. He noticed a fine patina of dust on the cabinet and desk and guessed that the room had not been used in some time.
Exiting the office, he went to the windowless door. Above the knob was a locking bolt, with the key in the lock. As he opened it, he saw that the door could only be locked or unlocked from the outside. Also, the light switch was on the outside wall, to the right of the door. After removing the key from the lock and putting it in a plastic evidence bag, he turned on the light and walked inside. The room, about the size of a large closet, was completely empty.
Is this where they locked you up? Your own personal jail cell? He pulled the door half-closed behind him and sat in a frustrated heap in the middle of the floor. “Goddamn it! Talk to me!” he pleaded. “Were you here, Patricia? Am I in the right place?” He exhaled a deep breath. “Am I too late?”
He closed his eyes as the despair washed over him like an unwelcome wave. “This can’t be all for naught. I know that bastard trapped you in here.”
As he opened his eyes and prepared to stand, something in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Scratches on the baseboard behind the door, barely above the floor. Tiny words with letters only a quarter to a half-inch high, all but invisible had he not been close to the ground. He lay forward on his belly and shined his flashlight to further illuminate them.
MARIE ELLIE JIMMY DEIRDRE PATRICIA
“Dear God,” he breathed. To convince himself he wasn’t imagining things, he took out his phone and snapped a picture of the names. Then he looked again in his notebook to confirm what he already knew to be true. These were the names of the missing, the young people who had disappeared along the coast over the past year. Marie had probably started it, her quiet protest against the injustice, against being victimized by her captors. The others saw and followed suit, their declaration of rebellion against a world where such things were allowed to happen.
He sat back up and expelled the breath he had been holding. His heart was pounding. Staying low, he shined his light around the room to make sure he wasn’t missing any other clues. Inch by inch he circled the room, unwilling to let anything escape his sight.
And there it was, faintly shining in the flashlight’s beam, what he had missed on his first circuit. Hair. Three strands of long, blonde hair tucked into the crease between the baseboard and the wall.
It had to be intentional, not random. The strands were more than a foot long and securely nestled within that groove. Could one of the missing really have had the presence of mind to leave irrefutable proof that she had been here? He convinced himself that it had to be Patricia.
Whitehorse pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, picked up the hairs, and carefully placed them inside.
“I will find you, Patricia,” he said aloud with a ferocity that startled him. “I swear to you.”
14. City Hall Misadventures
Back in his car, Whitehorse checked his watch. He had barely enough time for a quick trip to the Depoe Bay City Hall if he skipped lunch. So be it, he thought. I’m on a mission. Who owns the Mid-Coast Seafood warehouse?
A half-hour later, he was headed back to Driftwood, pounding the steering wheel, rolling the window down so he could shriek his rage at the gray, unyielding sky. He replayed his encounter at the City Hall over and over again, each time feeling his blood pressure rise another five points.
“Hello. I’m Officer Whitehorse from the Driftwood PD. I’m h
ere to find out who owns a particular warehouse over on the corner of 128th and 13th.”
The young man behind the computer screen was casually but neatly dressed in a black sweater and white sports shirt. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Let me take a look. Any other identification on the warehouse?”
“It says Mid-Coast Seafood but it’s really faded out.”
“Oh, yeah, I know the place you’re talking about. Drive by it coming to work. Let’s take a look.”
Whitehorse was busy congratulating himself on the progress he was making, while the man tapped several more keystrokes.
“OK. Looks like it was purchased by Sun and Moon Seafood about a year and a half ago. Cash deal.”
“And who is Sun and Moon Seafood?”
The man grimaced. “Looks like we don’t have much info on them. There’s a mailing address in Washington, but I have no way of telling if it’s legit.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m looking at the names of the CEO and CFO of the company, and…well…You better look at this yourself.” He turned the screen so Whitehorse could see it.
“Seymour Butz and Nohyu Kent? Are you kidding me? What kind of bullshit is this?”
The man looked embarrassed. “Well, it was a cash transaction. I don’t know about other states, but in Oregon, you can buy real estate with cash and use any name you want. The title company doesn’t care. The only time you need an honest-to-goodness name you can prove is if you take money out of the property. You know, take out a loan on it or sell it.”
“I’ve lived in Oregon my whole life, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Whitehorse spit the words at the young man.
“Well, I’m working on getting my real estate license right now, and believe me, it’s true.” He shook his head and raised his hands. “I’m not saying it makes any sense.”
Whitehorse threw up his hands in despair and stalked from the premises.
Even now, he couldn’t believe it. He thought back to what he had said to Tony and Chiara about being on the reboot of The Twilight Zone and harrumphed in disgust. And now he had to face the Mayor.
As he pulled into a parking place at the Driftwood City Hall, he saw a small group of people carrying signs and walking back and forth on the sidewalk. Without reading the signs, he exited the car, removed his overcoat, folded it, and placed in on the back seat. He settled his cap squarely on his head. Then he walked slowly up the stairs and into the building, feeling like a death row prisoner taking his final walk to the gallows.
“The Mayor will be with you in a moment, Officer Whitehorse,” the auburn-haired receptionist said from behind her monitor. She pointed to a chair in the small waiting area.
Whitehorse looked at his watch, wondering if he would have time today to get a warrant for the official search of Mid-Coast Seafood, or if it would have to wait until tomorrow. His thoughts were interrupted by Mayor Allison Brown’s throaty greeting.
“Good afternoon, Officer Whitehorse. Please come with me to my office.”
Barely five-foot-five, she walked with a noticeable limp, compliments of a hit-and-run traffic accident ten years before. When the nineteen-year-old driver was found and arrested two weeks later, he had no license, no insurance, and no way of comprehending the damage he had done to the life of a former Olympic skier. The framed pictures on the walls of her office, showing her winning bronze and silver medals, had once been proud displays of triumph. Now they were a shrine to what had been and would never be again. Whitehorse looked at her small, pinched face, set off by her short salt-and-pepper hair. It was a face that looked stern even when it was smiling. The round glasses in their no-nonsense black frames completed his impression that this was a woman bereft of joy, who defined herself solely in terms of her job. Before she completed her walk to the chair on the far side of her desk, she turned to him and gestured with her hand toward the other woman who was standing by the desk.
“I’d like to introduce you to Chief of Police Olivia McAllister. She will soon be your boss.”
Whitehorse faltered as he reached for her extended hand. “I…I…”
“No words are necessary, Officer Whitehorse. I’m sure you thought the process would take far longer, but your lovely town of Driftwood has made me an offer I can’t refuse.” Her words sang with a rich Scotch-Irish accent. Her prominent cheekbones and strong chin gave even more emphasis to her piercing blue eyes. Her hair was a fiery red.
“Please sit,” said Brown, as she and her guest took seats facing him. “Let me review some history with you that I’m sure you’re aware of.” She cleared her throat. “Until the 1967 boardwalk debacle, Driftwood was solely under the jurisdiction of the Lincoln County Sheriff. After the fire, Mayor Cranston and the city council established Driftwood’s first police department. Initially, they could only afford one officer. Later, it grew to two.” She nodded and gestured toward Whitehorse. “Then came the Chaos disaster last year. The town woke up from its slumber to discover that big-city crime had found its way onto our bucolic streets.”
“And they approved the bond measure last November,” added McAllister.
“Indeed. They break ground for building the new Police Department in May. Plans also include hiring Chief McAllister here, whom we have successfully recruited from her fifteen-year career in Portland. In addition, we will be taking on two new patrolmen to start, eventually two more after that, and…” She fixed Whitehorse with an unblinking gaze. “…and something you may not be aware of, Officer Whitehorse. Promoting you and your partner Esperanza to the role of Detective, the first two Detectives Driftwood has ever had.”
Whitehorse was astounded. He tried to speak, but the Mayor raised her hand.
“Now you go and jeopardize everything we’re trying to establish. What the hell were you thinking when you took that boy down? You weren’t thinking, were you? Acting on instinct?”
“I can explain what happened.”
“I’m sure you can,” interrupted McAllister. “But will the town buy what you’re selling? I’m not so sure of that.”
“I’m being set up.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out if you give me the chance.”
“I’ve been talking with the Mayor about whether we should put you on administrative leave until things calm down—or haven’t you seen the protests?” When she saw the puzzled look on his face, she added, “In front of the police station? In front of these offices?”
He nodded his head and pursed his lips. “So that’s what they’re doing. I confess I’ve been too busy with an ongoing investigation to pay much attention to it.”
“And what investigation is that?” There was a decided edge to her voice, and Whitehorse wished he didn’t enjoy the sound of her accent so much. He knew she had the ear of the Mayor. And she was an unknown quantity.
“The disappearance of Patricia Carmody at Christmas time. Looks like she might be only one of several other missing young people.”
“Oh?” The Mayor appeared interested.
“One child every three months over the last year or so. Up and down the coast.” Whitehorse was careful what he said. I need that warrant! he thought.
“Why haven’t we heard about this before?” McAllister was facing him down.
“Nobody’s put it together yet. Spread out over time and place. I’ll be checking a warehouse in Depoe Bay tomorrow that may be connected to all of it. That is, if you’ll let me stay on the job.”
McAllister frowned. “And what do you propose we tell the press? Legal is advising us to put you on leave until this is resolved. It’s the safest course of action.”
“Please give me till the end of the week. Let the news know we’ll have a full report for them soon. That the viral video completely misrepresents what actually happened and we can prove it.”
“How can we do that?”
“By getting Nathan Bowling to talk. He knows what really happened. And he likes me. His moth
er is seeing dollar signs right now, but maybe we can make her see the light.” Another thought occurred to him. “Any idea how she can afford a lawyer like Hartman?” When he saw the questioning looks from the women, he said, “Corporate suit out of Portland. How does Neveah Bowling have the bucks or the balls to hire a hot-shot like that? Excuse my French.” And in an instant, he knew. It came to him in a flash, like an electric jolt.
“What? Are you OK, Officer?” It was the Mayor’s voice, sounding concerned.
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Just thought of another detail I have to follow up on. So again, please let me have these few days. I won’t disappoint. I promise.”
Brown looked at McAllister. “Officer Whitehorse has been good for our community. I’ve never known him to do anything so foolish as these allegations claim.”
“But is he worth the risk to your office, Allison? If the sharks get feeding, they’ll come after you next.”
The Mayor turned back to Whitehorse. “You’ve got till Friday morning, ten o’clock. If you haven’t convinced me by then that we can get the case against you thrown out, I’ll kick you to the curb so fast your head will spin. Do we have an understanding?”
“Crystal clear, Mayor Brown.” He turned to the other woman. “Pleasure meeting you, Chief McAllister. I look forward to working with you.” He nodded toward Brown. “With your permission, I’ll get back to work.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
15. SNAFU
Whitehorse was out of breath when he charged back into the police department. “Where’s Tony? I gotta talk to him right away.”
“Out on a traffic call. Should be back any minute.” Chiara smiled at him. “Now you’ve got that ‘Greater Kudu’ look.”
“I think I’ve figured it out, Chiara. I think I know who’s gunning for me.”
Chiara started bouncing in her chair. “Tell me! Tell me!”
