Dungeness and Dragons

by William Cook

  “Remember last year when I was able to get the Fire Department not to release the story to the press that Abram Sokolov had been shot before Chaos burned down?”

  “Sure. You were afraid it might start a turf war with the Russians in Portland. They’d come down here guns blazing because they’d think somebody was muscling in on their business.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t want any more blood on our streets, especially after those two Russians were found dead in Sterling Friese’s driveway.”

  “You said they were from Portland.”

  “Yep. Sent down here to help Sokolov clean up his mess. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sokolov had dropped my name in his boss’s ear. After all, we were in the middle of investigating drug trafficking at Pacific Crest University, and that place was Sokolov’s. He was running that kid…What was his name?”

  “Franklin Wise?”

  “That’s him. Sokolov was using Wise to get his dope into the college.”

  “Where are you going with this, Boss?”

  “What if the Russians have eyes and ears all over, like I think they do? Sokolov’s boss finds out his man in Driftwood was shot—didn’t die in the fire after all. He knows I’m pushing the investigation. He puts two and two together and connects me with Sokolov’s death. At the very least, he knows I’ve put a big pinch in his drug business down here.”

  Chiara sat back in her chair and exhaled a deep breath. “Wow, Charley. That makes sense. Totally. And every cop in Oregon knows the Russian boss in Portland, the one they’ve never been able to pin anything on.”

  “Vasily Volkov.”

  Chiara stood and gave him a high-five. “I think you nailed it, Boss.”

  “Nailed what?” Esperanza stood at the open door. As he removed his coat, he said, “C’mon. Don’t leave me in the dark.”

  “Charley just figured out who hired Hartman the hitman. And who’s behind the smear campaign against him. And I think he’s right.”

  “Vasily Volkov.” Whitehorse folded his arms and pursed his lips. “I’m sure of it.”

  Esperanza leaned his hand on Chiara’s desk, as if to steady himself. “Well, that’s good news and bad news. Good because we know where to direct our energy.” He looked at Chiara and his partner and winced. “Bad because he’s a real nasty dude and he’s got an army of nasties working for him.”

  “We’ll have to be careful.”

  “I hope those aren’t famous last words.”

  “You and me both, Tony.” Then he grinned like a winner of the final round in Jeopardy. “Especially since we’ve just got our first big break in the case.” He turned to Chiara. “Aside from finding the audition ad, I mean.”

  “You have our undivided attention, Tracker. Should we be sitting down?”

  “Absolutely.” He proceeded to tell them about Mid-Coast Seafood. To emphasize his points, he withdrew the evidence bags from his pocket. “I’m sure this hair sample is Carmody’s. And I want this key checked for fingerprints. I’ll take them down to Forensics in Newport tomorrow after I get the warrant and go back into the warehouse.”

  “Big risk going in without a warrant, man. Just sayin’.”

  “I was afraid it might be life or death. Glad it wasn’t.”

  “The names were all there, scratched into the baseboard?” Chiara looked as though she might cry. “All those poor kids. Locked up in there.”

  Whitehorse nodded. “In order of disappearance. I want to get back in tomorrow and see if I can find any clue to the owner of it. I was rushed today, but the office was empty. There was a long shelf with what looked like motor parts on it. And a pile of old crab pots in the corner.”

  Esperanza’s eyebrows shot up. “Crab pots?”

  “Yeah, mildewing away.”

  “There’s an outside chance…”

  “What?”

  “I worked on a crabbing boat to help pay my way through college. The pots have to have tags on them.”

  “Tags?”

  “Yeah. To identify the owner or the boat. There has to be a buoy tag as well, attached to the first buoy from the crab pot. Has the boat’s name on it, the permit number, the season. Crabbers are supposed to recycle the tags every year, but you might just get lucky and find one they left behind. Give the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife the name of a boat, and they can track down the owner of it.”

  “If you weren’t so big and ugly, I’d give you a kiss!”

  “Well, curb your enthusiasm, buddy. I’m happily married.” He looked down at the floor, then up at his friend. “All kidding aside, it looks like I owe you an apology. I didn’t believe you at first, but we’ve got missing kids, mysterious crabbers, and Portland heavies all weighing in. There’s some bad shit going down in Driftwood and Depoe Bay, and you were the first to spot it. You are the Tracker!”

  Chiara clapped her hands. “I love it!”

  “Now let me tell you about my meeting with the Mayor and…our new Chief of Police.”

  “What did you say?” Esperanza shook his head as if to clear an offending thought.

  Whitehorse gave them both a blow-by-blow description of his meeting with Allison Brown and Olivia McAllister.

  “I like the idea of Detective, but we’ve got what? Three days to clear your name?”

  “Till ten o’clock Friday morning. If we’ve got nothing by then, I’ll be put on leave for who knows how long.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that since I left her office. We’ve got to get Nathan Bowling to talk, to give his version of events.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Nope. Even though we’re friends, he’ll back up his mother. And she’s got her eyes on the prize—a big fat paycheck.”

  “Plan B?”

  “We’ve gotta interview kids in that classroom tomorrow. Somebody has to have seen what really happened. Maybe somebody else took a video, too. I don’t know.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, we’ve got picketers out front. They’d probably follow you or me to the school and that could make things even worse.”

  Chiara was shaking her head back and forth. “We couldn’t even get that far. You guys haven’t been to school in a long time, have you?”

  Whitehorse angled his head and raised his eyebrows. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying there’s no way the school will let you interview kids without first getting written permission from the parents, giving parents the OK to attend any questioning their kid goes to, insisting the Principal and the school social worker be there. Yada, yada, yada.”

  Esperanza’s shoulders slumped. “And all that takes time.”

  “Yep. Tomorrow’s Tuesday. No way we could make it all happen before Friday morning. If we could have till late next week, maybe we’d have a chance, but even then, it’s iffy we could pull it off.”

  “I don’t think the Mayor is about to back down and give me any more rope. McAllister put a real bug up her ass. Pardon my language.”

  Esperanza’s face was a mask of despair. “So, what are you saying, partner? We’re screwed? You’re gonna be out of a job in a few days?”

  Whitehorse nodded. “What was that old military term…SNAFU?”

  Chiara looked baffled. “A little before my time, guys. What’s it mean?”

  The two men recited the acronym in harmony. “Situation Normal. All Fucked Up.”

  No one laughed.

  16. Fighting Fire With Fire

  Monday drifted to a close quietly. No one seemed inclined to conversation. It was as though a shroud had settled over the office, isolating them from one another, trapping each in private thoughts and personal fears. As quitting hour approached, the policemen began logging off and locking drawers. Chiara was still busy with her monitor.

  “See you tomorrow, guys. Charley, remember you’re on call tonight. I’ll lock up.”

  After the men had gone, Chiara sat there with her elbows on the desk and her fists on either side
of her face. The ticking of the clock was a constant reminder that they were running out of time. She knew Sammy would be waiting for her with another of his culinary delights, but she was losing her appetite the longer she thought about Charley and his risk of being put on leave. Or worse. There has to be something I can do, she thought. SNAFU can’t be the last word.

  She pondered their predicament. A sloppy video of Charley’s intervention at the school had gone viral, and before they knew what hit them, Nathan’s mother had hired a fancy-pants lawyer and was ready to ruin Charley’s reputation and bleed the town for a fat compensation. It had all happened at the speed of…

  The Internet!

  She withdrew her phone from her purse. She had maintained friendships with two of the girls in Nathan’s class after she graduated because they had been in Cheerleaders and Drama Club together.

  “Hi, Erin.”

  “What’s up, C? Wanna do a little mall cruising next weekend?”

  “Sounds good, but first I gotta ask you a favor.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know all the stuff going down about Officer Whitehorse?”

  “Sure. Everybody does. Kind of a shitstorm.”

  “Were you there when it happened?”

  “No, I’m not in Mrs. Carlsbad’s class.”

  “Crap.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need some proof that that video got it all wrong. Otherwise my boss is gonna lose his job.”

  “Lose his job? I like Officer Whitehorse. He’s chill.” Chiara heard her pause before continuing. “I got a friend in that class, and she told me all about it. That video is fucked up. That’s not what happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My friend Julie said the video isn’t right. It doesn’t show the cop trying to talk Nathan down.”

  “Talk him down?”

  “Well, she told me Nathan gets real crazy sometimes—like off-the-wall shit. She said she didn’t know what set him off that day, but she thinks some of the boys were teasing him. He started throwing books, then he tipped over a desk. When Officer Whitehorse got there, Nathan was crying and screaming and waving his arms around. Hit the cop right in the face.”

  “I didn’t see that in the video.”

  “Right. He was just about to throw a chair through the window when Whitehorse took him down. Julie said if he hadn’t done that somebody woulda got hurt bad. And that policeman just kept talking to him, real calm like, trying to cool him off. Had to put handcuffs on him. That actually helped calm Nathan down. He got up and walked outside with him. Julie doesn’t know what happened after that.”

  “Did Officer Whitehorse use any bad words? Call Nathan any names?”

  “No way. That video makes it seem like he did, but he didn’t. We all like him. He’s visited our Civics Class. Julie said he’s helped out with Nathan before, too. Probably kept him from being sent away like a psycho. I think it was one of the boys who tease Nathan that posted the video. Just to make trouble.”

  “Yeah, it’s stirred up a hornets’ nest all right. We’ve got till Friday morning to clear my boss or the Mayor will nail his ass.”

  “Well, that’s crap.”

  “Do you know anybody that got a better video of what happened? One that shows the truth?” When she didn’t get an immediate response, she pushed a little harder. “I’m desperate, Erin. It’s like crunch time. Can you help me out? We gotta fight fire with fire.”

  “I haven’t wanted to get involved. You know? I gotta live with those asshole jocks, too. And they can make your life miserable.”

  “Erin?”

  “OK. OK. Julie’s parents are like rich. Got her the latest phone. She caught the whole thing. Right from the beginning before Whitehorse got there.”

  “Would she put it up on YouTube?”

  “C’mon, C. You’re asking a lot. She doesn’t want to get in trouble.”

  “My boss is already in trouble.” She could hear her friend harrumphing on the other end. She looked at her watch.

  “OK. I’ll see what I can do. But you owe me. Since you’re the one that makes a paycheck, I think you should take me shopping next weekend.”

  “Deal.”

  Chiara put her phone back in her purse and logged off her computer. As she slid on her coat, she said a silent prayer that her plan would work, that the truth about Charley would go just as viral as the lies about him. It’s gotta work. It’s gotta work, she chanted to herself. She turned off the lights and locked the door.

  Tomorrow would tell the tale.

  17. Dragon Boat

  The next day, Esperanza drew desk duty, while Whitehorse returned to Mid-Coast Seafood, warrant in hand. The sky was the color of buffed aluminum yet again, but was supposed to withhold its rain for the next few days. The policeman didn’t bother to knock, but keyed in the password from his notepad and entered the building. With several loud clicks, he bathed the premises in the harsh light of the overhead fixtures. As before, a vast open space confronted him. Though he could imagine a crabbing boat in dry dock here, crewmen scurrying like worker bees around a queen, somehow this warehouse felt different, not at all like Pacific Fish and Whale. A kind of darkness resided here, resilient to the lights high above, impervious to the doing of any good work. He shivered as he pulled on his rubber gloves. This place is evil, he thought, before heading to the rusting pile of crab pots in the far corner. The unpleasant smell increased the closer he got.

  Some of the traps had buoys with worn lines still attached, coiled up inside them. Most looked older and were empty, in advanced stages of decay. He opened the first, looking for the tags Esperanza had talked about. Nothing. He threw the pot off to the side and opened another one with buoys in it, with the same result. He felt his heart sink. C’mon, c’mon, he thought. Is it too much to ask for a lousy break? Another trap with lines and buoys but neither pot nor buoy tags. Five more pots yielded nothing. Three more candidates remained. He slid a pot out into the light. And there it was, attached to the buoy with a zip tie—a light blue piece of heavy-duty plastic, a few inches on a side, with an inscription printed in white letters.

  401

  Smaug

  99892

  2010-11 ODFW

  He used his phone to take a picture of the tag before he touched it. Then he cut the tag from the buoy and put it into a plastic evidence bag. Another Kudu moment, he thought with a grin. He called his partner.

  “Got it, Tony. Just like you said. A buoy tag. Smaug is the name of the boat.”

  “Hot damn!” was the response. “You heading back?”

  “No. I’m gonna look around some more, then head down to Newport with the evidence I picked up yesterday and today. I’ll drop them off at Forensics. I have to believe those hairs will match the samples you got from Carmody’s apartment.”

  “Anything I can do to help from behind my desk?”

  “Yeah. I’ll send you a photo of the tag and you call the Department of Fish and Wildlife. See who it belongs to.”

  “My pleasure, Tracker. See you later.”

  Whitehorse sent off the picture, then went to examine the long bench with the engine parts on it. He saw coils of wire, mysterious metal pieces with strings of nuts and bolts, a rusting propeller, stains from motor oil and degreaser. The little bits of rusting junk were as indecipherable to him as hieroglyphics.

  He returned to the closet that had been a prison cell for Patricia and the others, but it yielded no further clues. Their best lead remained the buoy tag, which would identify the owners of the boat that used the crab pots, and by way of inference, the owners of the warehouse. A lawyer might argue that the tag was only circumstantial evidence, not real proof of a connection between the crabbers and the missing girl, but Whitehorse would get the proof they needed. He only hoped he would be in time.

  With nothing more to be gained, he walked back toward the door. He was about to turn off the lights, when he saw a shadow tucked against the wall, where th
e door would have hidden it when opened. How could I have missed that last time? He shined his flashlight on it. It was a black umbrella. Lifting it by the fabric, he drew a plastic bag over the handle to preserve any fingerprints. Is this yours, Patricia? Another breadcrumb? He felt his heart quicken with excitement at the thought.

  He left the warehouse and returned to his patrol car. The drive was only about ten miles down 101 to Newport, where he delivered his evidence to the Forensics team that served the towns along the central coast. In moments, he was heading back toward Driftwood.

  The sky had brightened to an eggshell white. As he drove past Beverly Beach on his left, he saw heavy surf pounding into the shore. Maybe the Spouting Horn will be doing its thing in Depoe Bay, he thought. I need a cup of coffee anyway.

  He parked in the center of town facing the water, got a coffee from a little shop nearby, and stood at the rail, watching the swells rush toward the rocks that bordered the street. Much to his delight, one of the waves caught the volcanic fissure perfectly, thrusting its water back into the underground crevice and blasting it skyward through the narrow hole at the top. A spray of water burst forty feet into the air with a resounding whumph, showering a group of preschool children who stood too close. Whitehorse laughed aloud with the children, enjoying the show. He took his phone from his pocket and called Chloe.

  “Sorry to bother you at work, honey, but I’m taking a break at the Spouting Horn, and it’s really fantastic today. Wish you were here with me right now. I’ll have to send you a picture.”

  “Please do. You sound like you’re in a better mood.”

  “I am. I think we’re about to break the case—cases—wide open. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

  “What about the Mayor? What’s going on there?”

  Whitehorse sighed. “Not sure yet. I’ll have a better idea when I get back to the office.”

  “Fingers crossed, darling.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  When he finished the call, he put his coffee down and positioned himself to take a picture. After several failed attempts, he caught the geyser rocketing into the sky and sent it off to Chloe. Then he got back into the cruiser and headed toward Driftwood.