None So Deadly

by David A. Poulsen

  Cobb called at seven thirty the next morning. The call woke me up, but I was proud of how quickly I was able to be almost coherent.

  “Sorry, Adam, I was tied up with the case out here and didn’t get to my phone until now. What’s up?”

  I walked him through my conversation with Danny Luft. He stayed silent until I’d finished, and even then took a while before speaking.

  “You think the kid is telling the truth?”

  “I can’t think why he wouldn’t be,” I said.

  “I can.” Cobb sounded like he was talking to me from the inside of a cave. Or the bottom of a well. “It happens from time to time. Kids with a real or imagined grievance accusing people in positions of authority of abuse, criminal actions, all kinds of stuff.”

  “I know that happens sometimes,” I acknowledged. “But this doesn’t feel like that. This feels like a kid telling the truth, and he’s scared, and he doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Okay, let’s look at the positives. He hasn’t shot Mrs. Claiborne and he came to us.”

  “I can’t argue that. I’m just not sure, beyond counselling Danny not to kill anyone, what I should do.”

  “Well, you were right to tell him to stay away from Claiborne. I’ve got a couple of additional suggestions. We know Claiborne’s a successful businessman, but that doesn’t make him a good guy. Anyone who would try to hire-slash-blackmail a kid to kill his wife doesn’t sound like a clean liver to me. Why don’t you start working your magic and find out everything you can about him? We might just find something we can use to get the kid off Claiborne’s radar. And you need to keep talking to Danny. Make sure he isn’t having second thoughts or that Claiborne hasn’t upped the ante and got him talked into a Saturday night shooting.”

  “Right, I’ll get started on Claiborne right away.”

  “I’m in Ladysmith and I’ve found them. They’re in a beach house by the ocean. I’m in the galley of a sailboat I rented. I have to confirm it’s them, report to my client, and I’m wrapped up here. But I’m not sure I’ll be back there by Saturday. So some of this is going to be on you. In the meantime you can call me anytime you need to.”

  “Wow, sailing on the ocean — tough case.”

  He laughed. “It would be better if I’d actually sailed the boat. I haven’t left the mooring. I’m at a private little marina that’s close to the beach house, perfect place to watch from. Anyway, I’ll get there as fast as I can … call me when you need to.”

  “Good. That makes me feel a little better.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Adam.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can do this,” Cobb, ever intuitive, hearing the hesitation in my voice, sensing the self-doubt, said. “Just make sure Claiborne doesn’t get to Danny. I’ll make a couple of calls and see if I can get you some help with that.”

  “Right.”

  I knew what help Cobb was referring to. He occasionally employed the services of a couple of people as operatives — I’d met them, and knew they were tough, fearless, and well-armed. He’d have them watching Danny to make sure the kid didn’t succumb to some urgent message from Claiborne. That might help keep face-to-face contact from happening but there’d be nothing, save the desire to follow my advice, to keep the young man from phoning or texting Claiborne or responding to incoming calls or texts.

  We ended the call. I got a pot of coffee going — old-school, perked coffee — and called Jill Sawley, the woman I’d met when I was working my first case with Cobb a couple of years previously and about whom I had been crazy ever since; actually, that applied to both Jill and her ten-year-old daughter, Kyla.

  It was small talk for the moment — I’d bring Jill up to speed on Danny Luft’s story over dinner later. The call completed, I texted Danny.

  Hey, Danny. I talked to Mike Cobb. He said to hang tough, stay away from Claiborne and we’ll get him off your back … might take a couple of days. Stay strong and leave it to us, okay? Call or text anytime you need to or want to.

  With that done, it was Google time. Coffee mug topped up and notebook at the ready, with Jann Arden’s Living Under June providing the accompaniment, I began my examination of the life and times of Wendell Claiborne.

  A couple of hours later, I had a fairly decent overview of the man’s life. Claiborne had been born with the proverbial silver spoon firmly in place. His father, Orville Claiborne, had been a major player in the oil industry. Orville’s company, Flare and Derrick Oil, which later came to be known simply as FD Oil, made its mark — and its millions — on the exploration side of the industry.

  Several of the largest companies in the oil patch, an Alberta-based bank, and even a wind-powered electricity producer all proudly pointed to Claiborne’s name and influence on their boards of directors. And there were the continued rumblings that Alberta’s United Conservative Party was hoping to woo him as a candidate for the next provincial election in the hope that he was a guy who could help oust the NDP government that currently presided over the province.

  As I dug a little deeper, it appeared there might be some chinks in the sterling silver armour that surrounded the dapper businessman. I learned, for example, that the wife he was wanting Danny Luft to off was the third woman to fill that role, the first two having been eliminated in the more traditional, time-honoured fashion — divorce with a big settlement. Which raised the question: Why not employ a method that had worked before? Of course, there was a chance that Claiborne was tired of parting with large amounts of cash. Or maybe the current Mrs. Claiborne was less enthusiastic about taking the severance package.

  There were a couple more red flags — one an incident four years earlier, when Claiborne was sued by a group of farmers and ranchers for alleged contamination of their wells, brought on by some drilling operations that Claiborne companies were part of. The matter had been settled out of court. The second was a break-in at the Claiborne house a week before Christmas. No one had been at home at the time, and while theft appeared to be at least part of the reason for the break-in, the newspaper account related that there had been considerable vandalism, resulting in thousands of dollars in damage to the home and contents. Claiborne had offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of those responsible, but a follow-up story indicated no arrests had been made. I found it interesting that the reward was the same amount he had offered Danny Luft to shoot his wife.

  I was getting a sense that Claiborne might have a few enemies. I shut down my computer, changed, and headed for Jill’s house, stopping to pick up a bottle of La Vieille Ferme, a French red wine I knew she liked. I made a second stop, this one at the Shawnessy Chapters, and picked up a couple of books for Kyla, who was the most voracious almost-eleven-year-old reader I’d ever seen. Just before I got to the house, I called Cobb and filled him in on what I’d learned about Claiborne. And I texted him my notes to date.

  “Okay, that’s good,” he said. “Go enjoy dinner with your fair ladies and I’ll call you later. I want to think about this and read what you’ve got — see if there’s anything here that might help us.”

  My purchases netted me kisses from the older of the fair ladies and a high five from the younger. Dinner over, Kyla hunkered down in the bay window, earbuds and iPod dialed in to Marianas Trench, her current favourite band, as she plunged into one of the books I’d bought her — Susan Juby’s The Truth Commission. Jill and I decided that an unusually warm night meant we should enjoy a glass of wine on the back deck.

  For several minutes we sat in silence, enjoying the wine and the night sky.

  “This one bothers me, Adam,” Jill finally said.

  I’d told her most of the Claiborne story while we were preparing salad before dinner. “Yeah, me too.”

  “I can’t imagine first of all that someone can be that evil … to recruit a fifteen-year-old boy to kill his wife.”

  “Sadly, I can imagine it,” I told her. “When I was at the Herald, the one thing I le
arned is that there’s a lot of evil in the world, some of it unspeakable. This certainly falls into that category, but it’s not unique in its malevolence.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For the moment our strategy is to keep Danny away from Claiborne and vice versa. It’s a temporary measure — we know that — but until we figure a way to lean on Claiborne and get him to back off from Danny, it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Can’t you just confront that … that … creep and tell him you know what he’s up to?”

  I shook my head. “We do that and Claiborne’s the kind of guy who would enjoy phoning Danny’s dad and telling him about the weed. And likely embellishing the story some to include other drugs. If Danny’s being truthful, and I think he is, we would be putting our client in harm’s way … and failing to respect his confidentiality. So, no, we can’t do that. What we need to do is get something on Claiborne that we can use to make him abandon the thing with no repercussions for Danny. And in a way that ensures the safety of Mrs. Claiborne.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  I shrugged. “I have to admit I’d feel a lot more confident if Cobb were here. I know I’m not as good at this stuff as he is.” I glanced at my watch. “Which reminds me, I need to get back to my computer to see if I can come up with something, anything, we can use.”

  Much as I looked forward to and enjoyed the nights I stayed over at Jill’s place, or she at mine, I knew this wouldn’t be one of those nights. Jill knew it, too, although that didn’t stop her from giving me a good-night kiss that had a lot more hello than goodbye in it.

  Once back at my apartment I drank a can of Rolling Rock, before switching to coffee as I sat at my computer, delving again into the mostly boring, occasionally sordid chronicling of Wendell Claiborne’s life. Ben Heppner’s Airs Français made the experience, if not pleasant, at least bearable. I fell asleep at my computer sometime after 4:00 a.m., having been singularly unsuccessful at finding anything even slightly useful.

  Turns out it didn’t matter, at least not in the way we thought it would. At 6:08 a.m., everything changed.

  That’s when the phone rang. I managed to pry one eye open and glared at the device, willing it to spontaneously combust so that my sleep-deprived brain wouldn’t have to deal with whatever the news was — surely a call at that hour meant there was news of some kind. The bearer of that news was no longer my friend.

  My phone-hate, and just about every other thought in my head at the time, was quickly pushed aside when the caller turned out to be Danny Luft. The kid’s voice was shaking and his first words jerked me upright and instantly wide awake.

  “This is Danny,” he said. “I’m at the police station. Can you help me?”

  “What’s happened, Danny?”

  “I don’t know. They said I could phone my parents but I told them I wanted to call you first. Mr. Cullen, I’m scared.”

  “Danny, have you talked to Mr. Claiborne? I need the truth here.”

  “He called last night and left a message, and he texted me, too. Told me to get back to him right away.”

  “What did you do?” I could feel a shiver starting to work its way up my back.

  “I called him back. I’m sorry but I didn’t know what else to do … I was afraid he’d —”

  “What did he say?” I interrupted.

  “I didn’t get him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t answer. I didn’t get to talk to him and now he’s —”

  “What time was this, Danny?”

  “He called me a little after nine. But I didn’t call him back until about ten, I guess.”

  “But you didn’t talk to him.” I wanted to be totally clear on that point.

  “No.”

  “Did you text him?”

  “No, I left a message when I phoned, but I didn’t text him and now —”

  “What did you say in the message?”

  “I just said I was sorry I missed his call. Then I ended it.”

  “Okay, that’s good.”

  “I didn’t kill him, Mr. Cullen.”

  “What?” All traces of leftover sleep leaped from my body.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Danny, are you telling me Claiborne’s dead? Mister Claiborne?”

  “That’s what the cops said … they came to the house this morning and told me I had to come with them. I asked them what happened and one of them told me that Mr. Claiborne had been shot. Then he read me that thing that says I can remain silent and all that stuff.”

  “Okay.” It wasn’t much of a response but I’d need time to come up with something better.

  “What should I do?”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “They spent yesterday at the lake. They were coming home this morning — they might be home by now. Mr. Cullen, what should I do?”

  I thought about that. “You do nothing, Danny. You won’t have to talk to them until your parents and your lawyer are there. So just sit tight until they get there.”

  “But I didn’t shoot him. Wouldn’t it be better to tell them about —”

  “No, Danny, that wouldn’t be better.” Have you never watched a cop show on TV? I thought. “What happened after they came to your house?”

  “When I got here, they searched me and took my fingerprints. And they took my phone. All the texts and messages and stuff with Mr. Claiborne are on there and —”

  “Danny.”

  “And what if —”

  “Danny.”

  It was all I could do not to let my inner groan explode into the phone. “Now listen to me. I’ll phone your parents; then I’ll be there. Where are you?”

  “At the main police … um … headquarters, I guess. I don’t know the address or anything.”

  “I do. I’ll be there. What’s your home phone number?”

  “Are you sure you have to —”

  “Danny, you’re a suspect or at least a person of interest in a murder investigation. I have to call your parents. Now give me the number.”

  “Sorry.” He recited the number.

  “No, Danny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh. But I do need to speak to your mom and dad. And I’m sure your parents will be there very soon. Listen to me. The big thing you need to do now is just be calm and quiet and say nothing to anyone other than to tell them that you want me to be there. Otherwise it’ll just be your parents and the lawyer. Tell the detectives that you are a client of Cobb and me. They’ll probably know that already from your phone but you tell them that you want me there. You understand me …? And when I get there you need to be totally honest with me. You with me on those two things?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good, I’ll see you shortly.”

  Next I called Cobb. “Yeah,” his response an indication that he was busy and didn’t have time right now. He’d have to make time.

  I said, “Yeah, you know the shit and the fan? They’ve met.”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  I told him. When I’d finished he said, “Goddamn it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, call the kid’s dad; tell him to get a lawyer and get there fast. I can wrap things up here later today. I’ll see if I can change my flight and get an earlier one. Meantime I’ll make a couple of calls.”

  I knew he meant he’d be calling some of his former police associates to find out what they had on Danny Luft. The police aren’t eager to arrest kids and charge them with murder unless they’ve got pretty solid evidence. Of course, Danny hadn’t been charged, at least I didn’t think he had, but that old adage about smoke and fire felt pretty appropriate right now. Right up there with the fan and the caca. Next came the call I wasn’t looking forward to making. I hoped Danny’s parents were home from the cabin.

  A male voice answered.

  “Mr. Luft?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “My name’s Adam Cullen. I’m a f
reelance journalist and I occasionally work with a private investigator named Mike Cobb.”

  “Yeah?” The voice was that of a man who expected some kind of extortion threat to be the next words he heard.

  “I’ll make this fast, Mr. Luft, because you need to move quickly.”

  “What is this shit?”

  “I understand your suspicion, sir, but I need you to listen carefully for a couple of minutes. This is about Danny.”

  Silence for a beat. “What about Danny?”

  I gave it to him quickly and unabridged — from Danny’s visit to Cobb’s office to the conversation I’d just had with him.

  “You’re telling me my kid’s in jail.”

  “I’m telling you your son has been taken into custody. He hasn’t, as far as I know, been charged yet, but that may happen soon or it may not happen at all. Depends on what evidence the police have.”

  “And he’s been doing drugs, as well … Jesus Christ.”

  “Mr. Luft, I’m not going to tell you how to raise your son, but I think you might want to put yourself and how you feel on the back burner for the moment.”

  “Listen, bud, I don’t need you to —”

  “Danny needs his parents right now, and he needs you to be about more than discipline. Do you have a lawyer?”

  Another beat. “Sure, for mortgages and stuff — nothing like this.”

  “I suggest you call your lawyer and ask him to recommend an attorney who handles criminal cases. Then you need to get to the police station and have that lawyer get there as quickly as possible, too.”

  “Criminal lawyer.” He said the words slowly and softly — like a man who hadn’t thought they were ones he’d ever have to use.

  “Mr. Luft, I don’t believe your son shot Wendell Claiborne. It would be really helpful if, when you get to where Danny is being held, you conducted yourself like a man who felt the same way.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get that.” Same dull, disembodied voice.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  There was a long pause.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I better get moving on these calls.”