by Dave Balcom
“So, what did you learn about Mickey’s development?”
“The people who pay attention to this stuff say he made friends with property owners, earned their confidence, and when they wanted to sell, he was there with a market price. He bought his place in nineteen ninety-two, then added bits and pieces through the years until he had it all locked up in 2002.
“He was a patient guy,” she added.
“I don’t think we’ll have this all in print in Thursday’s paper. We’ll need to have Patty go to the courthouse for the definitive information for next week.”
“You can’t go too fast on stuff like this,” I said. “Local legend is almost always right, but almost has screwed better journalists than me many times.” I thanked her for the heads up, and then we both became somewhat self conscious.
“Jim, will you be coming out here in the future?”
“I don’t know. Will you ever maybe come out here? It’s real pretty.”
“I don’t know…”
“You’d be welcome, you know that…”
“I guess I do…”
Then we dried up. Finally I told her I had a dinner-date in town, and we signed off with a couple of “seeyas.”
21
Dinner went well.
The Jacobsons and Stewarts were looking at a ranch in the Blues, and Albright was very interested in sharing with them the opportunities they would have for a high quality of life if they bought a $9 million ranch to call their second home.
Milt Jacobson ran a construction company in L.A. Sean Stewart was managing his commercial development division. They were both excited about finding such a cheap price for land to play on.
After dinner, while Albright and Milt were arguing about ports and coffee, I excused myself and found the men’s room. There is a tiny bar area off the kitchen and adjacent to the bathrooms. There are about three stools. The bar is rarely occupied.
As I was passing that doorway to the bar on my way back to the dinner party, I nearly collided with Ron White who was coming out.
“Well, imagine this,” I said, hiding my shock behind a laugh of surprise. “What in God’s name are you doing here, Ron?”
If he was as shocked as I was, he recovered quickly. “Just having a drink with Miguel Santiago and planning tomorrow,” he said backing into the bar area.
“Miguel, look who’s here. Remember Jim Stanton? We met him at Schaeffer’s last week.”
I remembered Miguel, but we hadn’t been introduced. He had been providing what appeared to be security for his father that night.
“We weren’t formally introduced, Mr. Stanton. I’m Miguel. I do odds and ends for my father.”
“What brings you two to Pendleton?”
“Actually, you do,” Ron said. “We’ve been trying to reach you on the phone to see if we could set up a meeting. Seems nobody knows where you live and you never seem to be at home.”
“I live an active life. I’ve been getting a lot of hang-up calls on my machine, was that you?”
“It might have been, but I’ve been leaving messages every time, no wonder you weren’t returning my calls. You may have a machine malfunction.”
I acknowledged that I might, and went ahead, “So what are you looking to see me about?”
“I work with an attorney for Mr. Santiago’s company, and he is actually the guy who would like to talk with you. We’re all staying at the Oxford Suites here in town. Could you maybe be available to meet him tomorrow?”
“Sure, where?”
“Your house?”
“I live up near the mountains, but I have to be in Pendleton tomorrow,” I lied. “Maybe it would be just good if I called on him at the motel?”
“That would work. When do you think you’d be around?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Let’s say eleven?”
“That’d be great. Well, we gotta go, I’ll set up the meeting for eleven, see you then.”
He headed for the door, but I veered left into the dining room where everyone was waiting on my return to order their desserts.
“Thought you were stuck,” Albright said. “We’ve decided on port and coffee. You?
“I’ll just have bourbon, neat.”
“See, Milt? I win. I told you he wouldn’t drink port.”
They all had a good laugh, and I shared it.
We were outside, later, having said good night to the Jacobsons and Stewarts, and as we shook hands, Albright held on to mine. “I really appreciate your help with this, Jim. You made just the right moves today.
“And I saw you met your friends from Michigan.”
“My friends?”
“The two young guys? They tracked me down late this afternoon trying to find out where you lived. I told them it was hard to find, but if they came by the office tomorrow I’d give them a map. They seemed to be in a hurry, and I told them I’d be seeing you tonight at dinner. That kind of relaxed ‘em.”
“And you told them where?”
“Sure, didn’t see anything wrong with that. Was there?”
“Oh, no. I just wondered.”
As I headed my truck east on the Interstate, I saw the car coming up the ramp behind me. I stayed slow and steady about 10 miles an hour below the speed limit, and that car never gained on me a bit…
22
At the top of Cabbage Hill, on the reservation of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla, the exit gives travelers three choices: Going back down the hill through Dead Man’s Pass, continuing up the mountain toward Emigrant State Park or heading south to Poverty Flats.
I continued up the mountain to the next road south, took it, and drove past my house to the Nelsons’ drive where I settled down to wait. The car that had taken the exit behind me had not followed me down the quarter mile of gravel to the Nelsons.
I sat, listening to the sound of the engine block cooling, the hum of insects and the sighing of the Douglas fir that guards the Nelson home.
I didn’t hear the crunch of tire on the gravel that I had expected. I didn’t hear Jack’s stocking foot approach, either.
“Lost, Jim?”
I could see by the way he was standing his revolver was hanging along his pant seam. He was shirtless and in jeans. I had roused him.
“I was just checking on something, Jack. I didn’t mean to bother you folks.”
“We don’t see much traffic down here.”
“I thought you might see some tonight, but I guess I was wrong. I’ll just be heading home.”
“Not a problem. Want a drink before you go?” I declined.
Punch was in his kennel, and eager to join me. I rearmed my homemade alarm systems, and locked up for the night, wondering if my slow speed trick had backfired or if I was just being a bit paranoid.
“You’d be paranoid, too, Punch, if you knew somebody was after you.”
23
I arrived at the motel just before 11, and as I approached the desk to ask for Mr. Crocker, Ron White intercepted me.
“Good morning, Jim. We’re in the lounge area.” He was in his business mode, all respectful and earnest. It appeared to me that he was acting, perhaps for his boss’s benefit.
Crocker was a short man of average build. His strawberry blond hair was longish, and he wore it swept back in a pompadour look that made me think it might be held in place with hair spray. He had affected one of those facial hair styles where the mustache and goatee ringed his very pink lips. It is a style that always makes me think of a woman’s privates. It is a man’s look I can’t find attractive no matter how many movie stars adopted it.
His handshake was firm and business like. His hand felt hard and bony.
“I appreciate your coming to see me Mr. Stanton. May I call you Jim?”
“Certainly, most everyone does.”
“As you know, I represent Next Cool Place, LLC and their managing partner, Charlotte Buchanan. While I’m the firm’s attorney, I also function as a manager of its various real esta
te interests around the country. I also handle some personal issues for Mrs. Buchanan and other principals in the company.”
“Is Richard Santiago one of those principals?”
“He is, as are others, and it is on their behalf I have sought you out.” He cleared his throat as he approached the crux of the matter.
“We are fully aware of your history as an investigative reporter, and we are concerned that you may have formed some assumptions that have raised questions in the eyes of the authorities.
“We feel you may have started something that will bear you no fruit, but could cause Mrs. Buchanan and others real pain. I’ve come to ask you to back off.”
I kept still and considered him for a few minutes, and then decided to see how serious he might be about getting rid of me. “I’m afraid you may be mistaken, Mr. Crocker. I am not conducting any investigation. I do have some questions, and I’ve passed them on to the authorities and the staff at the newspaper in Mineral Valley.
“If you really know about me, you know I have no interest in that newspaper beyond an appreciation for what they do.”
“You didn’t seek out and interview the police officer who investigated Mr. Buchanan’s death? You didn’t seek out and interview the Kalkaska County Medical Examiner?” He was very controlled, but I was getting a real message of tension from him. His display of control was costing him.
“I did talk to Dr. Schwarz and Sergeant Fish, but only because a couple of things were missing from the original story. And you know that I was once very close to Mickey when we were much younger. His death bothers me a great deal, especially since I hadn’t seen him for so long.”
He had a pained expression on his face. “While tragic, Mr. Buchanan’s death did not come as any great surprise to me, Jim. He was a drunkard and a drug abuser. He lived a very reckless life, and so it was no surprise when I heard the news.”
“Well, it surprised me.”
“Mr. Buchanan’s death left a very considerable mess for his business partners and his wife. In addition to their grief, they are dealing with complications in their efforts to go forward with their plans for the development in Mineral Valley.
“I’m sure you can understand that the last thing they need right now is a prying investigative journalist or the local newspaper second-guessing the official findings of this incident.”
I studied him for another second. “As far as I’m concerned, Michigan is a long ways off, and I don’t have much interest. Unless they find something new to work, the police are probably not going to probe much farther. Of course, I can’t speak for the newspaper…”
“Actually, we’ve already spoken to the newspaper, and I’m certain they have decided that their best interest will be served by leaving Next Cool Place and its principals alone,” he said with a kind of shrug, but then his eyes locked on mine, “Can I take it from you that your investigation into Mr. Buchanan’s death is finished?”
“I wouldn’t begin to know where to go if I was going to proceed, Mr. Crocker, but I have to tell you, your eagerness to derail any second look into this case raises my interest level quite a bit.
“I always figured I was on the right track when the people I was asking about went to great lengths to make me go away. I’m a bit surprised Jan and her crew would back off that easily.”
Crocker’s cool façade didn’t crack a bit, but he did look at Ron, who was sitting at the next table. That look seemed to say, “See?”
“Jim, that answer saddens me. I assure you, continued probing into our affairs will lead you to no story anyone will print, and will only result in causing more pain to Mrs. Buchanan and her associates.
“There is no limit to the extent I’m authorized to go to prevent that kind of pain. Perhaps you’d be interested in doing some writing for our firm? I have with me today a check payable to you for fifty thousand dollars for what could be a very short writing assignment.”
“That’s a lot of money for writing, what did you have in mind?”
“Let me give you this check. We’ll call it a retainer, and I’ll let you know later the specifics of your assignment.”
I paused again, thinking this through. What did my taking a check from him entail? Who gives a writer fifty K? Just what was this all about? I made a snap decision. “Sure, give me the check.”
He opened his cowhide bag at his feet and pulled out a file. He opened it on the table, and there was the check, issued on The Next Cool Place, LLC account. It was clipped to what appeared to be a contract.
“I’ll just need your signature on this agreement that spells out the details of your retainage.”
The contract was pretty standard agreement boilerplate, but the hook, which I knew would be there, was in paragraph e.
“Contractor will refrain from all other writing or activities pertaining to the writing of any and all work without prior approval of the Company for the duration of this contract.”
“I don’t see the end date of this agreement,” I said with a little smile. “TFN?”
“Actually, you can see in paragraph b that this agreement will remain in force from today until either party terminates it in writing with a thirty-day notice.”
“So I can earn fifty K and work exclusively for you guys for the rest of my life?”
“The agreement only gives us right of prior approval for any other work you may pursue.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crocker, but I have become too used to picking my own stories and projects to give that freedom away for fifty thousand dollars.”
“I know that you earn no more than that a year from your writing. You might look at this as a paid, year-long vacation.”
“I might, but I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
“I’m not here to make you afraid, Jim. I’m here to protect the interests of my clients and friends from a nosey, misguided inquiry that serves no purpose.”
“I guess buying me off won’t work.”
“As I said, there is no limit to the extent I will go to protect our interests, Jim.”
“Mr. Crocker, if your interests have nothing to hide, I’m pretty sure they don’t have anything to fear from the newspaper in Mineral Valley or from a retired guy like me.”
“We’ll see, Mr. Stanton. We’ll see.”
I started to leave as Ron, who had taken a cell phone call and left the room, returned. He leaned into me and whispered, “I’ve been told you don’t scare easy. I’ve heard all the stories, but you gotta know these people don’t make idle offers or promises.”
“Thanks for the tip, Ron,” I said out loud. “How’s your mom? Seen her lately?”
“Not since the party. I’ve been busy learning the real estate development business, and we can’t afford many distractions from our mission, you know?” He answered in the same tone.
“Tell her I was asking about her, won’t you?”
“If I see her before you do. You have her number, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Possibly in an old Christmas card, but I’m sure I can find it if I need it. Take care, Ron. Mr. Crocker,” I nodded at the lawyer, and left the lounge.
24
Driving home I saw nothing like anyone following me, but when I drove into my driveway, and went to let Punch out of his kennel, I knew that I’d had company. There was no sign of the dog, and the gate was open.
With a real sense of confusion, I hurried to the steps to the porch and saw the fishing line connecting the beer cans filled with stones had been tripped. The line was a vector showing that the visitor or visitors were coming out of the house when they tripped the line.
I returned to the truck, opened the console between the front seats and pulled my Taurus out of its holster. Using a key on my ring, I made the gun active. I knew all 7 chambers of the cylinder were full.
I then went to the front door. It was locked. The tell-tale I’d left up at the top of the door – a hair – was still in place.
I unlocked the door
and let it swing open until it hit the wall with a soft “thump.” I held the gun down along my right leg, as I entered the living room.
It was untouched. The kitchen too offered no indication of intrusion. I found my bedroom completely upside down. The drawers were opened. They and the contents littered the floor. The bed was a flurry of sheets and the mattress was half off the springs.
I stepped into the bathroom, and everything in there had been dumped on the floor. The same for the walk-in closets.
I backed out and took the stairs two at a time to the guest room and again found everything had been dumped out. I went to the third room, where I did my writing. The laptop was gone. The keyboard, all the peripherals, and the printer were on the floor along with every note and folder from the desk and file cabinet.
I went back down to my bedroom and found the jewelry box that had been part of what I’d kept after Sandy died. I found her wedding ring and some other expensive items still in place.
Whatever they were looking for, they had made a mess trying to find it. I had no idea what it was.
I still had a basement and an attic to inspect, but I was pretty sure whoever had visited me was gone. I kept the gun ready, all the same.
The basement was just the usual stuff, and it appeared nobody had been there. The attic was the same, with its boxes of Christmas decorations and other seasonal stuff that hadn’t been used since Sandy had died apparently untouched.
I stood in the kitchen. It was eerie quiet. I wondered about Punch, and couldn’t shake a feeling of dread.
On the way outside I grabbed the Acme Thunderer that resided on the window sill.
“Punch!” I yelled, and then I blew the whistle one long quavering blast. Then again. Then again.
I waited.
“Punch!”
After 20 minutes of off and on whistling and yelling, I started searching the draw behind the house. It was where Punch had first pointed a quail, and later a chukar. That draw ended up at Wild Horse Creek, in a round-about fashion. It was a favorite place for the dog and me.
