Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 03 - Thrilled to Death

by L. J. Sellers

  As he neared downtown, Jackson called Evans. “Good morning. Everything okay?”

  “You sound chipper. Did you get laid?”

  “Jesus, Evans. I got some much-needed sleep. I’ll send a patrol unit out there, so you can go home and do the same.”

  “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “Elias Goodbe. I’ve got a call in to the DMV.”

  “It’s open today?”

  “The little office at Valley River Center is.”

  “Call me when you need me.”

  While he waited to hear from Stacy, Jackson reworked the subpoena for Goodbe, planning to take it to Judge Volcansek, who might be more inclined to sign it. As a woman she might empathize more with an abducted woman’s situation. Unless Judge Volcansek also knew Goodbe personally.

  Jackson wolfed down a pastry and chugged a tall black coffee. Should he call the judge this early on Saturday? She hadn’t returned his call last night and pissing her off wouldn’t work to his advantage.

  Instead, he left a message for Sergeant Lammers, updating her on the case.

  Just as he reached for his desk phone to call the judge, his cell phone rang.

  “It’s Stacy Garrett. I’ve never been to work this early before. It’s kind of weird. The mall cops didn’t want to let me in.”

  “Thanks for doing this. What did you find out?”

  “Elias Goodbe has a blue 2005 Chrysler Sebring and a gray 2006 Honda Odyssey. Both cars are registered to him and Doris Goodbe.”

  Jackson asked her to repeat the info as he wrote it down. “Anything interesting in his file?”

  “Hmm.” There was a pause while she looked. “I don’t know if this is what you mean by interesting, but he also has a boat registered with the state.”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “It’s listed as a sixty-foot Altima. I think that’s a small yacht.”

  “That is interesting. Does it say where he keeps it?”

  “It’s docked at the marina in Florence.”

  “You don’t have a slip number do you?”

  “No, you’ll have to contact the marina.”

  “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Jackson put out an attempt-to-locate on both vehicles and a description of Goodbe with instructions to apprehend, then he called Schak. It took the big man six rings to pick up and grunt into the phone.

  “Ready for a trip to Florence?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Goodbe didn’t get on a plane, train, or bus from Eugene yesterday. At least not using his own name. I found out this morning he owns a boat and keeps it docked at the marina in Florence. So we’re going over to check it out.”

  “Have you called the marina?”

  “That’s next. I thought I’d give you a few minutes to get ready.”

  “Will do.”

  Jackson found the marina’s number with a quick Google search. No one answered and there was no option to leave a voicemail. Not surprising. It was early Saturday morning and Florence was a small coastal town with limited resources.

  What next? Should he get the Florence police involved? He had so little evidence to go on. If Goodbe was taking a cruise, he was likely leaving this morning. Or had left already.

  He Googled the Florence police department because it was faster than using the database. When someone finally answered, Jackson identified himself and asked to speak to the highest ranking person in the office.

  “That would be me. In fact, I’m the only person in the office right now.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Officer Janice Miller.” She sounded too young to be left alone in a police department.

  “I’m trying to locate a man who may have kidnapped a young woman. His name is Elias Goodbe and he has a sixty-foot Altima that may be sitting in your marina. Can you get a uniform officer over there to look for the boat and stop it if it tries to leave?”

  “I’ll need a little more information. What slip is it in?”

  “I don’t know. The marina didn’t answer my call this morning.” Jackson started for the stairs as he talked.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Who? The missing woman?”

  “The boat.”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “That’ll make it challenging, but I don’t suppose there are too many sixty-foot yachts in the harbor, so we’ll do our best.”

  “Please have the uniform officer call this cell phone number as soon as he spots the boat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Schak’s face looked puffier than usual, but he was moving with purpose, thermos in hand.

  As he climbed into the cruiser, Schak said, “I think Tracy is actually jealous I’m going to the coast with you instead of her. I’ve been promising her a weekend getaway, but it never seems to happen.”

  “Gorgeous day for a drive,” Jackson said, reaching for his sunglasses. “I hope it’s not a colossal waste of time.” He thought about asking Schak to drive, then changed his mind. He would put up with the discomfort for an hour. He needed to be in control today.

  Sophie couldn’t believe she was tailing a police officer. She’d come down to the department, hoping to catch Jackson and ask him some questions in person. He still owed her a half-day ridealong to go with the brief interview he’d given her. Coming down here had been a long shot, but Jackson was being a little nicer to her these days, so she figured it was worth a try. She hadn’t been able to think about anything but the two kidnapped women since Elle Durham had called her the day before. It was such a bizarre case.

  Sophie kept coming back to Dr. Stella Callahan and her connection to both Danette and Courtney. She’d called Callahan but hadn’t reached her. She’d also considered following the doctor for a while.

  This morning, unable to sleep, Sophie had decided to approach Jackson face to face and see if he would let her inside this case for her in-depth feature. As she’d pulled into the empty parking lot across from city hall, she’d seen Jackson leaving the underground parking space. She’d followed him on instinct.

  She saw him pick up the burly cop while she passed by the house. Now she followed the two of them as they headed out Highway 126. Sophie had no idea where they were going but it had to be important for them both to be working Saturday morning. She didn’t have anything better to do this morning than chase down this bizarre story. The newspaper might be slowly going out of business, but she wasn’t giving up on her career yet.

  The streets were nearly deserted, the sun was still low in the horizon, and they sipped their coffee in silence as they drove out of town. Once they passed through Veneta, the road to the coast narrowed and the forest crept in so close he could practically reach out the window and touch it.

  Out of nowhere, Schak said, “I looked up that disease online. Retroperitoneal fibrosis. For some people, it’s really bad. They have a lot of surgeries, then die anyway.”

  Jackson knew they would have this conversation sooner or later. He was touched his partner had been concerned enough to do some homework. “The growth is around my aorta but it’s only affecting my kidneys. This surgery will take care of it.”

  “Can it grow into your heart?”

  “I’ve been working this case round the clock since I was diagnosed and haven’t had time to look into it. If you went online, you probably know more than I do.”

  “When is your surgery?”

  “Monday.”

  “Two days from now?”

  “Yep. Thank God. These stents are killing me.”

  “Is that why you keep scowling and standing up?”

  Jackson laughed. “Sorry if I’ve been abrupt or unpleasant.”

  “Don’t worry. You haven’t. If it were me, I’d be lying around in my fatboy chair, making the wife wait on me.”

  “I’m not that lucky.”

  Schak was quiet for a moment. “So you’re not going to die?”

  “Hell no. Not unless I take on
e of these curves too fast and put us in the river.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Jackson’s cell phone rang so he eased off the gas and popped in his earpiece before answering it.

  “It’s Evans. Doris Goodbe just left her house. The uniform officer who replaced me called and wondered if he should follow her. I said no, stay with the house. I’m heading out the door now and hope to pick her up. Was that the right call?”

  “Yes. It could be a ruse to pull the watch off the house so Elias can sneak out. Get on the radio and get some help. Until we know what’s going on, we don’t want to lose Doris either.” Jackson turned up the phone’s volume to compensate for the traffic noise. “What’s she driving by the way?”

  “A gray Honda Odyssey. Where are you?”

  “Schak and I are headed to the coast. I found out from the DMV that Goodbe has a big boat in Florence. He doesn’t have any travel tickets, so I’m thinking he may plan on slipping out by sea.”

  “A boat, huh? Do you suppose he’s running drugs?”

  “No clue.”

  “How long do you want me to stay on Doris Goodbe?”

  “Long enough for McCray to relieve you. I reworked the Goodbe subpoena and it’s on my desk. Take it to Judge Volcansek and play on her female sympathies. Tell her about Valder’s pornography set up. Express your concern for what could be happening to Danette and get her to sign it.”

  “I’m on it. Keep me posted.”

  “Later.”

  As Jackson hung up, Schak asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Doris Goodbe left the house.” Jackson talked without turning to look at Schak; they were about to enter a tunnel. “If Doris is driving the Honda, we should probably look for the blue Chrysler Sebring.”

  “What else should I know?”

  “That’s it. Goodbe’s life seems to have started here in Eugene in 1996. He has the import business and runs the outreach center next to it. Goodbe is probably an alias, and I can’t wait to run his prints through–”

  The ring of his cell phone cut him off and Jackson answered it.

  “Officer Miller with the Florence Police Department. I sent a uniform down to the marina, and he thinks he may have spotted your Altima. There’s a white, sixty-footer called Sweet New Hope in slot 53.”

  “Great. Is the officer watching the boat?”

  “Yes. He’s in the parking lot, and he’ll keep me informed.”

  “Give him my cell number and have him call me directly. Please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson relayed the information to Schak and willed himself to relax. Just because Goodbe had a boat and they had located it didn’t mean the suspect would be there. It was more likely he’d driven his car to Seattle. Or Mexico.

  Still, he kept pushing their speed, despite the increase in traffic as they neared the coastal town. At least the road had straightened out again.

  “Do we have a plan if we find him on the boat?” Schak tensed as Jackson passed an old man in a truck.

  “Cuff him and bring him in for questioning.”

  “You have your Taser, right?”

  “Always.”

  “Do we know if Goodbe owns weapons?”

  “They’re not registered if he does. I don’t expect a confrontation,” Jackson said, trying to reassure both of them. “We’ll be prepared for one anyway.”

  “I gotta quit drinking so much coffee,” Schak said, rubbing his chest a little. “It’s giving me heartburn.”

  Jackson’s cell phone rang again and he answered, thinking it would be the Florence police.

  It was Elle Durham. “Detective Jackson?” She sounded slurred and weepy.

  “Elle, I’m right in the middle of something important. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Is it about Courtney? Are you going to get the bastard who killed her?”

  Jackson didn’t know what to say. Goodbe probably had nothing to do with Courtney, and Courtney may not have been murdered. “I’m doing everything I can. The pathologist’s report was inconclusive, but we’re still waiting on toxicology.”

  “Tox-i-col-ogy?” She spoke slowly, as she had difficulty forming the syllables.

  “Are you all right, Elle?” Jackson was thinking he might ask Stella Callahan to counsel the grieving woman.

  She let out a gurgled sound. “No, I’m not all right. My husband is dead, my youngest daughter is dead, and I’m dying too.”

  “What are you saying?” Jackson slowed his speed.

  “I have kidney cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll do everything I can to resolve Courtney’s case as quickly as I can.”

  “I don’t have much time left.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.” Jackson clicked off the phone, feeling like a shit. But they were coming into Florence and he had to focus.

  “What was that about?”

  “Elle Durham is dying of kidney cancer. She wants me to give her closure on Courtney’s death.”

  “Poor woman.”

  “I know. What a way to spend your last few days on earth, grieving for your child.”

  “What about the poor sister? What’s her name?”

  “Brooke. No kidding. Once Elle’s gone, she’ll have lost her whole family.”

  They were quiet as they pulled up at the stoplight that signaled the entry to Florence. Jackson again thought of calling Stella Callahan and asking her to get involved. Or maybe Brooke would need someone who specialized in grief counseling. He had to stop thinking about the Durhams. Elias Goodbe was his focus now.

  They turned left and headed for the marina. Jackson noticed the blue sky had disappeared, replaced with a thick wet fog. Maybe that was why Goodbe’s boat was still in the dock.

  “I don’t know a damn thing about boats,” he realized out loud. “I mean the big ones that go out on the ocean.”

  “Me neither.”

  They knew where to find the marina though, also known as the Port of Siuslaw. Normally, from the turn near the bridge, you could see the docks extending into the bay and the pretty white boats all lined up along the wooden planks. Not today. They drove down through Old Town Florence, where a few shops were just starting to open for the early tourists and breakfast seekers. The fog had kept people home and the sidewalks were deserted. Jackson smelled the salty tang of the bay before he saw it.

  They spotted the Florence patrol unit in the parking to the left, and Jackson parked nearby. They hopped out of their cruiser and the uniform officer did the same.

  “You must be Jackson. I’m Officer Roy Patroni.” His face looked ready to retire, but his conditioned body looked ready for anything.

  They shook hands as a strong cold breeze came out of nowhere.

  Patroni turned to face the marina, pointing to a large white boat near the end of the first dock. “That’s the Sweet New Hope, but I haven’t seen any movement on the vessel since I’ve been here.”

  “Thanks. Will you stay and watch from this vantage point? We don’t expect trouble, but I need you here to call for back up if anything gets weird.”

  “I’m your man. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “A missing young woman and a businessman who is not what he appears to be.”

  “You think the woman is on the boat?”

  Jackson had tried not to let himself hope for that, but the scenario had flashed through his mind a few times. “She could be.”

  “Better go get her.”

  Jackson jogged toward the steps leading down to the water, breathing in a mix of seaweed and diesel. Behind him, Schak kept up, but his breath was ragged. Instinctively, Jackson touched the Sig Sauer at his waist, then felt for the Taser, as he pounded down the steps. Goodbe was an unknown quantity. Just because he dressed in a business suit and ran a charity didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of violence. Almost everyone was capable of violence, especially if their freedom was at stake.

  The dock swayed under them as they trotted toward the en
d. By the time they reached slot 53, droplets of fog dampened Jackson’s face and his chest was wet with sweat. A big engine kicked to life on the next dock over, making Jackson jump a little. The Sweet New Hope was deathly still. Was no one here? Had he wasted their time?

  With a glance back at Schak, Jackson stepped up on the narrow ramp connecting the dock to the ship. At the top, he reached over the three-foot wall of the boat to feel for the latch. As the entry swung open, it made a loud creaking noise. Jackson paused, waiting to see if the sound would bring someone out of the boat’s interior.

  Still and silent.

  It occurred to him he needed a subpoena to board the boat, but he couldn’t make himself stop or call out. Danette’s life could be at stake.

  Jackson crossed the deck with Schak’s labored breath right behind him. Weapon in his right hand, he reached for the doorknob with his left. It turned easily. Jackson’s heart rate quickened. If the door was unlocked, someone was probably on the vessel. No one would leave his boat open for vagabonds to take up residence in. If Goodbe wasn’t here, he was in the marina area. Maybe he’d gone to the little shop for supplies.

  They entered the yacht’s main living area, which reeked of polishing oil, stale smoke, and spilled bourbon. Jackson glanced around and spotted a woman’s white jacket on one of the low-slung couches.

  Out of nowhere Goodbe’s head and chest appeared on Jackson’s left, followed by the rest of his body as he climbed the stairs from the lower part of the ship. Jackson’s Sig Sauer came up, aimed at Goodbe’s chest.

  “What are you doing here and why do you have a gun pointed at me?” Goodbe tried to sound calm and civil while taking rapid breaths. He looked ready for a sea cruise in his jeans and white sweater, but his feet were bare.

  “Keep your hands in front of you.” Jackson stepped toward Goodbe. “We need to question you about a crime, and we’re taking you to police headquarters in Eugene.”

  “I’m happy to talk with you, but the guns and theatrics aren’t necessary.” Goodbe gave them a forced half-smile. “I’d like to drive my own car back to Eugene, with you following, of course.”