“Huh? Have you tried calling her?”
“We would, but she doesn’t have a phone,” Marissa said.
“What do you mean, she doesn’t have a phone?”
“She lost it. Some guy called. He said he found it in a coffee shop. I tried telling him to bring it here, but he hung up on me. Jerk.”
Something was wrong, Clay thought.
Very, very wrong.
Clay needed to swing by Tara’s apartment.
LINCOLN CITY, OREGON
Clay didn’t find anything out of the ordinary at Tara’s apartment, except for a stack of unopened mail—one piece of which was a letter from a casino, and he opened it.
“Congratulations, Ms. Schröder! Your frequent level of play entitles you to…”
Damn it, Tara.
Clay drove to the Chinook Winds Casino Resort off Highway 101 in Lincoln City and walked directly to the card room.
“Has anyone seen this woman?” Clay asked, flashing Tara’s photograph.
“What, you a cop or something?”
“No,” Clay lied.
“Yeah, I know her,” another dealer said.
Clay released a long breath and shook his head. “How often does she come in?”
“Lately? Not much,” the dealer said. “I think she’s tapped out. Took a bad beat a couple weeks back. Holding a couple of spades, with two on the board. Just wouldn’t fall.”
“How much did she lose?”
“On that hand? About $13,000, give or take,” he said. “I felt sorry for her.”
“If she comes in here, I want someone to give me a call,” Clay said, handing his card to each of the dealers.
“I thought you said you weren’t a cop,” the second dealer said.
“Today I’m just her boyfriend,” Clay said. “She comes in, you call.”
Clay handed each dealer twenty dollars and left.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
Clay drove to Noah’s Grille and parked his deputy’s police cruiser at the curb. He’d been driving the car since the fallen pine tree had totaled his car ten days earlier. His deputy wasn’t happy about being forced to drive a rental while the city council debated if the town would get a replacement, or try to buy a used vehicle from a government auction.
Clay wanted something new, but he wasn’t going to fight with the city council over it, knowing it was a fight he wouldn’t win.
“Anyone seen Tara?” Clay asked once inside. No one had.
And then Clay had a realization. If Tara was selling Onyx’s art to fund her gambling, maybe she’d gone out to the lighthouse to get more canvases.
The chance of her being there at that moment was slim, but Clay had run out of options.
Clay parked the cruiser and walked toward the caretaker’s house, glancing around to see if anything looked amiss.
Nothing did.
He approached the door and tried the knob. It was locked. Which wasn’t an issue since Clay had a key.
Clay pulled out his key ring and immediately realized the problem. He’d left the key to the caretaker’s house on the key ring with his totaled cruiser. As was the key to the lighthouse.
“Tara,” Clay called out. “You in there?”
There was no response.
Clay walked to the window and pressed his face to the glass, trying to get a look inside. And then he saw it. Sitting on the floor in the entryway. A canvas tote bag.
The bag itself was unremarkable, but the image on the side of the bag wasn’t. It was a Ferris wheel.
A week earlier the FBI had issued a BOLO asking law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for a man, also known to disguise himself as a woman, with prosthetic legs. Clay got a lot of BOLOs, but he remembered this one because it was strange—the last line saying:
The suspect is known to have an interest in photography and Ferris wheels.
Ferris wheels.
Clay walked to the cruiser and grabbed his radio and made a call to the dispatcher.
“Yes, Clay, what’s up?” the dispatcher said.
“Not much,” Clay said louder than necessary. “I just stopped to check on the lighthouse. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Stan Lee waited until the sheriff had driven off, and then went to the front window and looked out.
“See, I told you he might come by during the week,” Stan Lee said, knowing he’d dodged a bullet. “We need to pack up and go.”
“Why?” Kara asked. “You heard him on the radio—‘nothing out of the ordinary,’ he said. We’re safe here for a few more days at least.”
Stan Lee nodded. She was probably right.
Probably.
But he couldn’t stay at the lighthouse much longer. It was getting dangerous. Stan Lee knew he needed to move on soon.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
FEBRUARY 24, 2011
WHAT DO YOU mean he’s planning to tear down the mansion?” Koda asked after Krissy told him about the trip she’d taken with Bruce to Charleston. “When did this happen?”
“Like, five days ago,” Krissy said. “Didn’t you know?”
“He said he wanted to tear the house down, but I thought he was kidding,” Koda said.
“We went to see the FBI too,” Krissy added.
“Really?” Koda said. “Why?”
“Something to do with Declan,” Krissy said. “Bruce introduced me to the FBI guy as his daughter when we got there.”
“Huh. That’s good, right?” Koda said.
“Yeah, I guess,” Krissy said. “It was weird, but kind of nice.”
“And he applied for the permits already?”
“Yep,” Krissy said. “Which means we have a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Krissy said. “I’m talking about the eggs.”
Krissy was right, Koda thought. There were still five Fabergé eggs hidden in the secret drawer in his grandfather’s study. They were going to have to get them out before the bulldozers and wrecking balls leveled the place.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
FEBRUARY 25, 2011 – 2:32 P.M.
ONE WEEK EARLIER, Alec asked Shereen to keep his being at Fat Sal’s quiet. Now he was asking her to do just the opposite.
“I need a favor,” Alec said from the bed in his hotel suite at the Stevens.
“Of course, baby. What is it?” Shereen asked from the bathroom as she finished applying her makeup.
“I want to get the word out that I’m playing at the club tonight.”
Shereen stopped and walked back into the bedroom. “Chick asked you to perform with him at the club?”
Alec nodded. “Yep, me and Noah.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you did anything but hard rock stuff.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Alec said, wondering if this might be the right time to tell Shereen he was dying.
“Okay, I’ll help get the word out,” Shereen said. “But I need to warn you—people come to Fat Sal’s for the music. So you better be damn good at singing the blues, not just wailing.”
“I don’t wail,” Alec said.
“Yeah, well, tell that to the people who turn out just to watch you fall on your ass.”
2:22 A.M.
Fat Sal’s Freezer was packed beyond capacity. So much so that everyone was worried the fire marshal would show up and close the place. Fortunately, the show went on as scheduled—and was received better than anyone expected.
After the show, Alec, Noah, Shereen, Chicken Legs, and Alistar sat at a table as the evening was finally winding down.
“That was some real fine music, boys,” Chicken Legs said. “For a couple of minutes out there, I almost forgot the three of you were white.”
“You knocked them dead,” Shereen said, leaning in and giving Alec a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry I questioned you this morning. You were amazing.”
“The two of you should consider staying in Chicago for a while, assuming Chick will
have you,” Alistar said.
“Hell, yeah,” Chicken Legs said. “You boys got a regular gig here long as you want to stay.”
Noah glanced over at Alec. “I don’t think that’s going to work,” Noah said. “Alec and I are heading to New York in a few days. Right, Alec?”
“Well, about that,” Alec said. “I’ve been thinking about staying here in Chicago.”
“What about Woodstock?” Noah asked.
“Plans change,” Alec said. “Why don’t you stay here with me for a bit? We can rent out the studio. Lay down some tracks together.”
“No, I probably should get back,” Noah said.
“To what, man?” Alec said. “You said so yourself, there’s nothing to go back to but an empty lighthouse.”
Alec was right. There was nothing waiting at home. But the voice in the back of his head told Noah he needed to go home.
“Are you sure you need to go?” Alistar asked once he got Noah alone.
Noah nodded. “Yeah, it’s time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I liked having you here,” Alistar said. “Can I assume that all this is strictly between the two of us?”
“What? You mean being alive? I won’t say a word to Kizzy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not for my protection,” Alistar said. “It’s for your grandmother’s. There was a $100,000 insurance policy, which I assume she collected on. If the insurance company finds out I’m still alive, they’ll come after her for it. And I’m guessing the money is already spent.”
Noah nodded. Kizzy had enough problems as it was.
“There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Noah said.
“What’s that?”
“How long did it take you to figure out Onyx was a ghost?” Noah asked.
“Not too long,” Alistar said. “A few years.”
“And you never said anything to her?”
“I considered it Onyx’s secret to tell, but she never did,” Alistar said.
“Like you and Kizzy never told me about my father?”
Alistar said nothing.
“I met him finally,” Noah said. “We had some good father-son time, Myron and I,” Noah said. “We didn’t play catch or anything. He was in jail.”
“I’m sorry, Noah,” Alistar said. “Your grandmother and I did our best to shield you from the truth—from him—by not giving you the details about who he was. We thought we were doing the right thing.”
“You know what gets me?” Noah said. “The secrets. The feeling of betrayal when you find out the truth about something.”
“We all have our secrets,” Alistar said. “Alec hasn’t told Shereen he’s dying yet, has he? Secrets. I faked my own death. Chicken Legs has never told anyone about jumping bail in Alabama. Even you, Noah. Everyone has their secrets.”
“Me? What secret do I have?” Noah asked.
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that you took my songs from the box I left you and put your name on them?”
Noah shook his head. “I thought you were dead.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Alistar said. “Did you tell Alec the songs were mine?”
Noah remained silent.
“Like I said, we all have our secrets,” Alistar said.
“I gotta go,” Noah said, standing up.
“One more thing,” Alistar said. “Did I ever tell you the story about how your grandmother and I ended up in Portland?”
Noah shook his head.
“It was the night of the moon landing—July 20, 1969,” Alistar said. I was sitting on the sofa in our apartment in San Francisco, getting ready to watch Neil Armstrong climb down the ladder, when all of a sudden I had an insatiable urge for a candy bar.”
“For a candy bar?”
“Yes. But not just any candy bar. It had to be a Zagnut bar,” Alistar said. “I jumped up and told Kizzy I’d be back in a bit, and raced down to the grocery store. They were out of Zagnut bars.”
“Why didn’t you just get something else?”
“That’s the thing,” Alistar said. “I didn’t want anything else. It had to be a Zagnut bar. So I went to a 7-Eleven. They were out too. I went to four different places, and no one had them. And then I ran out of gas.”
“Huh, sounds like a lot of work for a candy bar.”
“Wait, I’m not done,” Alistar said. “So I walked and walked and walked until, finally, I see a Standard gas station. It was closed, but outside the door was a candy machine.”
“Let me guess,” Noah said. “It was filled with nothing but Zagnut bars.”
“No,” Alistar said. “It was empty except for a single Zagnut bar.”
“That’s kind of weird,” Noah said.
“Yes, it was,” Alistar said.
“It’s an interesting story, but why are you telling me all of this?”
“Because the story isn’t over yet,” Alistar said. “I bought the candy bar. But when it came out of the machine, there was no candy in it.”
“It was empty?”
Alistar shook his head and stood up. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. Then he pulled out an old folded newspaper ad, yellowed with age.
Alistar handed the clipping to Noah.
“What is this?” Noah asked.
“It’s the ad for the debate contest I entered, held by a law firm in Portland. First prize was a full scholarship to law school—which I won. That’s how I got into law school.”
“Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
“Turn it over,” Alistar said.
“What?”
“I said, turn it over.”
Noah turned the clipping over and saw the coupon printed on the reverse side:
“I don’t understand,” Noah said.
“I didn’t either—not until now,” Alistar said. “I always thought my need for a candy bar that night was so that I’d see the ad about the contest—but now I know it wasn’t. The newspaper clipping inside the candy wrapper was never meant for me. I think it was meant for you.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
FEBRUARY 25, 2011 – 11:07 A.M. (PST)
CLAY SAT AT the small metal desk in the patrol office and documented the timeline of events for the previous eighteen hours:
2/24/2011:
•3:12 p.m.
Went to the Schröder Gallery in Portland looking for Tara. Was told a man called claiming to have found Tara’s phone and then hung up.
•3:38 p.m.
Stopped by Tara’s apartment and spoke with her landlord, who hadn’t seen Tara for at least a week. At least a week of unopened mail in box.
•5:52 p.m.
Drove to the Crimson Cove lighthouse on the outside chance Tara was there. Spotted bag through window with Ferris wheel motif on it. Remembered BOLO. Made radio call saying nothing was out of the ordinary.
•6:30 p.m.
Came back to the patrol office, reread BOLO. Called phone number and left message.
•6:54 p.m.
Received return call from FBI Special Agent Newt Drystad. Was instructed to put a man at the end of the road to monitor anyone in or out. Told not to approach suspect, only to follow. Asked to make detailed timeline of events (this document).
•7:10 p.m.
Sent deputy sheriff to lighthouse with instructions as outlined above.
•8:48 p.m.
SWAT team from FBI Portland office arrived, assumed control of operation. Deputy sheriff replaced by SWAT team, who have the lighthouse surrounded.
•9:19 p.m.
Instructed by SWAT to resume normal duties as town sheriff. Went home to sleep.
2/25/2011:
•7:04 a.m.
Arrived back at patrol office.
•7:10 a.m.
Updated timeline.
•8:03 a.m.
Received call that Special Agent Drystad’s plane had landed in Lincoln City and was on his way to Crimson Cove.
&
nbsp; Clay intentionally left out the part about stopping by the casino the previous afternoon. As far as Clay was concerned, Tara’s gambling was none of anyone’s business.
Three hours later the door to the office opened, and Clay looked up to see a tall, lanky man in his late twenties and a young, sharply dressed woman.
“Sheriff Daniels, good to see you again,” Newt said, extending his hand.
“Yes, you too,” Clay said. “What’s it been, fourteen years?”
“Fifteen years, ten months, seven days,” Newt said.
“That’s right,” Clay said. “You’re the numbers guy.”
“You two have met before?” Maggie asked.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Newt said. “This is Special Agent Maggie McCord. Maggie, this is Sheriff Clay Daniels. Pipi and I met the sheriff when he was just starting, working under his dad, who was the sheriff at the time. Sorry to hear about your father.”
“I appreciate that,” Clay said. Newt didn’t bother to mention Pipi coming back to Crimson Cove during the Onyx Webb Film Festival, and Clay decided not to bring it up. The focus at that moment was the man hiding in the lighthouse.
“Did you make a timeline of events?” Newt asked. Clay nodded and handed the report to Newt.
Newt and Maggie looked it over. “Who’s Tara?” Maggie asked.
“My girlfriend,” Clay said.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Newt asked.
“A week, ten days maybe,” Clay said.
Newt and Maggie shot each other a look. “Which is it, a week or ten days?” Newt asked.
Clay stopped and thought. “Thirteen days,” Clay said finally.
“So, you haven’t seen or talked to your girlfriend for thirteen days? Were you fighting?” Maggie asked.
“Not really. She blew off a dinner and never returned my calls—I figured when she was ready, we’d talk,” Clay said.
“Okay,” Newt said. “What about strangers? Any new arrivals in town? Anything stick out?”
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