Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

  As he knew she would … eventually … she said, “I think we should start by combing the last place he lived.”

  Innocently, Brandt said, “The cabin cruiser, the one he rented on the Willamette?”

  “Precisely. In my work as an analyst, I’ve found some of the cleverest criminals tend to get sloppy when at home. Perhaps Butler was sloppy as well. We might uncover a clue to help us know where to look next. Like following bread crumbs.”

  Brandt stood up and said, “Well, let’s get to it. Let’s go see if Butler left any bread crumbs. And see if the birds haven’t eaten them all.”

  ***

  The short, stocky, blue-eyed man in his early forties, hair just turning gray, a tight salt-and-pepper beard hiding his face, refused to let them search Butler’s cabin cruiser. He stood behind the blue, vinyl-topped counter in the office of Guy’s Marina, blinked his eyes a couple of times, scratched his beard, and then stared at them after saying “No.” Just stared without saying another word.

  The two agents stared back, until the man nervously said, “He pays his rent six-months at a time. There is two months to go. That makes it his private residence. I can’t let you do that. Not without a warrant, I can’t. Not even if you are with the FBI.”

  Brandt looked disgusted. “I don’t need a warrant. He’s a fugitive. If you don’t cooperate I’ll have to arrest you for interfering with our investigation.”

  Miranda read the name plate on the counter and smiled. “Are you Bobby Moore?”

  “One and the same.”

  “You played ball for the Portland Beavers, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Batted .284 your last season.”

  He puffed his chest out and said, “Right. You a baseball fan?”

  “I am,” she said. “I always thought you had a shot at the majors.” She turned to Brandt and said, “Bobby has an arm like a rocket. Played second base. One time, he picked off a runner who was half way to home plate before Bobby threw the ball.”

  Moore smiled and said, “Sure glad to hear somebody remembers.”

  She returned his smile and said, “Let me show you something.” She pulled a copy of the wanted poster from her shoulder bag, a clear picture of Butler front and center under a banner practically shouting WANTED. “Maybe this will help,” she said and slid it over the counter.

  “Oh. Okay. I just thought you were like those two other dudes who wanted to search his boat.”

  Startled, Brandt said, “Two others?”

  “Yeah. They were in here a few days back. Showed me phony badges they must have found in a Cracker Jacks box. They threatened me, but I told them he was gone and so was the cabin cruiser. They sweetened up and said there was a reward if I called them when he got back.”

  Brandt said, “You still have the number?”

  “Yeah. And I didn’t call it either.”

  Miranda asked, “What did they look like? Can you describe them?”

  “I don’t know. Arab-looking, black beards, young, mean eyes. Each was five-ten or so. They drove a white Mercedes. Now, I ask you, do cops drive white Mercedes? I got their faces and the vehicle license number on our security camera if you’d like to see what they look like. Thought about calling it in, but for what? Asking questions?”

  Brandt nodded. “Yes. Emphatically, yes. These are dangerous times. We need tips like this.”

  Miranda said, “Bobby, can we see what you have?”

  An hour later a copy of the security video rode safely in Miranda’s shoulder bag, companion to her 9mm pistol. Bobby unlocked the cabin cruiser, a twenty-six-foot Starcraft. The small living area was spotless, not a scrap of paper or a single clue that Butler had ever lived there. It was totally empty. Not even a water bottle in the small fridge.

  But when Miranda searched the breakfast nook, she found a Homer, Alaska, flyer wedged between the cushions. She held it up so Brandt could see it. He shrugged. “If he was the only one to ever live here … maybe.”

  Once he started talking, Bobby Moore couldn’t stop. He said Butler seemed like a really nice guy. Stayed to himself. Didn’t have any visitors. Took the boat out most week-ends.

  ‘“Practicing,’ is what he told me. Came in one time when I was down on the dock. It was a Sunday evening. He was gone all weekend. The wind was blowing pretty hard from down river, so I helped him tie off. I noticed what looked like salt spray on the windshield. I asked him where the hell he had taken my boat. He just laughed and said he’d crossed the Columbia Bar. He said he wouldn’t try that again, unless he had a bigger boat.” Moore paused, “Come to think about it, he asked a lot of questions about boats. Navigation gear, that kind of thing. And one time he said if he ever bought one, it would have to have long legs.”

  Miranda frowned. “Long legs?”

  Brandt said, “It means able to travel a lot of miles between fuel stops.”

  Moore nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And you’re sure that’s what he said?” Miranda asked.

  “Why? Is it important?”

  “It could be.” She looked at Brandt and nodded. “He’s bought himself a boat with ‘long legs.’ I’d bet money on it.”

  “How does that help?” Moore asked.

  Brandt nodded, “If he had another boat, it had to be close by. Mister Moore, where is the closest private marina?”

  “That would be the Columbia Basin Yacht Club at the northwest end of Sauvie Island. Lots of spendy boats there. Cross the bridge and stay left. It isn’t marked very well, but the road doesn’t go anyplace else.”

  “Thanks, Bobby,” Miranda said. She tore a page from her notebook and said, “Would you give me your autograph?”

  ***

  In the Expedition, waiting for a break in traffic, Brandt said, “Where did you learn so much about the Portland Beavers?”

  “I grew up here. My grandma was a big Beaver fan. We would listen to all the games on Gram’s radio.”

  “And you happened to remember his last season and his batting average.”

  “I just have that kind of memory.”

  “I’ll bet you win at Trivial Pursuit, too.”

  She nodded and said – without any touch of humility, “Yes, I do.” She paused and added, “I wonder if that had anything to do with the demise of my marriage? I never thought about that before. I always beat Walter at Trivial Pursuit.”

  Brandt pulled the Expedition out on the highway and drove a short distance, before turning right at the Sauvie Island road sign and over the bridge.

  Miranda looked in surprise at the farm fields, the narrow, single-lane paved roads, the red barns, and the herds of black and white milk cows. “It’s like driving out of one world and into another. Or maybe like stepping back a hundred years. I had no idea it was like this.”

  Brandt nodded. “Me either.”’

  The road ran parallel to the Willamette Channel, a fork in the river that wound around both sides of the big island before joining the Columbia. She saw a green tractor busy plowing black, rich-looking earth alongside a big pond.

  An armada of ducks and geese rose from a narrow waterway, their noisy wingbeats filling the air. The geese honked and gabbled, protesting the tractor’s intrusion, and then set wings and landed a few hundred yards down the long finger of the pond.

  “Beautiful,” Miranda said.

  ***

  A baritone voice answered the intercom in the key pad set on a ten-foot, black iron post, one of a matching pair built to support wing gates that swung back and out of the way … if you knew the combination. Brandt did not. He pushed a call button and waited.

  “Yes?”

  Brandt said, “This is Special Agent Brandt, FBI.”

  “Please hold your credentials up to the camera.”

  Brandt curbed his impatience and complied. A few second later, the gates quietly swung open.

  They drove through an alder grove and into the marina parking lot. A forest of masts from dozens of sailboats
backdropped the sky. A dozen powerboats, so large they deserved to be called yachts, filled the slips or were tied to anchor buoys.

  “Wow,” Brandt said. “Talk about conspicuous consumption.” He parked in front of the marina office, then they both stepped out of the black SUV and slammed the doors shut. A tall, gray-haired man in a red cashmere sweater opened the office door and stepped out onto the raised deck.

  He waved and said, “Come on in.”

  Inside, he ushered them into an office that was utilitarian, neat, and nautical, the walls covered with pictures of yachts and sailboats. He held his hand out to Brandt and said, “Welcome to my world. I’m Commodore Winston Moorhouse.”

  Brandt shook his hand and said, “I’m Agent Brandt, and this is Agent Wright.”

  Miranda nodded and pulled a photo of Butler from her shoulder bag. She handed it to Moorhouse. “Do you know this man?”

  Chapter 68

  Transfer

  WILCOX CALLED his old friend Wilbur Sandstrom, owner of Sandstrom’s Property Management Service for the greater Portland Metropolitan area. When Wilbur answered, Wilcox said, “Hey, Wilbur, how you been?”

  “I’m cool. How about you?”

  “Not so cool. I’m being transferred to the Seattle office for six months. I don’t want to give up my place, but I don’t want to leave it empty either. Can you find me a house sitter … maybe a college student?”

  He heard Wilbur shuffling papers, and then he came back on line. “Let me see. There’s lots of demand for housing in northwest Portland. How about a twenty-four-year-old graduate student? Female. Unmarried. Colleen Wilson. Working on her master’s degree in theology at Western Seminary.”

  “Did you vet this one?”

  “Yes. She appears to be a very serious student. Nothing on her record more serious than a couple of parking tickets. Desperate for housing. Right now, she commutes from Forest Grove. Says the cost of commuting is eating her up.”

  “Sounds like a good prospect to me. Would you check and see if she wants to house sit for the next six months? She pays utilities and keeps the house neat and tidy, I pay the rest.”

  “Glad to. Text me the address, Leroy. I know where you live, but I don’t remember the number. I’ll contact her and set up a meeting.”

  “Thanks, Wilbur. See you later.”

  Smith knocked and then walked in. Without preamble he said, “Congratulations. I know you’ll do a good job.”

  “And it’ll get me out of your hair.”

  Smitty shook his head. “Dutch surprised me as much as he surprised you.”

  “In that case, thank you.”

  “Check in on Cletus while you’re up there. Let him know we’re getting this business wrapped up down here.”

  Wilcox nodded. “You know, Boss, Cletus is a straight A student. Working on his bachelors in criminology. I think we should recruit him. He’s a bit small for field work, but he’s damned sharp.”

  “Okay. When you get him back down here, bring him in and let me talk to him. Do you think it’s something he wants?”

  “I believe so. And I know he’d be an asset to the FBI.”

  ***

  A frustrated Cletus was pacing the carpet in Uncle George’s home in Seattle, a cell phone to his ear. He stopped pacing long enough to nod and say wearily, “Okay. I’ll take them.”

  He shook his head and shut his phone off. He looked at his uncle, who was watching with curiosity from his recliner, a copy of the Seattle Times in his lap. He picked up his coffee mug and took a sip, but didn’t say anything.

  Cletus frowned, and by way of explanation said, “Uncle George, the man wants a dollar more for umbrellas this year. At five bucks, they sell like hot cakes. And five dollars is an easy bill. Everybody got a five-dollar bill in his pocket. But now we got to make change … unless I eat the extra dollar.”

  Uncle George, raised his eyebrows and asked, “How many can you sell in a year?”

  “About four thousand. You’d be surprised at how many Portlanders forget to carry an umbrella.

  “And how much do you make?”

  “I pay the man one dollar, shipping included. I pay my guys one dollar, and I get three.”

  “Can’t make it on two dollars?”

  “Would you like a four-thousand dollar decrease in your retirement?”

  Chapter 69

  Tracks on the Water

  COMMODORE MOOREHOUSE STUDIED the photo carefully, before handing it back to Miranda. “Yes. I do believe I know him. David Kojak. Tall, thin man, a bit gaunt. Nautical, in a way. Quiet man. Keeps to himself. Owns a very nice Krogen Express. Built in Florida, I believe. Fifty-two feet. He’s been a member of the yacht club for the past two years.”

  Miranda asked, “Long legs?”

  Moorhouse raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I never noticed his legs, but if you mean The Runaway, his yacht, I think you could say that. Depends on how fast you wish to go. Cruising at eight knots, it’ll run about sixteen hundred nautical miles or so.”

  Brandt shook his head. “That’s plenty far.”

  Moorhouse nodded. “You wouldn’t want to head for Hawaii in that model, but any place up or down the Pacific coast is easily doable.”

  Brandt nodded again, his mind kicking into overdrive. If he stops to refuel, he’ll leave tracks. “Can you tell us when he left?”

  “Yes. He left two days ago.”

  Miranda looked at Brandt and said, “It fits.”

  She looked at the commodore and said, “And you know him as David Kojak?”

  “Yes. Can you tell me what is going on?”

  Brandt looked at Miranda and shook his head, so she settled for saying, “Just a routine background check.”

  Moorhouse raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “No. I doubt that, but I don’t suppose you’re free to discuss it right now.”

  Miranda asked, “If you were to plan a cruise to say Homer, Alaska, where would you go and where would you stop?”

  “I’ve been to Homer. Nice trip … when it isn’t raining. Basically, there are two choices. Either outside Vancouver Island, or cruise the inside passage. Much nicer water inside. And there are several places for taking on supplies. Neah Bay is a likely place. Port Angeles is another possibility. Anacortes is another, or Vancouver, BC. Let me get my charts.” He heaved himself up out of his chair and walked into a side room.

  While they waited, Miranda looked at Brandt and said, “Okay, he was in Portland two days ago. That means his yacht was someplace close by.”

  “Warrenton or Astoria are possibilities,” Brandt said.

  “All right. Assume he left Astoria two days ago, and assume he traveled at an economical eight knots, and assume he went north ... where would that put him?”