by Gregg Olsen
Veronica Paine walked to the southern corner of the basement, behind a partition of shelves used temporarily to store files that had been out for review. Behind the partition was a vault containing the most sensitive evidence held by the county. She turned the key, swung open the heavy door, and walked inside. It took only a moment to orient herself. She turned on the lights and walked over to a rack marked with the sequence of numbers where she knew she’d find the case she wanted to see.
It was Claire Logan’s well-perused file. In the back of the file was a packet marked: “Sealed by the order of the Superior Court, County of Spruce, State of Oregon.” There was a familiar signature on the outside of a grimy-with-time cover sheet—her own.
She took a seat, flipped on a library lamp, and sliced open the file. For a moment she felt the whoosh of air move through the room, and she looked up. The air conditioner rumbled, then another whoosh of air and the scent of the bouquet from the clerk’s counter upstairs.
Good God, she thought, those gardenias sure have staying power.
Chapter Thirty-two
“I think you should bring in Louise Wallace for a good grilling.”
It was Bonnie Ingersol’s voice over the Northern Lights rotary-dial telephone. Bauer tried to move the phone to the bed so he could make himself more comfortable, but it was bolted to the nightstand.
“What did you get?” he asked.
“Zip,” she said. Bauer detected some excitement in his old partner’s voice. “The woman doesn’t exist. She’s a complete nothing insofar as the computers are concerned. No Social Security number that we could trace.”
“Which means she’s never filed an income tax return.”
“Right. And never held a job that we can tell. Unless she was paid with cash in some under-the-table deal.”
“For her whole life? Not likely.”
“No driver’s license in any of forty-nine states. Still waiting to hear back from Hawaii. You know Hawaii, they’re not in the system yet.”
“She drives,” he said. “I’ve seen her car parked out front of her place. And she lives out in Bumfuck, Egypt, anyway. Need a car out here for sure. Hell, you need a four-wheeler to get around.”
“It gets weirder, Jeff,” Ingersol went on. “Unless you screwed up royally—or if the lab guys did something stupid—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bauer cut in.
“There aren’t any good prints on the sample you sent down here. A preliminary examination came up with a single partial. Yours. Nothing else. And they ran the badge holder every which way but loose.”
“Blank? I saw her hold it. I gave it to her.”
Ingersol didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t doubt Bauer, but it was very odd.
“Maybe she had gloves on?” she asked. “You know, those clear plastic surgicals?”
“Not possible. Her hands were dirty from working out in her flower garden. She examined my badge. Should have been some latents on it.”
“Nada.”
Bauer thought of the splendid buttery yellow house that jutted out and overlooked the icy waters of the Pacific. How could Louise Wallace manage such a place? Her fishing resort—which as far as he could tell was without guests during the summer season—couldn’t be that successful. It couldn’t, he thought, generate the income she needed to have such a place. Unless her husband had left her a bundle, she had to have the money on her own. If she was Claire Logan, Bauer knew where the money had come from.
“I’ll contact the sheriff,” he said, “and we’ll bring her in for questioning. It can only be voluntary, of course.
“Get her on driving without a license or something.”
“Just what I had in mind.”
“With any luck, she’ll be too messed up with worry to even think about the jurisdiction issue. Anyone with a badge is a cop, you know.”
Ingersol laughed. “You’re right about that one,” she said.
“If this is Logan,” Bauer said, “this is the closest we’ve ever come. This is different than the other times. I feel it.”
Bauer dialed Kodiak sheriff Kim Stanton. He was glad that he’d made his courtesy call when he first arrived on the island. It was always much more difficult asking for assistance after bursting into someone else’s jurisdiction and telling them what they needed to do. Bauer told him he wanted to bring in Louise Wallace for questioning about some criminal activity many years ago.
“What exactly are we talking about here?” Stanton asked.
“Homicide and arson. The Claire Logan murders,” Bauer said, not sure why he volunteered so much except he knew that he needed the sheriff on his side and not as an advocate for Louise Wallace.
“I know Louise, and you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Stanton said, unruffled, as though the woman had been accused of shoplifting or some other petty crime. It was obvious that he knew who Claire Logan was because he didn’t ask any follow-ups about the case. “You Feds do things your own way. Long as you make it brief and get on your way, we’ll back you.”
“Look, I need your help. I need a marked car and a deputy to take her to your office for questioning.”
“Done,” he said. “She’s a nice lady. She’ll want to clear this up.”
It was almost 4 p.m. in Louise Wallace’s tidy kitchen, and Marge Morrison was slicing leeks and zucchini for a quiche she was making for dinner. A piecrust weighted down with navy beans was convecting in the oven. Moments before, Morrison had called Beth Tyson to ask her church friend to feed her cat. She said she was staying with Louise for a couple of days “to help sort out some misunderstanding.” She followed that call with one to notify her employer at the public utility that she’d need a few days of vacation to take care of a sick friend. The leeks were turning translucent in the bubbling butter when the doorbell rang.
“Louise?” Morrison called out from the kitchen stove. “Can you get it?”
“Be right there,” Louise answered from somewhere in back of the house.
Morrison went on stirring and enjoying the gorgeous view from the sparkling kitchen window. Scattered whitecaps mottled the blue of the water.
A few minutes later curiosity got the better of Morrison, and she called out again. “Louise? Who was it?”
This time no response came. Morrison turned the flame on low, set the big wooden spoon into a ceramic rest, and went to investigate. She watched her troubled friend talking with a man she didn’t know and one of the deputies from the sheriff’s department.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
Wallace turned around. Her face, lined from years of working outdoors, was a study in complete calm. Given the circumstances, Louise’s calmness surprised Morrison. She’d have been jumping out of her skin with worry and agitation.
“It’s fine,” Louise said. She put her hand on Morrison’s shoulder. “I’m going to town to talk to these men. I want to get this off of me.”
“Are you sure you shouldn’t speak to your lawyer first?” Morrison said, though she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want the two men to think Louise had any reason to seek a lawyer’s advice.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Quiche is always better served room temperature anyway, right?”
Morrison smiled and grabbed her windbreaker and offered it to Wallace. “In case the breeze kicks up.”
And with that, Louise Wallace walked across the driveway to the police cruiser. Morrison’s eyes stayed on her as she got into the car. She barely even noticed Bauer until after her friend disappeared behind the shut door.
“Are you the FBI agent?” she asked Bauer.
“Yes, I am.” He identified himself.
Morrison looked at Bauer as if she had something to say. Finally, she spoke.
“Just wanted to get a good look at the man who made the biggest mistake in the history of the FBI, and no offense, really, but the FBI has had a few.”
Bauer felt embarrassed. The sweet old l
ady who had given her old friend her blue-and-white windbreaker hated his guts. She telegraphed it so perfectly.
“I might be wrong. I’ve been wrong before, ma’am,” he said. “Only time will tell.”
“She’s one of the most wonderful people I know. Lou would do anything for anyone. Believe you me, you’ll be saying you’re sorry.”
“Maybe so.”
Morrison turned around and returned to the house. Bauer was going to try to pin down Louise Wallace and determine who she was. She was going to get on the phone and call the First Methodist ladies and get their phone tree in action.
“Louise needs us,” she told Beth Tyson. “She is being accused of an unspeakable crime.”
Within twenty-five minutes all the ladies knew. And without exception, all stood squarely against the FBI and what it was doing to a beloved and trusted friend.
Chapter Thirty-three
Kodiak sheriff Kim Stanton had known Louise Wallace since he was a teenager when she helped coordinate the search and rescue youth group of which he was a member. Stanton was almost never angry. His good nature formed the rock-solid foundation of a deserved reputation as a gentleman in a land that was sometimes short on such men. Even in his dealings with the under-belly of Kodiak, poachers and pot growers, he was considerate and fair. No one had ever seen him yell at a perp or toss one to the ground.
Stanton had been on a shopping trip to Kodiak’s minuscule mall with his wife when the deputy agreed to assist in bringing Louise Wallace in for questioning.
“The Feds think Mrs. Wallace is who?” Stanton was not happy. His black hair bristled. “This isn’t going to happen here. Mrs. Wallace? Claire Logan? I’d be laughing my ass off if I weren’t so pissed off.”
Louise Wallace, dressed in black slacks, a white cotton top, and tennis shoes, sat in a chair outside Stanton’s office while S.A. Bauer finished briefing the local sheriff. Stanton shook his head in disbelief and shot a look of sympathy in Louise’s direction. She was a considerate and sensitive old lady. It wasn’t that she looked the part. She was.
Louise smiled at Stanton when their eyes met. She sat quietly, with the windbreaker folded on her lap. She refused a soda when one of the younger deputies offered it.
“I’m just talking to her,” Bauer said to Stanton. “We’re just going to have a conversation. She’s agreed to it.”
The two men talked a while longer, and Bauer emerged first.
“Do you want a lawyer?” he asked Louise. Stanton stood by and shrugged in embarrassment.
“No. Don’t see that I need one. Or do I?”
“We’re just going to talk,” he said. “Sheriff Stanton will be with us every step of the way. All right?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wallace,” Stanton interjected. “This won’t be long. Then you can go home.”
Wallace nodded and smiled. “It’s all right. I want to clear this up and get home. I have a houseguest.”
The three went into a room next door to the employee break area. It was no larger than a storage closet and outfitted with a table and chairs. Over the next forty-five minutes, Louise Wallace told her tearful story of her sons who had died in the car accident. She told the men how she had come to Kodiak to start over.
“Look at me, Kim. You’ve known me for twenty years, since you were a boy. I’m Louise. I’m not what he says I am, nor could I ever be.” She glared at Bauer. “I lost everything and started over here. I didn’t use my Social Security number because I didn’t want any part of my life catching up with me.”
“I don’t blame you,” Stanton said. “I had no idea about your boys. I’m sorry.”
Wallace looked at him with gratitude. Bauer knew he was standing on thin ice. He was the outsider. She was tough and convincing.
“I just want to be left alone,” she said.
Stanton felt guilty about making Wallace relive the past and apologized several times for the intrusion. He didn’t see anything sinister about her or her story. She was the woman who had done so much good for so many on the island.
Bauer was less convinced. “We’ll check out your story, of course,” he said.
She nodded. “I expect you will.”
“No family? No one who knew you before you came here?”
She shook her head. “Not anyone that I can recall. I really wanted a fresh start. I never looked back to the Lower Forty-eight after I came here.”
She was unflinching as the kid-glove interrogation worked its way to a close. She seemed like the nice old lady next door, though Bauer reminded himself of a recent case that had made the Oregon news, a kindergarten teacher who killed her husband before going to teach a full day—as if nothing had happened.
Wallace explained it was true that she had no driver’s license. She didn’t get one for the longest time, because she wasn’t driving much anyway.
“Then I started driving, you know, a little. Finally, a lot. And before you knew it I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t have the license. Everyone knew me, so it never came up. As far as my I.D. was concerned.”
Stanton didn’t help matters much. He was hanging on her every word, nodding in agreement as if she were preaching and he was seeing the light. Bauer thought of the fingerprints, or the lack of them, on his I.D. badge.
“Can I see your hands?” he asked.
“Kind of a strange request,” she said, staring him straight in the eye. “But all right.” She put her hands on the table. She wore two rings; both were gold with channel-set diamonds.
“Could you turn them over? I’d like to see them face up, if you don’t mind.”
Her hesitation was brief. She rolled them over. All of the fingertips were a darker shade of pink than the rest of the flesh.
Bauer remained expressionless. “What happened to you?”
“Cannery accident,” she said, her eyes riveted to Bauer’s. “I was cleaning equipment with the sulfuric wash. I misread the proportions of the activator and… well before I knew it my gloves were eaten away at the tips.”
“I think I remember hearing about that,” Stanton said. “Dad worked at the cannery.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I believe he did. I think your father was one of the men who helped me.”
When the interview was over, Bauer had little more than before he’d picked up Louise Wallace. He didn’t let on what he’d found out about her Evergreen State Mental Hospital alibi. He knew that the institution had burned down. All records went up in flames.
A Kodiak reporter and photographer was already outside the sheriff’s office, more a testament to the fact that word travels fast on an island than that the reporter was particularly resourceful. One other person had also arrived: Marge Morrison, who stood by the door of her pickup waving her arms. She called out Wallace’s name.
“We’re not going to let them do this to you,” Morrison shouted across the oil-soaked parking lot. “We’re getting you a good lawyer! Cover your face, dear, and get in my truck!”
Chapter Thirty-four
Marcella Hoffman waited like a steely-eyed statue in the lobby of San Louisa County Courthouse. She’d read the local paper twice, including the classifieds and a Target circular. Hannah saw her right away. The first thought that crossed her mind was that the years had not been kind to the reporter-turned-author-turned-has-been. Hoffman had the kind of pink shrink-wrapped face that indicated Retin-A and a nip-and-tuck. Now in her fifties, her hair was colored to a solid black helmet that made her look older, not younger. She smelled of cigarettes and lattes. An oversized Coach bag was slung over her shoulder, nearly tilting her to one side.
Hannah gulped back the bitter taste of her own anger at seeing Hoffman and proceeded to the white marble stairs leading down to the basement lab and offices.
“Hannah?” Hoffman called out. “Hannah Griffin?”
Hannah ignored the voice and continued down the stairs, but Hoffman clacked across the cavernous foyer after her.
“It’s me! Marcella. Marcell
a Hoffman.”
Hannah swung around and shot her a frozen stare. There was no point in denying who she was. After all, if Hoffman had tracked her this far, to this obscure location, then she was a better reporter and had better sources than Hannah gave her credit for.
“I know who you are,” was all she could come up with.
Hoffman smiled. “Can we talk somewhere?”
“I have nothing to say to you. I never have.”
“Look, I didn’t come to make you angry. I didn’t drive out here all the way from Los Angeles to cause trouble. That’s not who I am or what I’m all about. You know that. I came for a story.”
“You’re wasting your time. There is no story here. Please go.”
“But there is and you know it. The people have a right to know.”
Hannah felt her face grow hot once more. Why was this woman coming into her life now? “We’re not having this conversation. Please go, or I’ll ask security to escort you from the building.”
Hoffman shook her head. “I have a lunch date with your associate, Mr. Ripperton. Hate to miss the date. I’d have to explain to Mr. Ripperton why I was barred from the building.”
A bailiff walked past the intense pair and offered his assistance.
“Everything okay?” the young man asked.
Hannah felt cornered, but nodded. “Fine. I just ran into an old friend. We’re going downstairs to catch up.”
