Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  Georges said the intrusion was not a problem. She told Dana she was sorry for her loss. “Your brother was renting a cabin just outside Rosyln, about a mile from the downtown area. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I’ve visited, I haven’t spent any time there,” Dana said. It was a small mining town about an hour and a half east of Seattle, in the Wenatchee National Forest.

  “Finding it can be a challenge—the cabin, not Rosyln,” Georges said. “Developers are finding Rosyln and the surrounding area rather quickly, I’m afraid.”

  “How did my brother find it?”

  “I found it for him. Your brother wanted something within driving distance but still rustic and remote. We looked into cabins on the San Juan Islands and on the Olympic Peninsula, but he didn’t want to take a ferry. This seemed to suit his needs. I take it your brother was the outdoor type?”

  Not that Dana knew. With their father working most weekends and spending his off hours with his secretary, he hadn’t exactly fostered a love for the great outdoors. Her mother’s idea of hiking was walking through Nordstrom. “What’s up there?”

  “Hiking and fishing—the Yakima River runs through the back of the property—and horseback riding. People swim in the reservoir nearby. It’s remote, though a new development is going in nearby with golf courses. Mostly, there’s peace and quiet. It’s beautiful country.”

  “The records indicate my brother was up there every month.”

  “Your brother rented the cabin for about five … no …” Georges turned and checked her computer. “Six months. He picked up the key here whenever he wanted to use the cabin.”

  “How often was that?”

  “I can’t say for sure. He rented it for the entire month, so I was more lenient about allowing him to keep the key, though he didn’t seem intent on doing so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Georges smiled. “I liked your brother; he struck me as honest. I told him he could keep the key, but he said he was absentminded and would lose it.”

  That was also not in keeping with the James Dana knew. She was scattered. Her brother had incredible organizational skills. It was another gene he’d gotten that she had not.

  “How often are you aware that he did use the cabin?”

  “Sometimes he would pick up the key three, four times a month. Sometimes not at all.”

  “Did he say why he didn’t just rent the cabin when he needed it?”

  Georges shrugged. “We discussed that. The owner was interested in selling, but your brother said he wasn’t prepared to buy. He just wanted the flexibility of being able to go spur-of-the-moment. He said he was busy and didn’t want to be tied to a schedule. There was no routine to when he used the cabin, as far as I could tell. Sometimes he’d call to pick up the key at three in the afternoon on a weekday, and I would find it in an envelope under the front door the next morning. He was never there longer than twenty-four hours, that I know; he never even took an entire weekend.”

  “Did he always come here to pick up and deliver the key himself?”

  “Every time.”

  “Did you ever see him with anyone?”

  Georges shook her head. “No. He was alone.”

  “Did he ever say anything to lead you to believe he took someone with him to the cabin?”

  Georges again shook her head.

  “Did he say he was visiting someone, that he knew someone who lived up there?”

  Another shake of the head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help.”

  Dana nodded. Unable to think of anything else, she considered her watch. “Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

  Georges stood to walk her out. “I’m very sorry about your brother. When I read the article in the paper, I was shocked. He was such a good man. I liked him very much. He seemed to be a kind person.”

  “He was,” Dana said.

  At the door, Georges said, “It was upsetting when the police came.”

  Dana stopped. “The police came here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they want?”

  “The detective said there had been a murder and they were conducting an investigation. He asked for the key and directions to the cabin.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day after your brother was killed.”

  Dana felt herself becoming angry. Logan had given her no indication that he knew of a cabin or that he had searched it. “Did he say why they wanted to go to the cabin?”

  “No, just that it was part of their investigation.”

  “Did he ask for anything else? Did he ask you any questions?”

  “No. He said they wanted to look through the cabin. That was it. He still has the key, though. I keep forgetting to call and get it back.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dana said. “I’ll get it back for you.”

  18

  DANA DIALED THE telephone number in the elevator, and it rang as she pushed through the glass doors and stepped from the lobby. She navigated her high-heeled shoes across the cobblestone courtyard to a bronze bust of Chief Seattle and an Eskimo totem pole.

  He answered the phone with a single word. “Logan.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about the cabin?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The cabin, Detective. Why didn’t you tell me about the cabin my brother was renting near Rosyln?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Dana Hill.”

  Logan paused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. Hill. What cabin?”

  She paced the cobblestones, her heels turning on the uneven, rounded surfaces. “I just came from Montgomery Real Estate. The woman there told me a detective came to her office and asked for the key to my brother’s cabin as part of a murder investigation.”

  “What?”

  Dana began to sense that Logan’s confusion was legitimate. “She said a detective came to her office, asked about the cabin, and wanted directions and a key. I assume that was you.”

  “I’ve never heard of Montgomery Real Estate, and I don’t know anything about a cabin. Why don’t you start over and tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Dana looked up through the leaves. An airplane had left a trail in the cloudless blue sky. She could tell from Logan’s tone that he was genuinely perplexed. She went back through the story, starting with finding her brother’s payments to Montgomery Real Estate.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Outside the building in Pioneer Square,” she said, providing him with the address.

  “Wait there. Do not let that woman leave.”

  THE PERPLEXED LOOK on Bernadette Georges’s face had graduated from confusion, when Dana reentered the office, to concern when she introduced Logan.

  “You sure,” Logan said, “this man identified himself as a police detective?”

  Georges nodded. “Yes, I checked my day timer after you left,” she said to Dana. “I wrote down his name. Detective Daniel Holmes.”

  “Can you describe him? What was he wearing?” Logan asked.

  “He was about your size but heavier. Muscular. Sandy-blond hair, narrow face. Dark suit. He was very well dressed, like you.”

  “Did he show you a badge?”

  “Yes, a silver badge, just like yours.”

  Logan turned to Dana. “And you think this is the same man you say came to your brother’s house the morning I met you there?”

  “It sounds like him. He said he was focusing on the burglary—that you were focusing on the murder, and he was focusing on the burglary and local pawnshops. Is that not the case?”

  Logan didn’t respond. He turned his attention back to Georges. “Anything else you can remember about him or what he said?”

  Georges smiled, nervous. “He had a gun?”

  “Do you know that, or are you guessing?”

  “My husband has handguns. I could tell by the way his suit jacket hung.” Georges made a fist and placed it
inside the lining. “He definitely had on a shoulder holster.”

  Logan handed her a business card. “If you think of anything else, you can reach me at that number.”

  Logan and Dana took the elevator to the lobby. “Why didn’t you tell me about the man who came to your brother’s home?” Logan asked.

  “I thought you knew,” Dana said. “Who is he?”

  Logan shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  As they stepped outside, they heard someone calling to them. Georges was descending the staircase awkwardly holding the banister for balance. She was out of breath when she reached them. “There was something. I don’t know if it means anything, but I just remembered it, sitting at my desk. His eyes.”

  “His eyes?” Logan asked.

  “Yes. I remembered thinking that they were … well, dark for a man with his hair color and complexion.”

  “Brown?” Logan asked, not sounding impressed.

  “Black,” Dana said, remembering.

  Georges nodded to her. “Yes, black. He had the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  THEY DROVE EAST on Interstate 90, Logan talking on the telephone with his office. He was upset and didn’t try to hide it. It gave Dana a moment to consider him. She had pegged Logan as fastidious, from his neat appearance and well-made suits. From her years working around lawyers and shopping for Grant, she knew quality. Logan’s shirts were starched. He wore black cuff links, and his tie was well chosen and tightly knotted. Inside the car, she detected a hint of cologne. Logan’s green 1963 Austin Healey was equally well kept. The exterior looked to have been freshly polished. The cherry-red leather interior and walnut dashboard glistened. There was not a scrap of paper on the floor. A gumshoe, Michael Logan was not. But he also did not appear prissy. When he had removed his jacket before getting into the car, Dana noticed he had the broad shoulders and the taut chest of someone who worked out regularly. When they shook hands, she felt calluses. The back of his arm pressed his shirtsleeve tight.

  Logan disconnected the call and shifted his weight to clip the telephone into a holder on his belt.

  “Anything?” Dana asked.

  He shook his head. “There’s a Detective Dan Holmes. But he works out of another precinct. They’re trying to reach him.”

  “What would he be doing on my brother’s investigation?”

  “I have no idea, but the answer better be ‘nothing.’?” Logan turned down the volume on the radio. “If you don’t mind me saying so, your brother seemed to keep quite a few secrets.”

  Dana bristled at the statement. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you said you’d never even been to his house before, and now you find out he rented a cabin you didn’t know about. Yet the two of you were supposed to have been close.”

  “We were close.” She sounded defensive even to herself. “How do you know that?”

  Logan calmed. “The next-door neighbor.”

  “You asked her about me?”

  “I asked her about your brother. She offered the information about your family. She likes to talk.”

  “My brother and I were close. We’re twins.” Again, she sounded defensive.

  “Look, I’m not saying you weren’t, but if you were, why wouldn’t you have known about the cabin? Did your brother keep things from you?”

  Dana looked out the window at the Cascade foothills. With intermittent logging, the hills resembled a patchwork quilt, some of the squares bald, some with new-growth timber, others still pristine. A thin cloud layer had settled atop the peaks. Those she could see remained powdered with winter snow.

  “My brother hit midlife crisis a little early. After our father died, he quit practicing law, sold his house, and changed his lifestyle. When we both worked downtown, it was hard enough to arrange our schedules just to have lunch. After he left the law, it became even more difficult. Talking on the phone with friends and relatives is a luxury you try to avoid when you’re expected to bill every six minutes of your day. Between work and a family, I didn’t have a lot of time. I’m not surprised there are parts of his life I didn’t know about, and I regret that now more than ever. I saw James when he came to pick up Molly, and even that was brief.”

  “Molly?”

  “My daughter. Molly was the one thing James didn’t change. Once or twice a month, he’d take her for a day. They were very close.”

  Logan backed off. “How old is your daughter?”

  “Three.”

  He smiled. “Must be a great age.”

  “We survived the terrible twos, barely. Do you have children?”

  Logan shook his head. “No. I’m not married.”

  Dana glanced at Logan’s left hand on the steering wheel. She thought she had remembered seeing a gold wedding band when she met him at the house, but the finger was bare.

  The sports car climbed the Snoqualmie Pass, the terrain becoming more rugged. Waterfalls of melting snow cascaded down the sheer rock face where the highway had been cut through. Around them, a sea of green pines spread out lush and thick as far as the eye could see. Rivers flowed along side the road with men in waders fly--fishing for steelhead. Most people thought Big Foot was a myth, but people who lived in the Pacific Northwest knew places remained where such a creature could exist and never come in contact with humans, if it so chose.

  Logan loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. “What’s our landmark?”

  “Cle Elum. It’s another hour.” She leaned across the seat to look at the odometer. The needle was pushing 90 mph, though she hadn’t felt it from the ride. “But at this speed, forty-five minutes.”

  Logan slowed. “I’m sorry. Bad habit. Am I making you nervous?”

  “No. I’m surprised how smooth the drive is.”

  Logan smiled. “British engineering. What’s after Cle Elum?”

  Dana pulled out the piece of paper. “Rosyln’s about ten minutes off the highway. We drive through town and follow the signs for the cemetery. Then we look for a white boulder along the side of the road.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Cemeteries and boulders are our landmarks?”

  Dana shrugged. “I just wrote down what she told me.”

  “Then I guess I better slow down; we don’t want to miss any rocks.”

  She smiled at the comment.

  “There it is.”

  Dana startled and looked out the window. “What?”

  He pointed to her face. “A smile.”

  She felt herself blush. “I haven’t had a lot to smile about lately.”

  “I’m certain you haven’t, which was why I was hoping to get one from you.”

  She looked over and smiled again.

  “Two, wow.”

  “I owe you a couple of thank-yous while we’re at it,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “That day at the coroner, to identify my brother’s body, and the day at my brother’s house. You didn’t have to go in with me, but you did. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded. “Those aren’t things someone should have to do alone.”

  “No,” she said, thinking of Grant. “They aren’t.”

  TEN MINUTES AFTER exiting the highway, they drove through the center of Rosyln. A wide street lined with brick, stone, and clapboard one-story buildings, it looked just like Georges had described it—an old western mining town. A black slate monument paid tribute to the miners who had worked and died there.

  “Why does that place seem familiar to me?” Logan pointed to a mural of a moose painted on the stucco of a building.

  “Georges said they used the facade of the town to film the television show Northern Exposure,” Dana said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe that’s it.”

  Just outside of town, she pointed at a small green street sign with the word “cemetery” and an arrow pointing to the left. They turned and drove up a small incline past two-story A-frame homes. At the top of the incline she saw tombst
ones in a sloped plot of land surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

  “Now the road—”

  The car dropped and bottomed out. The pavement ended. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath the tires and pinged the underside.

  “—ends,” she finished.

  Logan slowed as the cloud of dust kicked up around the polished paint. “You didn’t tell me about this,” he grimaced.

  Georges had warned her that the Forest Service maintained the dirt road but might not have groomed it after the winter. As smoothly as the sports car had floated along the highway, it was not made for the potholes and gravel. Dana felt like every organ in her body was being rearranged as the car pitched and listed.

  “Now we look for the boulder?” Logan asked.

  “And there it is.” She pointed, a smug smile on her face.

  The boulder had indeed been painted white. From an overhead log entry gate hung a weathered sign, the letters hand-carved and faded from what appeared to have been a rich red color at one time. WILBUR RANCH.

  Logan descended a steep driveway, stopped the Austin Healey near the covered porch of a rustic log cabin and got out. When Dana opened her car door, she was surprised to find Logan offering her a hand. “I’ll never complain about the potholes in Seattle again. I think I blew out three discs,” he said. He looked down at her heeled shoes. “Are you going to be all right in those?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She released his hand, took a step, and stumbled into him.

  Logan caught her about the waist. “Whoa.”

  She regained her balance. “Sorry about that.”

  Barbed wire and weathered split-rail fences, some in need of repair, divided the property into multiple pastures. Horses or cattle had probably done the mowing when the property was used regularly, but now the log cabin sat amid a sea of tall grass with trace patches of brown. The dirt drive continued past a weathered barn and livery stables with dilapidated wooden hay wagons on rusting spoke wheels. Horseshoes and metal spikes hung from the beams. The property looked like something from a ghost town.