by Dave Balcom
“They live a very dangerous life. They have no leeway in their jobs – they’re here to serve and protect, and when someone from the civilian sector pitches in, they take it seriously. Those men apparently posed a real threat to every officer in that squad, now they don’t. That is worth celebrating in their world, but it felt very strange to me, too.”
When we got home around five o’clock, I found Jensen had left me a voice mail. I called him right back.
“I hear you got your weapon back.”
“If you had a part in that, thank you.”
“I didn’t, but I would have if they’d decided to hold on to it.”
“The gang squad guys treated me like some kind of hero.”
“I heard. Did it weird you out?”
“Kinda, but I think I get it, too. Why did you call?”
“I’m wondering if you’re through with this, or if you’re just taking a break?”
“We are going to a service for my friend Stan Liske, the State Police Lieutenant that Pedro Martini killed up in Canada. The service is Saturday afternoon. Meanwhile, I’m hoping you can track down the boat that Angelina Wright supposedly bought last spring. If you do, then I want to be in on finding Mr. Martini.”
“I understand what you want, but I’m not sure the bureau is interested in having you part of the chase. We need any information you have, but we have all the troops we need.”
I felt my heart sink a bit. “I’ve given you all the information I have.”
He paused and I could see him checking his notes. “Then, I guess you’re done for now. When we get him, and we will, you’ll be called to testify either here or in Canada. If you happen to remember anything that you didn’t before, be sure to call me. Okay?”
There wasn’t much I could say to that; we hung up at the same time, and I started to stew.
I was still stewing at daylight on Saturday when Judy and I went walking. She was beside herself after a week without exercise. When we returned to the house, I found Jan working with her folks back in Michigan via the computer.
The Nelsons were driving to the memorial service that was being held at the Catholic Church in La Grande.
Liske’s boys, Matt and Brian, were greeting everyone as we arrived. I gave each of them a hug. “Guys, I’m so sorry.”
Matt met my apology without any trace of resentment, “We know it wasn’t your fault. I talked with the Coast Guard and the RCMP up there, and Fergie has talked with them too. We know you couldn’t have stopped it or even anticipated anything like this.”
Brian still held my hand. “Mr. Stanton, my father thought the world of you. He told us when he heard about the kidnapping, that he couldn’t be in better company at a time like that.” His eyes were filling with tears, and he didn’t even try to wipe them away. “We’ll all miss him together.”
The service was sweet. There were photos throughout the reception hall, depicting the man who had lived his life with joy and love. A video produced by one of Matt’s friends at Eastern Oregon University compiled photos and favorite songs in a tribute that left no dry eyes.
After the ceremonies, we were all invited to share a potluck provided by the women of the church. While we stood in line, Fergie came over and asked us to join his table. I saw Lisa and another man and woman at a table with four empty chairs tilted to reserve them.
As we approached the table, it suddenly dawned on me who the other couple might be. I introduced the Nelsons as my neighbors and friends. Fergie introduced us to the Whitmans.
Luke Whitman was a medium-sized guy with a distinguished look. His hair was graying up from his side burns in a way that I had always wished my hair could do, and Mary Lou was an attractive woman who, it was obvious, had once been a ravishing beauty.
“I wasn’t sure we’d see you today, Jim,” Fergie said between mouthfuls of scalloped potatoes. “I heard you folks were in Portland helping the police.”
I nodded, and Jan spoke up, “Once we heard about this, we changed our plans and got home Thursday. Stan was a very good friend to both of us. I feel towards Betty like a sister. The boys are a tribute to their parents and are also our friends.”
Mary Lou took this all in, and then quietly said, “We loved Stan and we love his family. It’s very difficult knowing that this tragedy came about because of our situation.”
Luke joined in, “I knew that if Stan was around, he’d be up to his elbows in that case. We were best friends and roommates in college and, with Fergie here, that friendship continued and grew through our adult lives.
“His death creates a void in our world that we’re struggling to cope with...”
We chatted and reminisced about Stan. “Did he ever say good-bye on the phone?” I asked.
They all looked at each other and shrugged. “What do you mean?” Fergie asked. I recalled all the times that I’d been left hanging on the phone long after he’d disconnected.
Fergie started to laugh. “You knew him in his professional capacity more than we did. When you hear his troops talk about him, you hear their love and respect, but you also hear that his every working moment was focused to the nth degree on getting home to his family.
“It doesn’t surprise me a bit if he was short of telephone manners when he was working on a case.” That comment brought smiles around the table.
As we were preparing to leave, Luke Whitman cornered me and asked if we could share a few minutes alone. I told Jack and Jan that I’d meet them at the car, and Luke and I went up stairs to the chapel.
“You know, of course, about the warning those kidnappers gave us,” he said without preamble. I nodded, wondering where this was going. “You knew that young man, didn’t you?”
“For a few hours, I did. I liked him, respected him. He was a serious-minded professional who served his country with honor and distinction. It was a stupid and heinous act.”
“I agree. Their threat really got into our heads. But the more we have thought about it... If they hadn’t sacrificed that boy and my friend, I would probably have acquiesced to their threat. I would rather do anything than make Mary Lou relive that experience.
“But that son of a bitch has to pay for those two men, and we’ve decided to do whatever it takes to see them taken to account for their actions.
“I just wanted you to know, Mr. Stanton. If there’s anything you need to keep the FBI and RCMP working on this case, you call me.” He handed me a business card. “I maybe can’t shoot well enough, and I’m certainly untrained in physical combat, but I can and will wield any weight I may have.
“I want those bastards on a pike.”
I shook his hand, and we walked out of the church together.
37
I don’t get the mopes very often, but we’d been home for more than a week and hadn’t heard a thing from the Wet Side of the state about the search for Pedro Martini.
Judy and I were on the ridge overlooking our road on Friday morning. I was working on my forms, Judy was trying to figure out a ruffed grouse, and neither of us was making much progress.
Father Time and gravity are still both undefeated and it doesn’t make any difference if you’re a man or a dog. My attention to exercise and tai chi had left my flexibility and strength in pretty good shape for my age, but slow compared to my younger years. I had heard the grouse as it left for parts unknown before Judy caught its scent, so her earnest investigation was futile. I moped; she never lost her enthusiasm.
I decided to take a break in my routine. I sat with my back against a towering white fir. Judy gave me an inquiring sniff, and curled up with her back touching my thigh.
I don’t spend any more time thinking about the past than I do moping around with the blues. I’ve always been about current news and coming attractions. History, especially mine, doesn’t get much of my thinking time. I lived it, analyzed it once, hopefully learned any appropriate lessons, and turned my attention to the next act.
I had always been that way, but today I
was wondering how I could have prevented the death of my friend and a young Coast Guard sailor. I had not anticipated the level of danger to which I had put them both by going aboard that cruiser. I had been, I now believed, reckless.
Intellectually, I understand survivor’s guilt. Understanding it doesn’t remove the pain. Understanding doesn’t do much in this state of mind.
I started to think about that night as an investigator rather than a victim. Martini had brought the boat in for fuel, food and alcohol. The time for the Whitmans to make the ransom payment was closing, but he had come to port as if there was no hurry.
Then there was the efficiency of his decision making. He wasn’t some random gang banger. He assessed the facts, made decisions, and acted with a ruthless precision.
Then he calls somebody to determine what to do with us? He calls a “she?”
In Portland, we were led to believe he must have acted alone or at least outside the organization. He had told me the five were going to spend the entire ransom. If he had been working with The Outfit, he would have been planning on splitting some of it with the organization.
And then he calls someone? Why?
Did he call Angelina Wright? That would put a “she” in the picture. But would a high-end hooker from Portland be the “she” that advised the killers who invaded my home?
I roused myself with a thought. “What would they name the new boat?”
I was panting for breath when I hit the front door. I took the time to grab a glass of water, and then I opened my phone and punched Jensen’s phone number in my call list. I got his voice mail, and asked him to call back.
I was in the shower when he called back, and Jan took the call. When I came downstairs, she handed me the phone and said, “He’s waiting for your call.”
I placed the call and he answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you had made any progress on finding Angelina’s new boat.”
“It’s like a needle in a haystack. You can’t know where to start.”
“I remembered something this morning.”
“Really?”
“The black cruiser didn’t have any numbers on its hull.”
“You think it was unregistered?”
“No, I think it was documented through the Coast Guard. Documented boats have to comply with state registration rules in most places, but they don’t have to display their numbers. Some states make them display their stickers, but not all.”
“You know a lot about this?”
“I was curious why some boats in the marinas had numbers and stickers on their hulls and some others didn’t. Liske explained it to me. Documented boats have to have their names and port of call on the stern. Some have to have their names on both sides of the bow, too, but that’s another state decision.”
“And this helps us how?”
“They’re documented by name and port. If we can find the name of Angie’s boat, we might find the boat.”
“How in the world do you expect to guess the name of that boat?”
“I think we could request the Coast Guard to provide us with the registry of new documented boats since, say, April. Anyone can buy the whole registry for a hundred bucks or so, but I’ll bet you could get this year’s new registrations with a phone call.”
The silence lasted so long, I thought he’d hung up on me, and my fond memory of Liske hit me like a sensitive tooth.
“Is it a national registry?”
“Probably, but I think we could narrow it to Washington, Oregon and California, don’t you?”
“Still a pretty big hay stack.”
“Can you reach Georgia Wright?”
“I can. She’s never far from us.”
“Find out what Angelina’s original last name was before she changed it. It could be a clue.”
“How’s that?”
“Boat names. They’re usually some kind of play on words, names, or professions. I knew a judge who named his boat ‘Sue ya too.”
“What?”
“But he spelled it S-u-e-y-a followed by the Roman numerals for two. Larry Ferguson named his boat up in Prince Rupert the ‘Cappa Larry’ because it was a ‘small vessel.’”
“I get it. I’ll check with Georgia, and if she doesn’t know, maybe McPhee does over at Vice.”
“Thanks. Is it too much to ask if you can let me know what you find out?”
“I’ll let you know, but my money is on the behaviorists in Washington. When they figure it out, I’ll be sure to call you.”
This time he did hang up, but I thought he made sure that I could hear him disconnect.
38
We had just come in from a walk in the rain. Fall and spring can be treacherous in our little mountains, but both seasons can deliver a sweet respite from the seemingly endless string of blue skies and sunshine.
The steady rain is just one such respite, and rare enough to make walking in it a moral imperative.
We were both giddy with exhilaration from the walk, and Judy was remanded to her garage pen bed until her muddy feet could dry.
Jan had poured a glass of wine, and was standing in the giant window, looking out across the Columbia Basin, when my phone chirped.
“Jensen here,” he opened. “Her name was Angelina Rossi before she had it changed.
“Everything’s coming up roses?”
“What?”
“A rose by any...?”
“You’re guessing boat names? The behaviorists in Washington fed all the possibles into the big computer along with the names of every boat registered since January first.
“Computers? That takes the romance out it, doesn’t it?”
“The computer spit out seven probables and thirty-one possibles in just over three minutes.”
“Where from?”
“All California except one probable and three possibles. They’re all in Washington.”
“Seattle?”
“One in Seattle, one in Bellingham and two in Anacortes.”
“Where’s the probable?”
“Seattle.”
“What do you know about the responsible owners?”
“The what?”
“The responsible owner is the person who gets the mail from the Coast Guard in the case of multiple owners.”
“How do you know that?”
“Google, the fount of all knowledge; where else?”
He chuckled. “One of the Anacortes owners lives in Spokane, another in Tacoma. The Bellingham boat is a local owner who we’re checking; as is the Seattle boat.”
“What’s the name on the Seattle boat?”
“Angel’s Nest.”
“And the responsible owner?”
“Ronald Sessions. We’re looking into Mr. Sessions.”
I was impressed with the speed at which this information had been developed. “Great work, Ray. I mean it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything yet. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
“Thanks.”
And with that, he was gone.
On Sunday, just after breakfast, Jensen called me. He sounded exhausted but elated as well.
“We have Mr. Martini and two others in custody. They will be arraigned on charges of murder and kidnapping in Vancouver tomorrow.”
I was stunned. “The Angel’s Nest?”
“Yeah, a fifty-four-foot Bertram with all the bells and whistles.”
“Who was Mr. Sessions?”
“Fictitious name on a mailbox at a convenience address. We staked it out for four days and never saw a thing.
“Then, yesterday, one of our investigators was cruising in a run-about, just going from marina to marina, looking for the name. Finally hit a small, quiet marina, just twenty-seven slips, and there she was.”
“He called it in, and just about five that afternoon, Mr. Martini and his woman, Angelina, parked their car in the marina lot and went aboard. We gave them ten minutes to take care of personal busine
ss. Then twenty agents converged on the boat and placed them and one hand under arrest. No shots were fired.”
“That’s terrific! Is Angelina in custody too?”
“Yes, but she’s being charged with conspiracy to commit murder and kidnapping. Those are U.S. charges, and she’ll be arraigned in Portland on Tuesday.”
“Who was the other guy?”
I could hear him fumbling in his notebook, “Philippe Parada. He’s charged as an accomplice with Martini.”
“Too bad it’s being tried in Canada.”
“I know; no death penalty, but their penal system is no picnic. They’ll never walk free.”
“So what is next?”
He was quiet for a minute. “You’re going to receive a heart-felt letter of gratitude from the Director of the FBI for your participation. I think you’re going to get something similar from the RCMP, but I haven’t heard anything official.”
“That’s nice, but I’d rather just have some face time with Mr. Martini.”
His chuckle was mirthless. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Then could I interview him?”
“For what, a story?”
“You forget, somebody offered him a million bucks to deliver me so I could die at their hands. I’m mildly curious to know who hates me that much.”
He went quiet for so long I thought he’d left the phone, but just as I was about to disconnect, he said, “Let me work on that. It’ll have to be in Vancouver. I’ll press the question with the Mounties and get back to you.”
“Fair enough. And, again, great work. It’s good to know that bastard is off the street.”
“We’ve got more than a hundred armed agents making sure nobody gets to him before the trial, too.”
I whistled. “Urban legend, right?”
“I’m a believer, how about you?”
39
I had been waiting in the Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Center in Victoria for more than an hour when a polite young woman came into the room, introduced herself and asked me to accompany her.
