by Janet Dawson
“Nice Eichler,” I said.
“Yeah. I’ve always liked the style. I guess they call it California Modern. I bought the place after my first divorce.” Rita led the way to the back of the house, pausing at the door that led to the kitchen. “Had dinner?”
“Yes, I ate something at my aunt’s house.”
“Have some wine, then.”
I shook my head. “Better not. I’m driving and I’m tired enough as it is. I have a feeling a glass of wine would put me to sleep.”
“I’ll have some, then.” Rita detoured to the kitchen and poured some Chardonnay into a glass, then motioned me to follow her to a back bedroom that she’d converted into an office.
The room was crowded with cardboard boxes. She was still in the process of putting away the files she’d moved from her old office downtown. Her desk was in the middle of the room, with a laptop and mouse. Next to these were a small printer and a phone. Rita took the chair behind the desk. There was another chair in the corner of the room. I moved a box off the seat and pulled the chair close to the desk.
I took out my cell phone and accessed the photos I’d taken of the two remaining boats tied up at the dock where the Esmeralda had burned. The pictures showed the hull identification numbers, as well as the boat names, the Rosarita and the Silverado.
“Plus, I have the hull number for the Esmeralda,” I told her. “By way of Sid, my ex, and a friend of ours who’s in Sonoma County law enforcement.”
“Great. I put a call in to my Coast Guard source, but he hasn’t called me back yet. Let’s see what we can find out about the history of that boat.”
She took a sip of her wine and set the glass on the desk. On her laptop she went to a website specializing in boat histories. She put in the hull identification number for the Esmeralda and clicked the “Submit” button. Then she went through the process again for the other two boats.
“In my experience it will take some time to get back a report,” she said. “And we’re looking for three. In the meantime...” She reached for several sheets of paper in the paper tray of her printer. “I did some Internet searches on Rhine and boats to see what came up. I didn’t find anything about this particular boat, but here’s a case that sounds interesting.”
I looked at the papers, printouts from several newspaper websites, involving one of Rhine’s current cases. The attorney was representing a man from Oakland whose car had been seized by the Drug Enforcement Agency. The DEA agents said the vehicle had been used to transport drugs, but the owner denied this. Rhine was claiming this was an illegal forfeiture of his client’s property. The article said that Rhine had used the argument successfully in the past, utilizing some recent changes in the forfeiture laws. In doing so, he’d helped several people regain their property—not just cars, but boats as well. But none of the boats were listed by name.
“Yes, this is interesting,” I said. “Makes me wonder if those boats in Lakeville were ever seized.”
“We’ll know more when we get those boat histories,” Rita said. “We’ll have to wait until then.”
Twenty-Two
I left Rita’s house and headed through San Rafael, then east over the bridge to Richmond. But I didn’t go home. I spent another hour in my downtown Oakland office, checking email, responding to phone messages, and working on Brian’s case. I had received Sid’s email forwarding the information he’d gotten from Joe Kelso, which Joe in turn had obtained from the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.
I printed out the documents and photos. Then I looked through the photographs of the scene, showing the Esmeralda after the fire had been put out. Here was the picture Sid had mentioned, with the plate affixed to the stern of the boat and the hull identification number clearly visible. Other photos showed the badly damaged cabin cruiser. It looked as though the fire had been confined to the cabin but the exterior deck had been damaged as well, as had the dock in the vicinity of the boat.
I set the pictures aside and read through copies of the witness statements from the people at the marina, taken after the Lakeville Volunteer Fire Department had extinguished the blaze on the boat and the body had been found. I’d already talked with Tracy Burgoyne, Chet Olsen, and several of the people in the bar. None of the statements added much to what I’d already learned from talking with people. They hadn’t been paying any notice to the cabin cruiser tied up at the north end of Newman’s Marina—until the propane explosion and fire caught their attention.
I put the witness statements aside and looked through the other documents. I didn’t see anything that indicated that the detectives had talked with Lowell Rhine, the ostensible owner of the Esmeralda. The detectives were looking for the light-colored SUV that Chet Olsen had seen leaving the marina right after the explosion. But they hadn’t found it yet.
The cell phone records from Brian’s account indicated that his cell phone had not been used since last Friday, the day he evidently left home and disappeared. A copy of some notes from the detectives’ investigation told me that they’d found no sign of Brian’s red Jeep Wrangler, although it was possible that Cousin Pat had seen it in Graton on Friday.
I picked up the phone and called Joe Kelso, Sid’s old partner, who had traded the mean streets of Oakland for the more bucolic environs of Cloverdale, the northernmost town in Sonoma County. He answered the phone on the second ring.
“Jeri Howard, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? When are you coming up to see us? Can I tempt you with barbecue? I built myself a smoker in the back yard, and I have a rack of ribs in that baby as we speak.”
“Sounds wonderful. Listen, I called to thank you for talking with the Sonoma County detectives and getting that information on the case.”
“Hell, no problem. Couldn’t believe it when Sid called me and told me your kid brother had gone missing. Anything I can do to help, just ask. Those two county detectives, Al Griffin and Stan Harris, I’ve worked with them before. They’re good people, and good investigators.”
“I’m sure they are,” I said. “Problem is, their case is a murder, whoever killed the man on the boat. Brian’s missing persons case is something else entirely. And I must say the Petaluma police officer who’s handling that, Marcy Colman, is more closemouthed than Griffin. That’s why I asked Sid for help, and am asking you as well. Griffin made it plain that he and Harris consider Brian a person of interest in the murder.”
“Could he be?” Joe asked, talking like the cop he was. “I mean, I understand where you’re coming from, you’re Brian’s sister. But I also understand where Griffin’s head is, too. Your brother’s bracelet was found at the crime scene.”
“I don’t know. I’ve turned that around in my head ever since this thing broke. I just can’t see my kid brother killing anyone. Of course, I can’t see him pulling a disappearing act either. Here’s what I’ve found out so far.”
Joe listened while I brought him up to date on my investigation. “You don’t think he’s bailed on his marriage,” he asked. “Run off with this woman, Willow?”
“No. Even if he is on the outs with his wife, he just wouldn’t do this. Certainly not to his kids. My brother’s a responsible person. He’s the kind of guy who shows up fifteen minutes early for appointments and calls to let you know if he’s running late.” I shook my head, even though Joe couldn’t see me.
“No, Brian wouldn’t vanish like this. Something else is going on. Somehow it’s tied up with that dead man on the boat. All I can think of is that he’s been taken and held against his will. Or...” I sighed as I voiced the darkest thought that nagged at me during my waking hours as well as the past two nights. “Or he’s had an accident and he’s lying dead at the bottom of a cliff.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “I’ll keep nosing around. We’re all Sonoma County law enforcement, same family, different branches. Maybe the Petaluma cop, Colman, will talk with me.”
“She certainly didn’t want to talk with me,” I said, recalling my short and uns
atisfactory conversation with Detective Colman. “Speaking of people lying dead at the bottom of a cliff, there’s something else that troubles me. The last week in June, a man named Rick Newman had a motorcycle accident on Highway One. The way I heard it, his motorcycle skidded and went off a cliff. It happened somewhere north of Jenner, I’m not exactly sure where. The motorcycle was found, but Newman’s body wasn’t. The theory is that the body was washed out to sea. I’m thinking Newman’s death would have been a county investigation.”
“Probably,” Joe said. “That happens all the time. Bodies not being found, I mean. Somebody goes climbing on the rocks and a sneaker wave washes them off the shore. Sounds like when this guy went off the cliff, he landed in the surf. So this traffic accident is important, because?”
“I’ve seen a recent photo of Rick Newman,” I said. “He looks a lot like that body I saw in the county morgue. He also looks a lot like my brother.”
Joe gave a long, low whistle. “Really? Okay, I’ll see what I can find out about that, too.”
“According to my sources, Newman has a police record dating back to his high school days,” I added. “And just to make things more interesting, Willow’s real name is Martha Newman. She’s Rick Newman’s younger sister.”
“I’m on it,” Joe said.
“Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate your help.”
After Joe hung up, I thought about calling my friend Cassie Taylor, then decided against it. She’s an attorney and her office is down the hall from mine. But she wasn’t in her office, and hadn’t been since the first of August. Cassie was on maternity leave. She and her husband, Eric, were expecting their first child, due at the end of August. Cassie had decided to take the whole month off to get ready for the new arrival.
I turned back to my computer and initiated a background check on Harry Vann, Rick Newman’s friend. I also looked up whatever I could find on the motorcycle accident back in June. There wasn’t much. I found a couple of short articles and printed them out. The accident had occurred on a Thursday, around three o’clock in the afternoon, according to Vann, the only witness. I was hoping Joe Kelso could get more information on the accident.
Now I turned my attention to Willow. While looking at the three-ring binder containing photos of her pottery in the gallery in Occidental, I’d noted the URL of her website. Now I went looking for it. I typed in the web address and waited for the site to load.
The banner at the top of the page read POTTERY BY WILLOW. On the first page of the site, I saw photographs of Willow’s pottery. There were the utilitarian pieces, like the coffee mug my brother had purchased from her at the Sonoma craft fair. Other pieces included bowls, vases, dishes, and small pots. Then there were more artistic works. Here was a photo of the piece that had caught my eye in the gallery, the oddly shaped platter in shades of green.
I clicked on one of the tabs at the top of the website. The next page that loaded contained a photograph of Willow, a three-quarters view of her at work. She was dressed in plain blue slacks and a lavender T-shirt, working at her potter’s wheel, head inclined, expression thoughtful as her fingers shaped a lump of clay into a pot.
Willow had a link called “Available Pieces,” with a “Buy Now” button below the photographs. She also had her own storefronts on eBay and Etsy. This, plus the pieces she had in the gallery, and the custom pieces she did. Once again I wondered if she sold enough pottery to make a living at it. From what her stepfather said, she might very well have to sell a portion of the land that was left to her by her grandfather—if in fact she had clear title to it. Rick’s death a few months earlier raised some questions.
I did an Internet search on Lowell Rhine. I wanted to see what the attorney looked like. I clinked on a link and found myself on his law firm’s website. Here was a posed head-and-shoulders shot that showed Rhine in a dark gray suit and pale blue shirt, wearing a red-and-gray striped tie and a large diamond tie pin. He looked to be in his forties, with brown hair and eyes that looked light blue in the photograph. I backed out of the website into the results of my Internet search, and clicked on some more images. These were shots dating back to the high-profile case Rhine had been involved in a few years ago, when he’d defended the drug dealer who’d shot the cop. The photos were taken at a distance, rather than the close-up on his website, and they showed Rhine to be tall and thin.
My cell phone rang. It was Dan. I answered the call. “I tried your house,” he said, “but you’re not there.”
“I’m in the office.” I leaned back in my chair.
“It’s after nine,” he said. “And knowing you, you’ve been at it since early this morning. You’re not going to be any good if you don’t get some sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping very well, that’s the trouble.” I’d had a restless night again, playing various scenarios in my head, only to wake feeling wring out. “I just worry about Brian.”
“I know.”
“Are you in Bodega Bay?” I asked.
“Yes, I drove up this morning and got settled at my friends’ house. I hiked the Bodega Head Trail this afternoon and took lots of photos. Tomorrow I’m going to check out some trails near Sebastopol. I know you’ll be up in Sonoma County again tomorrow. I could meet you somewhere, for coffee or lunch.”
“I’d like that. I’ll call you. Now I’m going to take your advice and go home.”
After I said good-bye to Dan, I shut down the computer and locked my office. When I got home, I fed the cats and fell into bed.
I was so tired I thought I might sleep better. But I didn’t. Unanswered questions and worry about my brother roiled my mind.
Twenty-Three
It took about an hour to get where they were going. It was late when they turned off the road, the dark countryside pierced by lights. He was in the backseat, his hands cuffed behind him. The vehicle bumped down a gravel road, turned, backed up. They got out and opened the rear door, unloading gear and supplies. Earlier he’d heard them talking about a boat. This must be where it was docked.
He heard music in the distance, punctuated by the roar of engines. Motorcycles, from the sound of it. He turned his head, trying to see, wincing because it still hurt. He sat up in the seat and looked back. A boat loomed, a big cabin cruiser. They were leaving. They said they would leave him here. Soon this nightmare would be over.
He heard another engine, then saw movement, someone walking this way. The new arrival walked past the vehicle, toward the boat. Then raised voices, arguing.
The gunshot sounded incredibly loud. Then there was an explosion. He stared back at the boat, enveloped in flames.
Twenty-Four
I got up early on Thursday morning, no more rested than I’d been last night. I breakfasted on coffee and an English muffin before leaving the house. My first stop was my office where, as I had the day before, I checked my email and phone messages. One email came from Rita. She told me that she hadn’t yet received the boat history on the Esmeralda and the other two boats, but she’d let me know as soon as it came in.
The background check on Harry Vann hadn’t come back yet, but I looked up the address of Vann’s Motorcycle Shop. It was on Guerneville Road, west of Santa Rosa.
I shut down my computer and was headed for the door, ready to drive to Sonoma for my meeting with Nancy Parsons. My cell phone rang. I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. The readout told me the call came from the Petaluma Police Department.
“We found your brother’s Jeep,” Detective Colman said.
“Where?”
“An old quarry west of Forestville,” she said. “Somebody dumped it there in the past few days. The guy who found it says the Jeep wasn’t there when he left work on Friday. The place where it was found is on a side road that isn’t used often.”
“Any prints?”
“The vehicle had been wiped down pretty good,” Colman said. “But we did find a few prints, all of them your brother’s.”
“He’s been abducted,” I said.
“Or he dumped the Jeep himself,” she countered.
“What about his cell phone?” I asked.
“The cell phone company says the last signal they had from it was on Friday, in the area between Forestville and Santa Rosa. But there’s no signal now. It’s probably out of juice.”
We ended the call. I was frustrated by Colman’s attitude. She was still clinging to the theory that Brian had left on his own.
I closed and locked my office and went down to the lot where I parked my car. I took Interstate 80 across the Carquinez Bridge, driving through Vallejo, and then headed west on Highway 37, along the marshy upper reaches of San Pablo Bay. Highway 121 north took me into Sonoma.
The Sonoma Valley had long been populated by California’s Native American tribes. They called it the Valley of the Moon, a term still used today. The town of Sonoma was founded when California was Spanish territory, and its mission, San Francisco Solano, was built in 1823, after Mexico won its independence from Spain. Sonoma was also the site of the Bear Flag Revolt, when a group of rebels raised a flag in June 1846 and proclaimed independence from Mexico and started a short-lived country called the California Republic. The Bear Flag soon gave way to the Stars and Stripes with the Mexican–American War, and California became a United States territory.
These days, Sonoma was known for wine, as it should be. Despite the popularity and publicity accorded to the Napa Valley, just over the Mayacamas Mountains to the east, Sonoma and its own valley were historically the birthplace of the California winemaking industry, dating back to the days when the mission had its own vineyards. In fact, as I parked near the town’s historic downtown plaza, I saw posters advertising the upcoming Valley of the Moon Vintage Festival, which takes place each year on the last weekend of September.
