Rain pounded on the roof over my head. I could even hear water trickling in rivulets down the edges of the slate tiles on the steep descent. The mansion’s attic had very little, if any, insulation. At least it was dry inside.
Drizzle, mist, buckets, downpour, sprinkle, steady, soaking, spitting — my rain-related vocabulary had definitely expanded over the past few weeks. The prevailing winter forecast was gray, damp and muddy.
The files appeared to be business as usual. Records of what was going where on whose behalf. Most of the files were old, and I assumed that the current records were now computerized, eliminating the need for hard copies.
It looked like Hank had been cleaning out the files, tossing what was no longer needed, and hit the tip of an iceberg with the property records and his concern about incorrectly or insufficiently documented freight. But I came to the conclusion that Lee Gomes was the iceberg, or at least he was the link I needed to get into the inner workings of the iceberg because his contact list had sure lit up Josh Freeney’s suspicions. It was starting to appear as though that list alone had been worth exploiting Thomas’s criminal skills, much as I hated the thought.
Skip did indeed own the building and the land it was on — all 11.5 acres zoned for light industrial use, with a conditional use permit for the operation of the freight terminal. He’d bought it three years before we’d met and I’d started running his charitable foundation. I needed to check with Walt about how that might align with when the boys’ camp started.
The property was leased to Comet Consolidated, Ltd., a lovely, ambiguous corporate name that didn’t clearly explain the true nature of the business. Sounded like a holding company or a front to me, but I had become cynical about the nature of the enterprises my husband was involved with. I needed to get my hands on the lease contract.
A few of the documents had the name of another man who signed on the freight terminal’s behalf — a Roger Harrod. All I knew about him was that he’d quit shortly after hiring Hank. Maybe he’d stuck around just long enough to make sure Hank was properly trained, or something else had come up.
I brought up Google on my laptop and ran a search. What would prompt someone to leave the business? Health issues? Family commitments? A desire for a change of scenery? Maybe he got sick of the rain.
While there were several Roger Harrods, only one had an entry — an obituary — that matched up with what I knew of the work history of the man I was looking for. He’d died in Hayward, California — uncomfortably near my old stomping grounds. Or rather, that’s where his body had been found four months ago, in a pile of rubble behind an abandoned cannery, in an advanced state of decomposition, head and hands missing. According to the related news articles, it had taken a while to identify him.
The medical examiner had relied upon X-rays from a knee replacement surgery and a belt buckle for the final confirmation. Roger had left behind an ex-wife and a couple stepchildren who seemed dutiful in their comments but not particularly heartbroken. They hadn’t seen him for almost a year prior to his estimated time of death.
Obviously, a body doesn’t remove its own head and hands, so the case was classified as a homicide. The lead detective, in a TV interview video clip, promised to pursue any leads that might come up. But underlying his cautious words was the assumption that very few, if any, leads would ever turn up. I could almost hear the shrug in his voice, the way he phrased his comments in law enforcement parlance with a don’t-get-your-hopes-up tone. Not too many people were seeking justice for Roger Harrod.
CHAPTER 12
I, for one, would have liked to talk to Roger Harrod, would still like to know what information had been inside his head that required his murder.
I reached for my phone, my fingers numb from the cold. The attic wasn’t heated. Which meant I stayed awake, but also moved at about half-speed when my limbs stiffened up.
My stomach gnawed — around the fact that I hadn’t eaten breakfast in addition to a purely emotional reaction to what I’d just read — while I listened to the call clicking to a connection at the other end.
“Sheriff,” Des answered.
“Nora,” I said.
“You need my cell number. The odds of you calling when I’m sitting in this chair are about ninety to one.” He rattled off his number. “No word on the two boys yet, if that’s what you’re calling about. They seem to have used their few working brain cells to leave the county.”
I’d forgotten about Waylon and Travis. My problem was a whole lot bigger than two trigger-happy country bumpkins, even if they had almost killed a good friend. I had reason now to think Hank’s life might be in greater danger.
“How’s security at the hospital?” I asked.
“Decent. A couple Cowlitz county deputies moonlight as guards over there. A couple Longview PD officers too, I think. But those boys are too dumb to come back and try again, Nora.”
“They weren’t too dumb to shoot him in the first place.”
Des sighed heavily. “Fair enough. I’ll make sure somebody in uniform is meandering up and down the hall outside his door.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s not all, is it?” Des sounded weary, but his sixth sense was intact.
I squinted, focusing on the rain streaking down the glass of the central dormer window, trying to get my tone right so I didn’t sound guilty or nervous. “This may not come as a surprise to you, but I need a lawyer — a local lawyer. I figured you probably know them all. Any recommendations?”
Des took his time about answering, but I could hear him chuckling softly in the background. I had hoped he would give my request serious consideration, and I scowled into the phone. It appeared as though I was making his life more entertaining.
“Given your, uh, circumstances, I can think of three who might be able to handle what you need. One’s an obnoxious jackass, but he can produce enough paperwork to make a case last five times longer than it ought to. Our county clerk gets the trots every time he steps into her office.”
“And I bet he bills by the hour,” I muttered. “Next.”
“A relative newcomer. Moved here from Nevada, oh, five years ago or so. Since he’s an outsider, he’s had trouble developing a clientele. He’d jump at whatever work you could give him, and he’d do it fast.”
I chewed my lip. The Nevada connection might come in handy, but I wanted a lawyer familiar with the lay of the land, figuratively and literally, and it probably took more than five years to develop that intuitive sense of people and culture in this area.
“Maybe. Next.”
“A crotchety old coot, retired but still has his license. Has done just about everything during his career — was the county prosecutor for several terms until his drinking became too obvious, criminal defense, civil cases, bankruptcies, nit-picky divorces, water rights, right of ways, you name it. He can be a challenge to work with.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” I blurted. “What’s his name?”
“Tarquin Roe. In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that he’s my neighbor.”
I didn’t see why that would be a problem. “Okay,” I said slowly.
“It’s not public knowledge, but he has terminal liver cancer,” Des added.
I held my breath for a moment, hating to ask. “How much longer—”
“I’m not privy to that information. I’m surprised he even told me about the cancer. He’s proud and stubborn. I’m worried about him.” Des’s chair creaked as he shifted, and I pictured him settling back, cradling a mug of coffee, maybe a foot propped on an open file drawer. “Frankly, I’d consider it a favor if you’d give him a problem to chew on. He’s the type to stick around as long as he has something worthwhile to do.”
“Give me his number.”
“Remember,” Des said, “you didn’t hear about the cancer from me. In fact, take me out of this completely. You found his number in the yellow pages.”
I grinned. So it was a conspiracy. And proof
that Des didn’t do absolutely everything by the book.
Tarquin Roe didn’t have voicemail or an answering machine. I gave up on counting the rings after thirty-eight. I hung up, waited a minute and tried again. What else could an old coot, to use Des’s term, be doing except sitting beside the phone waiting for someone to call him?
Actually, I could think of several things, none of which were pleasant, considering his condition. I wondered what stage his cancer was in, if he was undergoing chemo or radiation therapy. Livers are kind of vital, so removing it wasn’t an option — obviously not if they’d already diagnosed his disease as terminal. From Des’s description, I assumed he wasn’t eligible for a transplant.
My second attempt must have been sufficiently annoying, because I got a response. A raspy, belligerent voice barked, “What?”
Tarquin didn’t sound like the type to tolerate lengthy explanations. “I need help,” I said. “A lawyer who’s not afraid to take on organized crime, get his hands dirty.”
He made a sound like air working through a water line — spurts and juicy gasping. I flinched and pulled the phone away from my ear. A lot of air — something was wrong with the pump. It took me a minute to realize he was laughing.
“In May County?” he wheezed. “I’ve done heard it all, girlie.”
“Under your very nose.”
“How do you know?” His tone was sharpish now, quick.
“I married into the family.”
He had to think about that for a few seconds. I crossed my fingers and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping I’d hooked him. It wasn’t as though I had an A-list of options.
“You that girl with the FBI minders?” he finally asked.
I grimaced. “Yes.” I kept forgetting that there were probably very few in May County who didn’t know who I was, at least by reputation, since tongue-wagging is the residents’ primary leisure activity.
“Get rid of them and come see me. Hell, I got nothing else to do.” He hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand and heaved a sigh of relief. I was in.
Where, though? And when? Maybe when you knew your life was short, you didn’t bother with appointments.
Rough tromping sounded on the stairs and echoed off the rafters, bouncing down the long hallway outside.
“In here, in here,” CeCe piped, and two little girls burst in, their chests heaving from the rapid climb up three stories.
Emmie’s eyes were huge, scared, urgent. She hung back a little, darting quick glances around the room — at me seated cross-legged on the floor and the piles of papers spread in a large arc around me.
But CeCe was hopping up and down as if she had to pee. “Thomas is here. Clarice says to come fast.” She grabbed my hand and tugged. “Mr. Walt’s gone to town.”
I blinked. If Walt was gone, then I guessed I was second in command — of a boys’ camp and a poor farm property I had yet to fully explore. I hadn’t really thought about it like that before, and I gulped back a rush of panic. Had something happened to one of the boys?
“What’s wrong?” I blurted, scrambling to my feet.
But I didn’t wait for an answer. I raced for the stairs, the girls close on my heels.
Thomas bent into the kitchen table, gripping its edge as though he might fall over without its support, his breathing ragged. His clothes drooped from the weight of the water soaking them, and his dreads were still dripping. He turned quickly as I barged into the room, his dark eyes, like Emmie’s, urgent and worried.
It was the difference in reactions — between the two kids who’d grown up on the streets and CeCe’s — that fired warning shots deep in my gut. These kids knew when it was appropriate to be afraid, whereas innocent, sheltered CeCe was just excited by the tumult, not realizing what she was participating in.
Clarice stood stiff against the counter, her ruffly red apron starkly incongruous and the wrinkles in her face angled straight to her tight mouth.
“Dwayne,” Thomas huffed. “It’s bad.”
Clarice stretched, grabbed the Subaru keys off their hook by the door and flung them to me. “Got your phone? Call me with what you need.”
Thomas directed me to a spot I knew well — the point on one of the many rutted tracks crisscrossing the property that came closest to Dwayne’s shack. We hadn’t spoken more than the few necessary words on the drive — it was all I could do to keep the station wagon from getting stuck in the potholes and newly widened gullies. Several times the undercarriage scraped so hard I thought the GPS tracker might fall off. Just as well, considering Dwayne’s desire to avoid detection.
“No,” Thomas shouted when we’d bolted from the car and I was about to launch into the woods. He scooped his arm, gesturing me onto a different trajectory.
I crashed through the underbrush behind him. Explanations would have to wait. We charged across tree roots and dense pine needle duff. There were places that, in spite of the nearly constant rain, were dry due to the protective overhead canopy. There were other places were I sank into mud up to my ankles.
Thomas pulled up at the edge of a rushing creek. The water was moving so fast it was a whitish, fuzzy blur over the submerged rocks. Moss covered everything — tree limbs; the slippery bank; rotted, tumbled logs. It would have made a pretty picture, on a different day. Thomas stooped, hands on knees, gasping for air, but his eyes were busy scanning the creek in both directions.
He gave a short nod. “This way.” And took off upstream.
I was soaked through, bedraggled, legs heavy from the mud caked on my boots and jeans, squeezing my lungs for every last drop of oxygen when I saw them. Bodie was braced, knee-deep in the creek, stooped over, cradling Dwayne’s head and neck above the surging water. His clothing was plastered to his body, and through the fabric I could see the slender, not-quite-manly-yet muscles in his arms and legs straining. It was all he could do to keep from going under himself.
The creek’s appearance was deceiving — it looked shallow, one of those burbling, atmospheric, life-giving streams that fed the forest. In reality, it was glacial runoff, and there were hidden whirlpools deeper than my head.
Thomas and I plunged in, slipping and skidding in the onslaught of water. I immediately hinged in half, my hands scrabbling for additional purchase, bent over like a lumbering bear to keep from being swept away. The water piled up over my arms and I got a mouthful. The biting cold sucked any air I had left and stifled my scream.
I climbed over to Bodie, gripped his pant leg for balance and pulled myself up beside him. His face was the color of cheap skim milk, blue and weak, including his colorless lips and the flared rims of his nostrils. He was shivering violently.
Dwayne looked dead — ash gray, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, his beard swirling and parting over his chest, the long hair streaming up over his shoulders in the swell.
“He’s stuck,” Thomas gritted out through clenched teeth, his dreads swinging arcs of water as he bolstered Bodie’s hold on Dwayne’s torso.
I felt along Dwayne’s prone body. His leg, from the meaty part of his calf to the top of his foot was wedged between two rough rocks. Neither rock responded to my feeble attempts at dislodging it.
The only thing soft enough to yield would be Dwayne’s leg. He probably couldn’t feel it anymore anyway. I wasn’t sure he could feel anything — if he was even breathing.
“You got him?” I squinted up at Bodie and Thomas. “When he comes loose, his weight’s going to slam into you.” I was yelling over the water’s crashing tumult, my throat hoarse.
The boys crouched lower, their shoulders positioned as though they were offensive tackles burrowing into a padded practice sled. A faint glimmer of hope shone in their eyes — the only bright spots in their faces.
When Dwayne came loose, I’d said. I couldn’t even think about if. We were all running on energy fumes, pure adrenaline.
A crazed, disjointed prayer looped through my mind as I dug the fingers of my left hand under the tongu
e of Dwayne’s boot. They felt like blunt ice picks, and I was operating more on a phantom memory of where my body parts were than actual sensation. His laces were tight — it was a good hold. I wedged my right hand and forearm up his pant leg, wadding the fabric in my fist.
I gulped a big breath and heaved. A grunt escaped, deep, rough, the final amen on my prayer — and then something shifted, the slightest easing. I slipped, my own leg jamming against another boulder, but it gave me leverage, and I heaved again.
The movement was slow, painful. I was pretty sure I was ripping the flesh off Dwayne’s leg, but it was inching jaggedly up between the rocks.
“Come on,” Thomas groaned.
I was seeing white bursts behind my tight eyelids, and I’d run out of breath a long time ago. And then the resistance just let go — gone — I was fighting empty air. I collapsed forward, but the boys held Dwayne in the net of their arms, his body buoyant and tumbling.
I grabbed one booted foot, then the other. We shuffled with him, tripping, dragging, scraping Dwayne’s heavy body across the creek bed to the bank. The tiniest trickle of blood — red and watery — snaked across the white skin of his ankle.
Bleeding is a sign of life, right? I desperately hoped so.
CHAPTER 13
I don’t know how we made it to the car. I couldn’t stop to think of a plan of action. If I did, my body would simply shut down. Don’t think, don’t think — just do, keep moving.
The boys stumbled along with me, bearing Dwayne’s sagging body between us. We set him down on the dirt track, and Thomas pulled the liftgate open. I flopped down the backseat, and we wrangled Dwayne into the cargo area.
He was too long, and I bent his knees and pushed him onto his side. It was rough treatment, but there wasn’t time to be gentle. I was rewarded with a ragged moan — Dwayne was still alive.
“Get in.” I pointed to Bodie.
Clarice had a ratty woolen blanket in the back, presumably for impromptu picnics. I grabbed it and unfurled it. “You too.” I nodded to Thomas. Even his dark skin had a sickly blue undertone. “Hug him. Lie on top of him if you have to. This is no time to be shy. He needs your heat.”
Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Page 9
