We kicked around the Marriott the rest of the evening and hung out at the pool the following day. Two days remained on our reservation and Anna and I were living the dream. I wanted to do something special, but it had to be the right something. I ordered a couple margaritas to be delivered poolside. I shot Anna a big toothy smile when they arrived.
“Look at you,” she said, “What is the occasion?”
“I don’t need a reason, I’m the romantic type.” I lifted my glass. “To us.” I took a sip; Anna followed suit. “For the record, I’m sentimental too.”
Anna had extended her arm to place the drink on the glass-topped table that sat between us. She stopped midway. “Sentimental? Okay. Are you feeling alright?”
“Absolutely! I want to take you on a date tomorrow.”
“Ooh, how exciting.” Anna never made the table with her margarita. Her eyes locked onto mine as she took a long slow drink then placed the glass on the table. “Where, a crime museum?”
“No way baby, Corsicana! I thought we might pay the place a visit and recapture our first romantic moments.”
“There’s hope for you yet, honey.”
The next morning we got an early start. Corsicana was a two-hour drive south. Our first stop was the park where we first kissed. There was something magical here, not in Corsicana itself but in seizing moments from my recollection. By returning to the places where romance blossomed, it not only brought back memories, it brought back an emotional connection to them.
Our day was filled with holding hands without the mention of missions, Palatini, or killing. It was a day dedicated to “us.” That evening, during our return drive to Dallas, I believe I reached a point in our relationship that I had never known. The lingering question of mistrust—was gone.
We’d passed under the 635 Loop on Interstate 45 when Anna’s phone rang. After answering she gestured a thumbs-up and responded, “Great, how are you?”
“We can,” she said then directed a question to me. “It’s Thomas, he would like to meet.”
“Is he near Dallas?”
“He’s in Washington.”
“Tell him to hang tight in our neck of the woods. Two days from now I’ll buy him dinner.”
Anna relayed my message verbatim and ended the call. She followed up with a call to Maximillian and passed on to him that we’d heard from Kuhl and planned to stand down the project with a final meeting.
I’d managed to keep my mind off the rights and wrongs of Minnie’s death. I felt right about my decision, but I didn’t feel good about it. Dawn Simmonds had her revenge. My dreams could rest easy.
Lounging on our last day at the Marriott sounded relaxing but Anna found a new project to sink her teeth into. By evening, she’d put together a list of suggestions for me to prioritize upon our return to Portland. Number one on her list was my moving into her condo, followed closely by selling off my old double wide trailer. Talk and reality were coming together.
We left DFW International Airport in the early evening. Anna had succeeded in getting our seat assignments changed so we were seated together. The flight attendant made his canned announcement on how to properly kiss your butt goodbye in the event of an air tragedy. At the conclusion of his speech, I scanned the rows front to back. “Where are the crying babies?” I whispered to Anna.
“Stop.”
I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes and enjoyed the quick and painless leg of our trip. When we arrived in Portland, we’d gained two hours traveling from east to west. At the airport, Anna put a call into Kuhl to set up for an early luncheon. Anna drove us to the condo. It was her car after all.
“We’re home,” Anna announced with a smile.
It was more of a Freudian slip than a conscious affirmation on my part when I said, “Your home.” Anna tossed me a look that clarified how I was to interpret what she’d said and referred me to my “to do” list.
Our meeting with Kuhl was scheduled at ten-thirty in the morning. Anna thought it would be fun to grab a bite at the joint in West Linn where we’d met to plan the Alaska trip. I wasn’t convinced it would be fun at all. There had been an old geezer working the grill that had rubbed me wrong. I’d just as soon not see him again, but Anna insisted.
I was up early the next day, drinking coffee and looking forward to our meeting with Kuhl. I felt naked without a weapon strapped to my belt. Anna had put the finishing touches on her makeup when I noticed a black subcompact automatic next to her purse.
“What? No knife?”
“I have that too.”
I picked up the belly gun and gave it a once over. “Kel-Tec makes a nice .380.” I kicked the magazine out and pulled the slide back to where I could get my finger into the chamber and felt for brass. The round was there. I picked up the magazine and slipped it quietly into the bottom of the handgrip.
“It’s small and lightweight. Six rounds with a seventh in the chamber. It’s not much firepower, especially with a small caliber.”
I thought she’d be appreciative of my insight, but her response didn’t bear that out.
“Tend to your own rat killing. It’s only a backup.”
The Kel-Tec was not her preferred weapon. She appreciated the cold steel of a tactical blade and its many applications.
We took the Lexus to the strip mall in West Linn where the little diner was wedged into the L-shaped corner of the building. We were fashionably late when we pulled to a stop next to Kuhl’s van. Being the gentleman that I was, I caught the door for Anna, which allowed for a quick scan of the diner. Seated at the pub table nearest the back wall was Kuhl, facing the entrance.
I recognized the teenage waitress behind the counter from our previous visit. At the second table from the entry, two patrons were seated, and an old guy sat on a stool at the bar with his back to the tables. He shot a glance at us when we entered but paid no further attention. What caught my eye was the cook. I’d expected to see the crusty old man behind the grill scowling and cursing up a storm. Instead, a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled up in a bun was taking care of the orders.
Kuhl rose from his seat and gave Anna and me big hugs. Anna sat with her back toward the door while I’d taken the chair to the left of her. I was comfortable with my back against the side wall. Kuhl, with his foot, pushed a bag over next to my chair and said, “These are yours.”
“Everything go as planned?” I asked.
“No problems on my end. I talked with Maximillian. What’s the story with Minnie?”
“My purpose for the visit was two-fold and would tie up the loose ends. The picture evidence you had secured I wanted to be delivered to Landers. Before we dropped them from a local postmark, Minnie’s fingerprints had to be on them. In my opinion, she was the anonymous caller who contacted Landers. Secondly, I felt I owed it to Minnie to let her know she was free of her abusive husband. I figured she’d say good riddance to him and thank-you to us after she looked at the photos.”
“What went wrong?”
“I had a dream that a piece of the truth was hidden. A voice in the dream said, ‘No peace without justice—no justice without truth,’ but I didn’t know where to find the fact that remained.”
Kuhl nodded, but I knew he didn’t understand. Neither he nor Anna had dreams like I’ve experienced.
“Minnie held the hidden truth about Dawn. She wasn’t the same person that I knew. It came out when we visited with her that she’d strangled Dawn out of a perverted sense of jealousy. Duke had painfully manipulated Minnie through years of abuse into what she had become. I saw no recourse but to deliver justice for Dawn.”
The young waitress made her way to our table with ice water and menus in hand.
“Where’s the cook, the old guy that was here last time?” I asked.
She hemmed and hawed while searching for an answer. Finally she replied, “He’s gone.”
The tone of her voice and the change in her demeanor spoke to me louder than muttering of words before she answered. Ther
e was more to the story, and I was all the more inquisitive.
“Is he gone for the day or gone for good?”
Looking toward her order pad to avoid eye contact she sheepishly said, “Oh he’s gone for good.”
“What’d he do, get himself in trouble?”
“That’s for sure,” she said. “I’ll take your orders when you’re ready.”
“Can we have a few minutes?” Anna asked.
The waitress said she’d be back and moved to the other table of patrons before slipping in behind the glass display case where the register was located. She picked up her cell phone, but that was as far as she got when she noticed me on the other side of the register from her. I whispered, “What’d he do?”
“I was told not to talk about it.”
“Of course you were.” I let a smile slip out. “But what did that old guy do to get himself in a jam?”
“Bad pictures of little kids I hear. I don’t know if that’s true and I don’t want to know. He was creepy.”
I nodded and said, “I’ve been around—my gut sensed there was something wrong with this guy, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Thanks for filling me in on what you heard. By the way, what was his name?”
“Olin Boe.”
“Got it.”
Too often I’d felt my thoughts and dream world were out of sync with reality, but confirmations such as this brought a sense of justification. Revelations of this nature allowed me to realize I was on target. In the event that Olin ‘slime bucket’ Boe gets off of the charges through a technicality of law or goes to jail for too few years, I’d be watching. If whatever power directs my path wants him dead, he’ll end up as a project. I wanted to tell the others what I’d discovered, but it would appear as gloating.
Hugs and kisses were passed around our little group as we parted with fond and heartfelt goodbyes.
“I want to ask one more favor,” Kuhl said. “Allow me a ten-minute head start before you and Anna take off.”
Kuhl wasn’t the kind of guy that dropped his guard because a mission ended. He lived every day expecting to battle enemies at the drop of a hat. We gave a quick wave and Kuhl exited the diner. He strolled out into the parking lot but not directly to his van. I watched as he backtracked to his van and moments later pulled away toward the frontage road.
“When we’re done here I need to take a trip to my trailer and check things out.”
“I have time to go with you.”
“Not necessary. I need to call the lady I’ve had keeping an eye on my place and let her know I’m back in town. I’ll grab some clothes and the mail then head back to your place.”
“Our Place!”
“That’s what I said, our place.”
At Anna’s condo, she gave me a gentle kiss and said there was more where that came from if I hurried. Noon wasn’t the best time to travel across Portland. From the northwest tip of the city to the outer corridor to the southeast wouldn’t be a fast trip. It was a long route regardless of the flow of traffic. I fired up the Avenger and edged out into traffic.
At one-fifteen I called Shelly from my trailer’s driveway. She wasn’t happy about the short notice but when I mentioned I was back and wanted to settle up, she said she’d be right over. I figured while I waited for her to arrive I’d round up my clothes.
At the front door, I was greeted once again by a business card from Brandon A. Ware. He must be checking every day. If that’s the case, it’s only a matter of time until we have a face-to-face meeting. I stuffed it in my pocket and went inside the trailer. I grabbed an old bug-out bag and filled it with my favorite casual wear then carried it to my car. After tossing the bag into the back seat, I was about to shut the door when the neighbor lady appeared across the trailer park road. Her walk was brisk. There wasn’t a smile on her face. Under her arm, she carried a brown paper grocery bag.
“Walter, I have your mail.”
“Thank you, Shelley, what’s the bill?”
“You’ve paid me more than the agreed amount. Let’s call it even.”
She gave the impression she was in a hurry to leave or that something was terribly wrong. I re-engaged her to keep her from leaving abruptly. “I can’t tell you how much that’s appreciated. It was an expensive trip to Mexico.”
Her scowl became more pronounced, “Where in Mexico?”
Shelley wasn’t one to question my comings and goings in the past. Someone had put a bug in her ear, and I was the recipient of that ill will. I needed to come up with a good story to pacify whatever her concern. “I was doing research on the Yucatán Peninsula for a National Geographic piece. I think you’ll enjoy it if and when it’s published.”
Slowly the corners of her mouth turned upward accompanied by a slight sigh. “There’s been a police officer asking questions about you and canvasing the trailer park.”
“Was it a guy named Brandon Ware?”
“Yes, that was him.”
“You can relax Shelley. Ware is not a cop he’s a PI and there’s nothing criminal going on to worry about.” I tossed out a chuckle to put her mind at ease. “He’s been papering my door for weeks, maybe longer. He hasn’t left me any messages, so I don’t know what it’s about, maybe details in one of the stories I wrote struck a chord with him. Like I said, I don’t know, but I’m going to follow-up with him now that I’m back.” I pulled Ware’s business card from my pocket and pointed to his title of Private Investigator.
“Thank God, I was worried you were in trouble.”
“Quite the opposite. Ware is probably after my help.”
I planned on paying Shelley an extra hundred bucks as a tip. I pulled a small wad of twenties I’d folded in half from my pants pocket, but she was adamant the gesture wasn’t necessary. I remembered her mentioning on more than one occasion how much she liked my six tree-size yard planters. They were meaningless to me, and I’d never used them. They’d accompanied the trailer at purchase, and I wanted to get rid of them. I told Shelley I planned to sell the trailer and move out of state. If I bring those planters over could you give them a good home?”
“Thank you, I will.”
I pulled my ‘57 Chevy pickup out and hooked up my travel trailer. I would be able to load the trailer with odds and ends I wouldn’t be in need of for the time being until we found a house to move into. Portland is a city with many storage lots for RV’s, fifth-wheels, and travel trailers. I’d passed a lot near the condo that had the appropriate level of security to meet my needs. I figured once the trailer was loaded I’d park it along with the ‘57 until we secured a home.
I separated items that I couldn’t live without and loaded them into the Avenger. The next couple hours I boxed thousands of newspaper articles and research materials I’d collected over the years. Only occasionally was I distracted by a memory.
I’d begun the loading process, shuttling boxes into the trailer when a blue Chevy Impala pulled in behind the Avenger. The brightness of the sun’s glare from the front windshield made seeing the driver impossible. However, my hackles rose. The Impala could pass for a cop car.
A heavy set man stepped from the car. I had to control my reactions. Brandon A. Ware and I had never officially met, but I recognized him immediately. If I wasn’t careful, he’d see he was familiar to me. I put the box down on the porch and awaited his approach.
“Hello.” His warm smile and friendly demeanor would not throw me off guard.
I responded, “I don’t need any salesmen or religious door knockers.”
“I assure you I’m not here for either of those reasons.”
“I didn’t mean to come off unfriendly mister, but it’s my first day back and I want to get some of my junk cleaned up.”
“I understand. I promise not to take up too much of your time. I have a couple questions that I hope you can help me with?”
“Shoot.”
He extended his hand, “I’m Brandon Ware.” His big mitt nearly encompassed my hand as we fulfilled the cus
tomary greeting.
“I’m investigating a cold case.” Ware broke eye contact as he opened the leather bound notepad he had with him. I understood why Shelley might have thought he was a cop if he used the same language with her as he had with me. A person who drives up in a vehicle resembling a cop car, wearing a suit and tie and tossing out words like “investigating” sounds like a cop.
I decided two could play the game. “You a cop?” I wanted to hear him say it.
“No, I represent a private interest.”
Anna had mentioned that Ware was notoriously difficult for the media circus to work with when he was with the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Department. In my opinion, his no-nonsense dealings had earned him kudos. I admired many of the qualities and principles he’d displayed.
“You are a journalist, correct?”
“I’m a feature writer. What’s my occupation have to do with your cold case?”
“History, Mister Goe. I want to have my facts straight.”
I could see inside the notebook pad Ware held open with one of my business cards in the plastic sleeve. The only way he could have obtained it was from a project I’d worked. It was the only time I’d passed any out. He didn’t make reference to it, but I was sure he intended for me to see it and gauge my reaction.
Ware had no authority to compel me to talk. I’d learned from the criminals to always shut up and lawyer up. I disdained lawyers, and Ware had a ways to go before I needed one. But I could shut up and make his job more difficult. “I don’t have time for this right now. You can see I’m busy.”
Ware looked at the trailer hooked to my pickup. “Yes, busy packing for a long trip?”
“Like I said, I’m busy right now.”
“Next time then.” His words were short and clipped and I felt certain from the forbidding look on his face, being friendly would no longer be an option when our paths crossed again in the future.
Blood Appeal Page 30
