No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  I gazed down the beach. Claire was dancing thigh deep in the frigid surf in an attempt to coax Archie into the water. My dog was having none of it. Unlike most Aussies, the only water Archie liked was the kind he could drink out of a bowl. I wasn’t even sure he could swim. I laughed. “She’s fine. Staying a while longer to give me a hand in this investigation.”

  The line went quiet for a few seconds, a tacit indication of Nando’s disapproval. “Noble endeavors can be the most dangerous. Be careful, Calvin.”

  * * *

  Claire’s job that afternoon was to find out everything the internet could tell her about Condor Enterprises, the company Walter Sanders and Sonny Jenson owned at the time of Sonny’s death. I wanted that information before I met with Walter. I confess to an ulterior motive here—I figured a shit job like that might dampen her enthusiasm for an extended stay. Not that I didn’t love her company. Far from it. But the image of Howard Coleman’s hog-tied body kept coming back, reminding me of what Nando said.

  My job was to interview Marion the Librarian, also known as Ellen Dempsey. I reached her at the North Bend Library, and she agreed to speak with me during her lunch hour, suggesting we meet at the Mediterranean Café across the street from her place of employment. Arriving early, I stopped to read a plaque on a bronze statue as I walked up Union Avenue to the café. Louis J. Simpson—scion of an early timber and fishing magnate—founded the fair city of North Bend, I learned, and bequeathed a large swath of oceanfront land, including Cape Arago, to the state. That was back when timber and salmon seemed inexhaustible, and the earth was a degree and a half cooler. I looked at the beneficent face and wondered where Louis would have come down on the LNG controversy. Would he see the gas from coal tar as the next natural resource to exploit, or would he favor protecting the bay and its watersheds and tempering the planet’s fever? I had no answer.

  I was halfway through a cup of coffee when Ellen Dempsey entered the café wearing a pink blouse like she’d mentioned on the phone. The blouse had pictures of puppies on it, which she hadn’t mentioned. Mid-fifties, her no-nonsense face framed in a helmet of silver hair, she marched straight up to me and introduced herself. After ordering lunch—dolmathes for me and a lamb gyro for her—I thanked her for coming, but before I could say the next word she teared up. “My heart goes out to that young man, Mr. Claxton. I think it was a travesty that he was tried as an adult.” I nodded encouragement, and she brought her moist eyes up. They were clear and intelligent. “But I told the truth at the trial. I saw Kenny Sanders in that parking lot that night.”

  “Why did you notice him?”

  “I was the last customer out of the Jiffy Mart before they closed and was getting in my car when he drove up. He got out, and just for a second I thought it might be my nephew, Andrew. They’re both tall and blond. I didn’t say this at the trial, but that’s really why I remembered him. Anyway, he went up and rapped on the door, but they didn’t let him in.” She shook her head and allowed a weak smile. “I remember thinking he probably wanted to buy one of those stupid energy drinks.”

  “How close were you to him?”

  “Oh, I was parked across the lot, so maybe forty, fifty feet.”

  “Did you recognize the make of the car he was driving?”

  “Not at the time. I’m hopeless when it comes to cars. But I was able to pick it out—a blue Toyota Camry—at the Sheriff’s Office from a book they showed me. That make and model matched what Kenny was driving at that time.”

  “What caused you to come forward, Ellen?”

  “I saw his picture in the paper and thought I recognized him. I knew from the newspaper account that the murder happened around the time and place I saw him, so I called the sheriff’s office.”

  I had her take me through the way Wilson and Drake conducted the lineup from which she identified Kenny. I found no fault in the process—such as putting him in with a group of men with significantly different ages and/or physical characteristics—but when she finished, I said, “Did you see Kenny before the lineup?”

  She paused for a moment. “Why, yes, I did. When I came back the next day for the lineup, they happened to bring him in handcuffs down the hall where I was sitting. I didn’t say anything, of course. It was just a coincidence.”

  I exhaled a breath, shaking my head. “That was no coincidence. They wanted you to see him. That exposure predisposed you to pick him out of the lineup. It was a trick, guaranteed to make his the only familiar face in the group.”

  Her eyes expanded as she took that in, then her expression grew resolute. “It may have been a trick, Mr. Claxton, but I identified the right person. I’m sure of it.” She welled up again. “I didn’t want to have any part of that trial, but I felt…I felt it was my civic duty to tell what I saw, what I was positive I saw.”

  “Do you think Kenny Sanders killed Sonny Jenson?”

  Her lips started to quiver, and tears sprang from her eyes. “That’s just it. I don’t, Mr. Claxton, I don’t.” She pushed away from the table and walked out just as our plates arrived. The stuffed grape leaves were delicious, but I ate only one before I paid the bill and walked back to my car.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Rori said to a burly man with a shaved head and a beard resembling a worn Brillo pad. I had driven over to Coffee and Subversion to talk to her, and the man walked in just ahead of me. Her eyes were narrowed down, her face a hard mask of determination. “This is a no firearms zone. Out.”

  Burly smirked, and when he turned to face Rori I saw the semi-automatic in a holster strapped to a belt buried in his stomach flab. “Oregon’s an open carry state. You’re impinging on my Second Amendment rights.”

  Rori stepped up and got right in his face, the magenta streaks in her hair like flames. “And this is private property, so take your pop gun someplace else or I’ll call the cops.”

  Burly stepped back a full pace, his face contorted with indignation wrapped in hatred. “I have a God-given right to carry this sidearm, bitch.”

  Rori laughed and closed the space between them again. “You wouldn’t know a God-given right if it bit you on the ass. Now get out of my store.”

  “Fucking libtard,” he mumbled before turning and executing an ignominious retreat.

  Rori turned to me and shrugged. “I get these open carry boobs all the time. They usually put up a better fight than that.”

  My turn to laugh. “Next time tell them how you really feel.”

  She joined in the laughter, and after Anthony made us coffees, we went to her office. She studied me as I took a seat, saying, “You look serious, Cal. What’s up?”

  “I just finished talking to the librarian, Ellen Dempsey.” Rori’s face tightened. “The detectives pulled a sly one on her.” I described the walk-through ploy and the potential impact on an unwitting witness like Dempsey. Rori’s face relaxed a little. “That’s the good news.” I met her slate-blue eyes. “The bad news is I’m concerned that Kenny lied to me about not being at that convenience store.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Despite the sheriff’s clumsy attempt to manipulate her, I found Dempsey’s account credible. She got a good look at the person from about fifty feet and picked out the make, model, and color of the car he was driving. She thought at first he was her nephew, so it stuck in her mind. She wasn’t under any stress at the time, which accounts for a lot of misidentifications. No wonder the jury believed her.” I paused to let it sink in. “Did you talk to Kenny about telling me everything?”

  “Yes. I spoke with him yesterday. He got the message, Cal.”

  “Good. I’m going back to see him as soon as I can arrange it.”

  Recovering her composure, she said, “You’re not doubting his innocence, are you?”

  “Something’s off about this, and I need to know what it is.” She sta
rted to respond, but I cut her off. “Kenny mentioned that his supplier, a guy named Jerry Crawford, might have been getting his drugs from someone working at Sloat Trucking. What can you tell me about that?”

  “Like I told you before, some of the truckers are involved in the drug trade, but, you know, there’s a lot of that on the Oregon coast. Max Sloat runs the company with an iron fist and spreads a lot of money around the city and county, too. She’s never been accused of anything as far as I know.”

  “She?”

  “Maxine Sloat. Took over the company from her dad about fifteen years ago after he died in a boating accident. He and Maxine went out fishing, and only Maxine came back.” She paused for a moment. “My dad hated her old man. The talk—no, it wasn’t talk—the whispers were that he started abusing Max’s younger sister after his wife died. Anyway, Max took over the business and quadrupled it. Surprised the hell out of everyone.” Rori smiled and shook her head. “She’s a piece of work.”

  “Did Arnold Pierce dig into the Crawford angle? I mean, he sent Kenny off that night on what might have been a wild goose chase to ensure he wouldn’t have an alibi.”

  Rori’s face grew hard again. “Arnold didn’t follow up on much of anything. But I was less involved at that time. Stupid me thought Kenny was being well represented. Maybe you could talk to Crawford?”

  “Can’t do that. He died of an overdose six months ago.”

  “Oh. Another dead witness.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

  We left it at that, and as I was leaving Rori took my hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “Cal, Kenny didn’t kill Sonny Jenson. You’ve got to believe that.”

  I left without saying anything. I didn’t like playing the hardass, but I disliked being lied to even more.

  Chapter Eleven

  The wind died off that afternoon, the Pacific glassed over, and another big swell marched in from parts unknown, maybe Siberia. When I arrived back at the beach house, Claire announced, “We’re going over to Bastendorff Beach to eat and watch the surfers. I’ve got food, beer, and everything else we need packed up and ready to go, except for firewood. We can stop and get some on the way.” Archie loved picnics and danced around as if he understood every word Claire said. Or maybe it was just the word “food” he picked up on.

  A broad, sandy cove connecting Yoakam Point to the south jetty of the Coos Bay inlet, Bastendorff was one of the best surfing venues on the coast, according to my daughter. We arrived in the parking lot at the same time as a battered van that promptly disgorged two young men and two young women—twentysomethings in wet suits carrying surfboards that looked surprisingly short. As we unloaded, Claire smiled a greeting. “Surf looks good today. Are you guys local?”

  They all nodded, and one of the girls said, “Best spot on the coast, especially with a north swell like today.”

  Claire held the smile, which few mortals could resist. “Did you by any chance surf with Kenny Sanders?” The question came out of the blue, surprising me as much as them. A young man with a chiseled jawline and dark hair pulled into an unruly ponytail spoke first. “We all did. Kenny wa—is one of my best friends.” His eyes moved to me, then back to Claire. “Are you the two Rori Dennison hired to get him off?”

  Claire shot me a look that said “how the hell did he know that?” She hadn’t heard that news in Coos Bay travels fast. “Yes, we’re representing him,” she answered.

  “That’s cool,” chiseled jaw said. The others nodded in agreement.

  Claire quickly added, “You think he’s innocent?”

  Chiseled jaw didn’t hesitate. “Damn straight. I grew up with Kenny. He never killed that dude. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”

  “Yeah,” one of the young women interjected, “the only thing Kenny Sanders ever killed were the waves here at Bastendorff.”

  “Best damn goofy foot who ever surfed here,” the other young man chimed in.

  Claire got chiseled jaw’s name— Stu Foster—and gave him a card she fished from her wallet. The smile again. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Kenny. Call me at that number when you can talk.” Foster said he would, and the look on his face made it clear he would keep his word. The smile.

  As we followed them down to the beach, I said to Claire, “Nice work.”

  “I figured we might learn something from him.”

  “Agreed. By the way, what’s a goofy foot?” I grew up in Southern California, but the surfing bug never really bit me.

  She laughed. “A surfer whose stance is left foot back, right foot forward, which means that if he’s going to his right, like the break here, he has his back to the wave. It’s harder to surf that way if you’re going right.” She looked at me and added, “Did Stu’s response make you feel a little better?”

  I already briefed her on my talk with Marion the Librarian, and she knew it had shaken my confidence in Kenny’s innocence to some extent. I exhaled a long breath. “It shouldn’t have, but it did. Funny. We come out here and run into Kenny’s best friend just when I needed it. What were the chances?”

  Claire laughed again. “Synchronicity, Dad. The universe’s winking at you. They seemed straight up to me, and I don’t think they would’ve defended Kenny out of loyalty alone.”

  My gut said the same thing.

  The sun got lower, the waves got bigger, and finally there were just a handful of surfers still out, including the four we’d met. Paddling out was harrowing enough, but surfing the sheer green walls was a profile in physical courage—a near free fall at the takeoff, followed by a game of chicken as they cut back and forth, staying just ahead of the collapsing wave that threatened to engulf them. The juxtaposition of that raucous, joyous scene with the image of Kenny locked in a cell was stark and discomforting, and I was sure Claire was having similar thoughts.

  We’d found a good spot on the beach, made a fire ring with loose boulders, and soon had a blaze going. By the time the sun set and the surfers had all paddled in, we were sipping cold beer and cooking shish kabobs made with marinated chicken, onions, peppers, and mushrooms. Archie had snuggled in next to Claire and was watching her every move with doleful, coppery eyes, a shameless ploy to con a couple of chunks of chicken. He succeeded, of course.

  By the time we finished our meal, the sun had extinguished itself in the Pacific, leaving nothing but a thin, blood-red line above the horizon. Claire extracted a notebook from her backpack and squinted into the rapidly fading light. “Okay, here’s what I’ve got on Condor Enterprises. It’s a weird mash-up of businesses, sort of a mini-conglomerate, if there is such a thing. Sonny Jenson started a company fifteen years ago and grew it to a fleet of five fishing boats harbored in Charleston, three motels strung along the coast, and four laundromats. He and Walter Sanders joined forces in 2012 and named the company Condor Enterprises. Walter is a real estate broker, and they started investing in land in Coos and Douglas counties.”

  “Mimi Yoshida told me they sold some land to the Canadian company pushing the LNG pipeline—Bexar Energy, I think it’s called. She said they made a lot of money on the deal.”

  “Exactly.” Her face twisted up like she’d licked a lemon slice. “Nobody should make money on that fracked gas time bomb. California and Washington both turned the terminal down. If Oregon goes ahead, the facility will be the largest greenhouse gas polluter in the whole state just to refine the stuff to natural gas, and then it gets shipped and burned in the Far East.”

  I winced. “You and Rori need to talk.”

  “I’ve read her stuff. It’s spot-on. But it looks like the Feds are behind the project now, so they may get steamrolled. Anyway, Condor did cash in. In 2016—three years after Sonny was murdered—they announced the sale of five hundred and twenty-five acres of land at Jackson Point to Bexar, the Calgary-based oil and gas company pushing the deal. That rounded out a key piece of acreage nee
ded for the facility. Condor also sold them a number of parcels in southern Oregon on the projected route of the pipeline, if it gets built.”

  “Did Twila Jenson keep her share of Condor?”

  Claire shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s privately held, of course, and I couldn’t find anything relating to its current ownership.”

  “What do Condor’s holdings look like now?”

  She laughed. “Way different. The fishing boats, laundromats, and motels were liquidated. Now it’s a string of adult video and novelty shops, video lottery joints, and several payday loan businesses. I googled a couple of the adult shops.” The lemon face again. “They’re beyond gross.”

  “Did you run across anything of interest on Sonny?”

  “Sort of. Kenny may have thought he was an asshole, but he was a contributor to the Boys and Girls Club, started a sailing club for kids, that sort of thing. From all outside indications, he gave the impression of a model citizen, just like Kenny said.”

  “What about Walter Sanders?”

  “Nada. The man keeps a low profile.”

  At this point, we were working on dessert—roasted marshmallows. I liked mine golden brown and Claire preferred hers flambéd. Archie wasn’t interested. Claire peeled some charred skin off hers and popped the soft white core in her mouth. “So what do you think?”

  I studied the smoldering embers for a couple of beats. “I’m wondering where Condor got the money to buy all that land. I mean, their original holdings didn’t sound capable of spinning off that much cash, and banks usually shy away from real estate speculation.”

  “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “The shift in their business focus is curious, too.”

  Claire skewered another marshmallow and hoisted it over the embers. “Right. It’s definitely not the direction Mr. Civic Responsibility would have liked.”

  I bit into a perfectly cooked marshmallow and nodded. “Thanks to you, I’ll have some good questions for Walter Sanders and Twila Jenson.” I looked straight at my daughter, whose face was partially illuminated by the glow of the fire, the visible portions reminding me more of her mother than I would have wished. Suppressing a grin, I said, “If you hang around, there’ll be more of this kind of shit-work research, you know.”