Dead Float (13 page)

“Hoping?”

“I've been told to stay local by Escalante and Dorn. I'll have to get their okay, unless something breaks in the case.”

Daina winced. “Forgot about that. I hope it works out. She'll appreciate it, I'm sure.” She smiled and met my eyes. “You're wearing the good news, Cal. You have this glow.”

I nodded. “Right. That explains why I never win at poker.”

We shared a laugh, and just like that I felt something shift between us, a sort of acknowledgment, unspoken, of our mutual attraction.

We both carried on like nothing had happened, and after we wrapped up and she'd left, it didn't take me long to start questioning. Face it, I told myself. Your track record's not good. I pushed down feelings of anticipation tinged with curiosity and even a nub of excitement. After all, a relationship was the last thing I needed, something I'd promised myself to avoid.

Keep your head in the game, I told myself.

Chapter Twenty-seven

When I got back from lunch, I googled “Streeter, South Carolina politics” and learned that Streeter's father, Paxton K., had been a prominent state senator for over thirty years before forming a foundation that supplies disadvantaged kids with laptops and tablets. The only other thing I learned was that Andrew had been a standout linebacker on the Citadel gridiron. Nefarious family ties or interest in railroads? No such luck.

I had just wrapped up a short appointment with a woman facing her second DUI charge when I heard the sound of car doors opening and then snapping shut out front. I rotated in my chair and pushed the blinds to the side just in time to see Bull Dorn in mirrored sunglasses pull up his trousers, scratch his crotch, and nod to someone outside my field of view, presumably Escalante. A portable blue light pulsed on the roof of the unmarked sedan.

I opened the door and stepped out into the afternoon glare. Behind the unmarked sedan, two uniformed officers were getting out of a blue-and-white with the Yamhill County Sheriff's seal on the door. It was their jurisdiction, after all. Further back, the same evidence van used at the river was pulling in along with a cherry red Miata. Deb Fitzhugh, a lawyer from McMinnville whom I knew professionally, got out of the Miata. Cars slowed on 99W to rubberneck, and two customers came out of the bakery across the street to watch. I could see my friends Tim and Aurora, the owners, watching from inside.

“Welcome to Dundee, officers,” I said with a smile I hoped didn't look forced. My palms were already sweaty, but I wasn't going to give them an ounce of satisfaction. “Is this an official visit, or should I put on coffee?”

Dorn fell a step behind Escalante, who, ignoring my question, took off his Ray-Bans and said, “Mr. Claxton, I have a warrant here to search these premises along with your residence.” This is in connection with the murder of Harold Bruckner.” He handed me a sheaf of papers on a clipboard and turned to acknowledge Fitzhugh, who was walking up to join us. “This is—”

“I know her,” I interrupted. “Hi, Deborah, I assume you're the special master for this deal.” She nodded and forced an awkward smile. When a lawyer's office is searched in Oregon, the judge signing the search warrant appoints a so-called “special master” to ensure client confidentiality is not violated. The job had fallen to Deb Fitzhugh, although it was clear she wasn't relishing the task. No lawyer likes to see one of their own in trouble.

By this time, a small crowd—make that a large crowd for Dundee—had gathered across the street. I recognized all of them, but I tried not to let it bother me. I knew the drill. The public spectacle and the embarrassment were all part of a play to rattle me. I invited the entourage into my office and read over the documents carefully. They were looking for physical evidence and any correspondence between me and the persons who were present at the murder scene. I could live with all of that.

When I'd finished reading, Dorn put his face up to mine. “When we finish up, we'd like to have another chat with you, hotshot.” I could see myself in his glasses and turned my head slightly to avoid his breath, which was flavored by stale cigarette smoke and something less pleasant in his nasal passages.

I was anxious to get this over with. “Fine. Tell you what. We can save time if you get started on my house now, too. I'll stay here, but I can probably arrange to have someone meet you there to represent me. Although I didn't want to impose this on my friend, I knew Hiram Pritchard would be a good stand-in. No lawyer but a damn quick study and a stickler for detail, he could hold his own after I briefed him on the warrant. I speed-dialed his direct line, and he picked up on the third ring.

After I briefed him on the situation, he said, “So, the Visigoths are at the gate.”

“You might say that, although the Visigoths were a sensitive lot compared to these guys.”

He chuckled. “I'll have to rearrange some things. I'll be there shortly.”

Twenty minutes later he pulled up with the top down in his vintage Saab. By this time, the crowd across the street had nearly doubled. They were obviously waiting for some sort of resolution, like them cuffing me and stuffing me into a patrol car.

I went over the key points of the search warrant with Hiram. Summing up, I told him, “Just remember, they aren't allowed to even browse through anything that's not within the scope we just discussed. If you have
any
questions, call me.” I thought about Bruckner's files—the ones I'd hidden up by the garden—and little spiders of fear began crawling down my back. Why didn't I just burn the damn things?

Dorn and Escalante had divided the chores, with Escalante opting to supervise the search team at my office. He maintained a poker face, but I could see the enthusiasm drain from him as the search droned on without any payoff.

The group that searched my office finished at about six that night. I worried they would confiscate my computer, which would have shut down my law practice. But they simply copied my hard drive and made photocopies of some of my written files pertaining to the fishing trip. Other than that, they hadn't put a thing into evidence.

The search team at the Aerie hadn't finished, and they were having no better luck. They knocked off at the same time, locked up my house, posted a guard, and left. I spent the night on Hiram's futon with Archie sleeping on the floor next to me. The next morning I had a cup of coffee with my host and headed for my place. I got there just before Dorn and the three-member search team arrived. Escalante wasn't with them.

I was sitting on the rocker on the front porch talking to the guard when they drove up. They climbed the front steps, stone-faced. “Top of the morning, gentlemen,” I said. “Has anybody calculated what this is costing the taxpayers in Jefferson County?”

Dorn shot me a withering look that caused Archie to growl, but no one said a word.

The search ended around ten-thirty. I didn't have to sign for anything except some useless computer records and another fishing knife—the one I used for years before Claire gave me the one now in their possession. I figured the knife was a means of saving face, allowing them to claim they hadn't come back completely empty-handed. I was still on the rocker when Dorn came up and said, “We're taking you in for questioning now. Would you come with me, please?”

Instantly wary of his formality, I said, “Where's the interview?”

“We'll use the facilities in Newberg. My partner's waiting for us.”

He descended the stairs and walked toward his car. I followed him, speaking to his back. “I need to feed my dog and give him some water before we go.”

Dorn turned, looked down at Arch then back at me. “Fuck the mutt. We need to get on the road, Claxton.”

A small flame of anger flared in my gut and threatened to fill my chest. I scrambled to contain it, swallowing an urge to invite the detective to try an impossible biological act. “It'll just take a moment. The food's right inside the kitchen door.”

Dorn paused for a moment, as if considering my request, his eyes hiding behind the mirrored glasses, a muscle twitching along his right jawline. “He said, “We're moving out, hotshot. The mutt's not my concern.”

I folded my arms across my chest. Archie moved in front of me and issued a low, guttural warning. “Hush, big boy,” I told Arch, then to Dorn, “I'm not going anywhere until my dog's taken care of.”

Dorn smiled, took a step back and unbuttoned his blazer to show the service revolver on his hip. “Turn around, put your hands on the car and spread 'em.”

“Are you kidding me?” I shot back, my voice rising. Archie growled again, with more feeling this time.

“I said, turn around and spread 'em.” He put his hand on the grip of his gun. “And if you don't back your dog off, I'll put a bullet in his head.”

I stood there for a moment in disbelieving silence, shaking my head. The reality that the guy was a wacko was sinking in, and I sure as hell didn't want anything to start between him and my dog. I snapped my fingers and pointed at the ground. “Archie, lie down, boy, and
stay
.” Then I turned around, placed my hands on the hood of the car and submitted to the search.

When he finished, Dorn slipped a pair of plastic handcuffs on my wrists and ratcheted them down, pinching skin against bone and said, “Standard procedure for taking in a murder suspect, hotshot. Can't be too careful, you know.” Then he recited my Miranda rights. Even though I was not being formally arrested, Dorn knew that if he didn't read me my rights I would be able to challenge the admissibility of the interview down the road.

As we rolled down the driveway I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of Archie, who was still where I'd commanded him to lay, an anxious look on his face.

I was feeling anxious myself. Not only was I murder suspect number one, but now I was in a full-on conflict with a sociopath masquerading as a sheriff's detective. What else could go wrong?

Chapter Twenty-eight

I cooled my heels for better than forty minutes in the interview room at the Yamhill County Sheriff's Station in Newberg. I considered simply refusing to talk. That's certainly what a lawyer would have advised me to do. But I wanted to see what they had, and I also wanted to apprise them of what I'd learned. Maybe I had a shot at convincing them that Henry Barnes' death on the highway outside Madras was tied to the killing of Hal Bruckner. Maybe I could get them to see how perfectly it fit with my theory of the Bruckner murder.
Maybe
.

I was standing when they came in, each carrying full cups of hot coffee. The aroma hit me like a brick in the head, but I wasn't about to ask for any. The day was half-shot, but Escalante still looked fresh as a daisy in a starched white shirt, creased slacks, and maroon paisley tie. His glistening black hair was sharply parted and his mustache neatly trimmed. Dorn, on the other hand, looked like he had spent the night in his car. The rim of his shirt collar was frayed and discolored, and there was a coffee stain on his right sleeve and a small, black-edged hole above his pocket from a cigarette ember. His face was flushed, his cheeks pocked like the surface of the moon.

“Have a seat, Claxton,” Dorn said as our eyes met. He nimbly retrieved a cigarette out of a nearly empty package, lit up, and blew smoke in my direction. The smoke settled on me, and I stifled an urge to come across the table and slap the cigarette out of his mouth. While this was playing out in my head, Escalante was reciting the date, time, and place of the interview for the small tape recorder that was perched on the table between us like a referee.

“We'd like to go back over portions of your statement, Mr. Claxton,” Escalante began. But instead of going back over “portions” of my statement, Escalante started back at the beginning. For the next two hours I found myself explaining, once again, what had happened out there on the Deschutes in mind-numbing detail. Finally, Escalante got around to my relationship with Alexis. “Mr. Claxton,” he began, “during your, ah, liaisons with Mrs. Bruckner did you ever threaten Mr. Bruckner or indicate you would like to do him bodily harm?”

“Absolutely not.” I stiffened involuntarily in my chair.

Dorn eyed me. “Come on, Claxton, Bruckner was no angel, was he? A mean drunk, right? You all jealous and wanting to protect the little missus.”

“I said I never threatened Hal Bruckner.”

“Okay,” Escalante continued in a tone that had turned irritatingly dulcet, “but Mrs. Bruckner is suggesting otherwise.”

I remained silent.

“She said your feelings for her were intense, that you were probably jealous of her husband,” Escalante continued. “You know, Mr. Claxton, it would be a shame for you to take all the heat on this. Maybe there was more to your relationship than you're currently telling us? We can understand how hard it must be.”

I laughed out loud. “You're off base, Escalante. We had a brief, physical fling. That was it. No jealousy, no intensity, no nothing. Look, gentlemen, if you're trying to play Mrs. Bruckner and me off against each other, it won't work. I'm a busy man. Either let's get on to something substantive or let's call it a day. This is a waste of everybody's time.”

Escalante paused, and Dorn leaned back in his chair. I saw my opening and kept talking. “Look, I know you're investigating the murder of Henry Barnes, which occurred after the Bruckner's murder on the same morning. I'm certain the two killings were committed by the same
person.” Dorn came forward in his chair, but Escalante waved him off before he could cut in. “That person came in on the northbound Barlow Northern freight train— number 504—from the Madras yard, got off at the Kaskela switching yard, killed Bruckner, hopped on the southbound 1520 and got back off at the Madras yard. Check the schedules like I did. It fits like a glove. He'd left a stolen car near the Madras yard, but when he returned,
it
had been stolen, so he carjacked Barnes, left him dead on the side of the road, and drove Barnes' car back to Portland, where he abandoned it at the corner of Milwaukie and Knapp in Westmoreland.”

Dorn came out of his chair. “How do you know where Barnes' car was left?” he shot back with more surprise than I'm sure he meant to show.

“I have my sources in Portland, too.” Dorn started to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. I went on to remind them about the physical evidence of an intruder on the path between Whiskey Dick and Kaskela and the fact that I'd supplied them with the name of my skateboarder witness. It felt a little sketchy as I laid it all out, but it was all I had—at least all I was willing to share. I sold it as hard as I could.

Escalante actually made a couple of notes while I talked, but Dorn looked more and more like a hypertension poster child. Finally he switched off the tape recorder. “We're done here. Listen, Claxton, the only reason your sorry ass isn't in the Jeff County jail
right now
is that our DA doesn't have the balls to arrest you. So get the hell out of my sight.”

Looking directly at Escalante, I said, “It hangs together, detective. Think about it.”