Dead Float (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

Philip left early the next morning for Madras. I sat out on the side porch enjoying a second cappuccino as a light breeze blew crisp morning air off the valley. Sonny Rollins was holding forth on the outside speakers when Archie let me know we had visitors. I padded around in my comfy moccasins to the front of the house just in time to see Detectives Escalante and Dorn get out of their car. A uniformed sheriff's deputy from Yamhill County got out of a blue-and-white that had pulled in behind them.

“Morning, gentlemen,” I said in a melodious tone.

Dorn folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the car, and smirked.

Escalante approached me with a clipboard in his hand. “Mr. Claxton, we've got a new warrant here to search your storage unit in Dundee.”

I took the clipboard and read the warrant through carefully. “My storage unit? You're kidding, right?”

Dorn made a grunting sound. Escalante said, “No, sir.”

“You acting on a tip? Did a little bird tell you something?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dorn straighten. I couldn't see Escalante's eyes through his Ray-Bans, but his eyebrows rose slightly before he caught himself. He said, “We'd like to get this done straightaway, if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Claxton. We called the facility but got a recording. We assume you have a key.”

Archie moved from my side past Escalante to position himself in front of Dorn. He stood looking at the detective with his head cocked slightly to one side. Dorn shifted his stance but didn't say anything. I called Arch back to my side before saying, “Okay, I'll get the key. You're wasting your time, but it's your show, detectives. Knock yourselves out.”

Dundee Self-Storage consisted of three rows of storage units on a half acre of asphalt just off the 99W on the east side. I'd stored some belongings there I didn't want at the Aerie but wasn't quite willing to part with after the move from L.A. The security system at the facility consisted of a locked gate at the entrance for which I had a key and a four-digit combination lock on the retractable door to the unit. The place was deserted when we arrived, which was a relief. I'd already had enough public exposure with the cops to last a lifetime. I let us in the gate and unlocked my unit while Dorn and Escalante donned booties and latex gloves in preparation for the search.

Boxes and furniture were packed in the small enclosure along with an old steamer trunk I'd used to store some of Claire's childhood toys and the small amount of family memorabilia I hadn't managed to destroy during my bouts of depression following Nancy's death. Dorn and Escalante entered the small space and set to work like a couple of archeologists on a dig. King Tut's tomb, maybe, judging from a palpable sense of anticipation emanating from them both.

I glanced at my watch, wondering how long this was going to take. I had a busy day lined up.

Fortunately, I hadn't squirreled away that much junk, and it couldn't have been more than thirty minutes when the only item left to search was the steamer trunk. I definitely got the impression they had saved the trunk for last. Wheezing with exertion, Dorn knelt down next to it, striking a kind of bovine pose. Escalante stood behind him, hands on his hips. Out came teddy bears, framed certificates, basketball and soccer trophies and a half dozen family photo albums. Detritus of a former life. I fought back a surge of emotion, even though I'd seen it all the night before.

When Dorn had emptied out the trunk and it was clear they'd found nothing, he struggled back on his feet and turned to Escalante. “What the fuck? There isn't a goddamn thing in this shithole.”

Escalante shook his head and leveled his eyes at me. “This isn't your idea of a joke, is it, Claxton?”

I raised my hands, palms out. “I enjoy your company, gentlemen, but not that much.”

The disappointment coupled with my sarcasm must've pushed Dorn over some kind of line. He faced me, met my eyes with a mocking, cocksure look and said the thing he figured would provoke me. “I heard your old lady killed herself down in L.A. Ate a bottle of pills.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Heard you were such an uptight prick you drove her to it.”

The comment struck like a blow, separating my mind from my body. I heard myself laugh in disbelief that he'd actually said that and felt my face flush with anger as my fists clenched involuntarily at my side. My eyes narrowed, and I spoke slowly through tight lips. “You need to watch your mouth, Dorn.”

He cocked his head and smiled, as if considering my remark. Then in a move that caught me completely off guard, he clamped my shoulders with his huge hands, yanked me forward and kneed me hard in the groin. As my head dropped he smashed my bowed neck with the base of his fist. I dropped to my knees and rode a runaway wave of screaming pain.

“That's what we do to wiseasses in Madras, hotshot.”

“Bull! Stop it!” It was Escalante. He sounded twenty miles away.

I knelt there looking at Dorn's shoes. Tiny flecks of unbuffed black polish came into focus. His right sole was beginning to delaminate at the toe. I took a breath and tried to push myself up, but there was nothing there. I took a deeper breath and choked on the inhaled dust. Finally I forced myself up to face him, weaving like a boxer after an eight count. Dorn's arms were at his sides, palms facing me and fingers wagging in an invitation to try something.

I'm not particularly proud of what I did next. But in the moment it seemed my only choice. I began to turn away from him in a gesture of surrender. Then I whirled around and caught him flush on the nose with a straight right.
Pop.
The sound reverberated like I'd struck a ripe melon. Cartilage snapped and flattened beneath my fist.

The punch staggered but didn't fell him. “My nose! You broke my nose, you bastard! You broke it,” he screamed as blood poured through the fingers of his left hand, which he'd clamped over the wound. With his right hand he drew his service revolver and leveled it at me. The barrel looked like the muzzle of a Howitzer, and the tips of the unchambered rounds glinted back at me in the attic light like rodent's eyes. I froze, waiting for a bullet to rip through my chest. For the second day in a row, I wasn't sure whether I was going to live or die.

But before Dorn squeezed off, Escalante jumped between us. “Enough! Both of you. Holster your weapon, Bull.”

Dorn didn't move, and neither did I. “Keep out of this, Vince. Just get the fuck out of the way.”

What Vincent Escalante did next probably saved my life. “I'm not moving, Bull,” he said. “You'll have to shoot both of us.” No one moved for what seemed an eternity. I heard my heart thumping in the silence.

Dorn finally holstered his gun, fished a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressed it to his nose. “Cuff him and get him the fuck out of here.”

Escalante turned to me. He'd drawn his weapon, as well, but hadn't raised it. “Mr. Claxton, please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“Look, detective, you witnessed what happened. You'd better think about this.”

“No choice, Mr. Claxton. You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer.” Then he snapped the cuffs on and read me my rights. The cuffs didn't pinch this time.

Escalante put me in their unmarked. “Listen, there're some things you need to know.” I was speaking fast now. I didn't want Dorn to interrupt us. “There was an attempt on my life on the Hood River yesterday. Almost got my throat cut. I filed a police report, and I have a witness. You can check it out. I got a partial look at my attacker. He fits the description of the guy the young skaters saw near the switching yard. You know, the guy I told you killed Henry Barnes as well as Hal Bruckner. Also, somebody broke into my house night before last. That was your tipster. I'm being framed, detective.”

His chin came up slightly, and he started to speak just as Dorn came up behind us holding his blood soaked handkerchief to his nose. Escalante broke eye contact with me and looked at his partner. “I'll keep that in mind,” was all he said.

It was a slow day at the Yamhill County Jail, so I was processed through in twenty minutes. Anger overrode the anxiety I should have felt about the deteriorating mess I was in. I called a bail bondsman I knew in Portland and told him I was going to need a good chunk of change for bail. I'd know the exact amount after my arraignment in the morning. “Think in the range of fifty to one fifty,” I said and shuddered at the thought of losing ten percent of that. Next I called Murray Felding, the best defense attorney I knew, and told his assistant I needed to see him straightaway. It was clearly time for me to hire someone to help me work my way out of this situation.

Murray had a court case and came in around eight that night. A thin, energetic man with a penchant for three-piece suits, he had small, intense eyes that seemed in constant motion. I gave him the broad outline of my situation, then described the incident that got me arrested. He took detailed notes and said he'd meet me at the arraignment, scheduled for ten-thirty the next morning. He took photographs of the reddish-purple bruise forming below my beltline and the contusion on the back of my neck.

After he left, I lay on my bunk listening to the echoing chatter of the evening's guests at the jail—curses, laughs, and the whimpering of someone in acute withdrawal. The last time I'd spent a night in jail, I'd been arrested on suspicion of murder, but I beat that wrap in a hurry. The fact that this was a lesser charge didn't make me feel any better.

Things quieted down when the lights went out, and I found myself thinking back on the frantic search Philip and I had conducted at the storage unit the night before, a search that started when we discovered that two items were missing—the key to the storage facility and an attached tab bearing the combination for the lock on the unit.

The discovery was all Philip's doing. He was poking around in the desk in my study when he held up a ring of miscellaneous keys, and almost as an afterthought asked, “Anything missing?”

I glanced at the keys and shook my head. “We're looking for something
planted
.”

He shrugged and tossed the keys back in the drawer.

We were searching upstairs when I suddenly thought about my storage unit. I went back downstairs and checked the key ring. My stomach kind of dropped when I realized the gate key and tab with the combination were gone. I stood there for a few moments thinking about the last time I'd used them. No doubt in my mind—they should've been on the ring.

When I called Philip down and told him he asked, “How would this guy know what the key is for?”

“There's a tab attached to it with Dundee Self-Storage along with the number of the unit written on it.”

“Do you have a spare?”

“Yep. In my glove compartment.”

We finished searching the house without finding anything suspicious and waited for the cover of darkness to check out the storage unit. In less than fifteen minutes we had located the plant at the bottom of the steamer trunk—my fleece jacket that had gone missing at the river, the right sleeve stained with dried blood—Hal Bruckner's, no doubt—and in the jacket pocket, a handsome gold ID bracelet with thick chain links and Hal Bruckner's initials engraved on it in an elegant script. I moved under the light and read out loud the inscription on the back: “To Hal from Alexis with much love. Maui, 2000.” The simplicity of the inscription struck me as heartfelt, and I was surprised to feel a pang of pity for the new widow.

“This is the bracelet Alexis was talking about out on the Deschutes, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Philip responded. “Man, this creeps me out.”

I felt a wave of revulsion as the brutality of that morning on the Deschutes came back. “I think we found what we're looking for. Now the question is, what in the hell do we do with it?”

We went back to the Aerie and had a beer while my jacket burned in the fireplace. We discussed what to do with the bracelet. When I told Philip we needed to get rid of it, he said, “The man is dead. The bracelet belongs to his widow. This is a matter of respect. I'll keep it. When this is over, you can give it back to her if she's not in jail.”

I looked at the inscription again. He was right. The bracelet would mean a lot to Alexis. “Okay, but make sure it's well hidden.”

I walked Philip to his truck. He got in and rolled down the window. “So, dodged another bullet, huh?”

“Looks like it. If they'd found the coat and bracelet, they would have arrested me on the spot. And being arrested for murder's bad news. There's no possibility of bail, so you ride out the whole run-up to trial in jail—twelve, eighteen months.”

Philip shook his head slowly and exhaled. “But I don't really get this. I mean, first off how could anyone possibly know you had something stashed in that trunk?”

I thought for a moment. “Well, the so-called anonymous tipster probably told Dorn and Escalante that they had seen me putting something in my storage unit. After all, I'm a person of interest in the Bruckner murder. Probably said it looked a little suspicious and that they were just doing their civic duty.”

“Okay, but who would be stupid enough to keep incriminating evidence around, even if it's hidden away?”

“Yeah, I would argue in court that this stunt was too dumb to be believed. But the prosecution would turn right around and say I'd kept them as souvenirs or some damn thing. Murderers do that all the time, even ones that should know better. It would have been a deep hole to dig out of, believe me”

“I see your point,” Philip said as he started the big diesel engine in his truck. “Well, in any case you owe me, partner. That makes two times in two days I saved your ass.”

I laughed. “I'll owe you even more when you forget this night ever happened.”