Wrongful Death (18 page)

“Buenas tardes, señorita,”
the woman said. Then,
“Qué le pasa? Por qué está llorando tanto?”

Alex lowered her hands. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

U.S. ATTORNEY'S OFFICE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

TOM PENDERGRASS HUNG
up the phone and exhaled. He had been both disappointed and confused when Rachel Keane told him to make the settlement offer. There was no reason to settle. Sloane had no case.

“Government attorneys can never get too personally attached to a case,” she had said. But Pendergrass still felt like Charlie Brown about to kick a field goal when Lucy pulled away the ball. Pendergrass had seen his chance to impress slipping away and felt powerless to stop it.

But now Sloane’s client had teed up the ball again, rejecting the settlement, and Pendergrass was not about to miss a second chance to boot her complaint through the uprights, along with Sloane’s reputation. Contrary to Sloane’s smug opinion, Pendergrass would get the witness statements into evidence during the hearing on the motion to dismiss, and they would conclusively establish that Ford had died a soldier. Judge Natale would have no choice but to grant the motion.

Pendergrass reached for the phone to call Keane, but it rang before he could lift the receiver.

“Captain Pendergrass?” Pendergrass did not recognize the voice. Few had his number at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “This is Colonel Bo Griffin.”

ONE UNION SQUARE BUILDING
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

SLOANE HUNG UP
the telephone as Charles Jenkins walked into his office and sat in the chair across from his desk. Sloane remained standing.

“Godzilla looks ready to eat New York,” Jenkins said, referring to Carolyn.

“She was expecting a week off. Any word from Alex?”

Jenkins shook his head.

Sloane paced. “I’d feel better knowing they were okay.”

“Alex isn’t your typical girl next door; she can take care of them. We made this decision so you wouldn’t have to worry, so you could concentrate on what needs to be done.”

“It isn’t working.”

“We have no evidence you ever discussed Cabo wearing your jacket.”

“I don’t know that I didn’t.”

Jenkins nodded to the phone. “How did Pendergrass take the news?”

“As you would expect. He said the offer was a gift. The government will leave it on the table until the morning of the hearing. Then they’ll pull it.”

“When’s the hearing?”

“Tuesday.”

“That doesn’t leave much time.”

Sloane nodded. “Does that answer my next question?”

“I don’t know. What’s your next question?”

“You don’t have a lead.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Maybe I don’t want an answer.”

“I have a lead,” Jenkins said, defensive.

“Really?”

“No, but since you’re paying me, I thought it best to keep my employer happy.”

“You’re not making me happy.”

“Okay, try this. Cassidy was a part-time painter, probably somewhere in Maple Valley. Unfortunately, I’ve called every painter in the phone book. No one has any idea who the kid is.”

“That doesn’t sound like a lead.”

“A lead means a place to start. It’s a start. I asked a friend at the DMV to run him through the system. This guy sounds like a real prince. His license has been suspended twice for driving under the influence. I won’t bore you with the details. The pertinent information is the police pulled him over three weeks ago for running a red light, which led to driving with a suspended license.”

“So we know he was in the area as of three weeks ago.”

“And driving a 1986 white Chevy pickup.”

“What about a home address?”

“Not unless he’s living in a P.O. box.”

“So how do we find him?” Sloane asked.

“We drive out to Maple Valley and talk to the local police and businesses, and see if there’s a painting outfit that knows him.”

“If the locals know him, we could spook him.”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Not at the moment,” Sloane conceded.

“Then quit raining on my parade. Besides, I have a cover that never fails.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“I’m looking to give the kid money.”

Sloane stared out the window. Black clouds had amassed on the horizon. They’d bring rainfall by early afternoon. His interior office line rang—Carolyn.

“There’s a Colonel Bo Griffin on the phone. You have time for this bird?”

PUEBLO BONITO ROSE HOTEL
CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO

HE WATCHED HER
cross the lobby, stood, and walked in the direction of the bar. When she stepped through the door into the bathroom, he veered his course to the concierge.

“Hola,”
he said. “I’m looking for my wife. She said to meet her here—tall with long, dark hair and dark skin.”

“
Sí.
She was just here,” the woman said. “She’s in the bathroom.”

“Story of my life. Did she get everything taken care of, or do I need to give you my credit card?” He pulled out his wallet.

“No, señor. It’s all taken care of. You have reservations confirmed for two nights at the Grand Plaza in La Paz.”

“Terrific,” he said, knocking on the counter. “Thanks for your help.”

As he turned from the counter, he caught a glimpse of the bathroom attendant stepping into a door marked “Employees Only,” took out his phone, and contacted his partner.

“It’s like a fraternity party,” his partner said, confirming that Sloane’s wife and boy remained in the restaurant, although mingling at a table with eleven young men.

The man’s orders were to detain Sloane’s wife and son without incident. That meant waiting until they were free of the fraternity.
Their companion was not a target, but he had to be certain she had not somehow determined their presence at the pier and separated in order to call for help. Not that he had any real concern that was the case.

“They’re heading to the Grand Plaza in La Paz tonight,” he said. “We can intercept them there. Stay where you are. Alex Hart should be joining them shortly.”

He hung up and went to wait near the pond. Five minutes passed. Hart had not emerged from the bathroom. Sensing it had been too long, he took off his blue cap and sunglasses, picked up the newspaper, and strode toward the bathroom door as if engrossed in reading. When he pushed open the door to the ladies room, an attendant looked up at him.

“I’m sorry—” he started, trying to sound embarrassed. But rather than appear startled by his intrusion, the attendant’s eyes flickered as if she had expected, even feared him.

She wore white shorts and a tank top.

MAPLE VALLEY, WASHINGTON

C
harles Jenkins parked the Buick on the shoulder of the road and used binoculars to observe the one-story cinder-block building with the corrugated metal roof. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon driving around Maple Valley and the nearby towns talking to painting contractors. None knew a Michael Cassidy, and Jenkins was beginning to think Cassidy’s father was correct, that the painting job was a ruse. He’d been looking for a freeway on-ramp when he spotted the building, partially hidden behind a gas station. A hand-painted plywood sign hung over a double-wide entry large enough to fit a commercial truck. The paint on the sign had faded and peeled, reminding Jenkins of an aging basketball hoop mounted on a barn in the Midwest. What the sign had in character it lacked in creativity:

He strained to read the equally faded phone number, but couldn’t decipher enough numbers, even using the binoculars. Information had no listing for a Valley Painting. Jenkins shoved the binoculars back under the passenger seat, drove down the block, and parked next to a brown truck splattered with paint. As he stepped from the car, a stiff breeze blew the branches of the alder and birch trees on the hillside behind the building. The humidity indicated an impending downpour. He removed his sunglasses as he walked inside.

“Anybody here?”

The dog burst from the shadows as if shot from a cannon and leapt. Instinctively, Jenkins spun to his right and swung hard, his left fist impacting the animal’s rib cage. A radiating pain shivered up Jenkins’s arm to his shoulder, but the blow knocked the dog off balance, causing it to land awkwardly, legs splaying. Undeterred, it scrambled to its feet, spun, and attacked again. In the split-second reprieve, Jenkins grabbed a gallon of paint off a plywood counter and swung the can by the wire handle, striking the dog across the jaw. This time the animal rolled several times. When it got to its feet, it shook its head, dazed, confused, or perhaps just reconsidering its attack.

Jenkins felt horrible. He didn’t want to hurt the dog, a mottled pit bull that, like the Rottweiler they encountered in Tacoma, was just doing its job. He’d prefer to beat the crap out of the owner who had turned an animal that instinctively gave unconditional love into an untrusting, abused creature.

“Hey! Hey!”

The man emerging from the back of the building stumbled forward like a woman eight months pregnant. His paint-stained T-shirt rode halfway up a hairless belly of hardened flesh. The waist of his blue jeans rode below the gut, the seat hanging halfway to the ground, making the man’s legs appear short and stubby.
He held a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. Jenkins expected a confrontation for abusing the dog. Instead, he watched in horror as the man pulled back his leg and kicked the animal. The heavy work boot landed with a sickening thud under the dog’s rib cage.

“Get out of here, you piece of shit.”

The dog cowered and whimpered in pain.

When the man drew back his leg again, it was all Jenkins could do to keep from swinging the paint can across the back of the man’s head. The dog, apparently well versed in this sadistic ritual, scampered, tail between its legs, out of the man’s range, darting behind a pile of garbage at the back of the building.

Breathing heavily, the man tugged at his T-shirt and hitched up his pants. “Sorry about that. I told my dumb-ass kid to tie the bitch up before he left. What can I do for you?”

Jenkins struggled to control his anger. “I spotted your sign. You’re not in the yellow pages.”

The man shook his head. “Yellow pages are worthless.” He put the sandwich down on the plywood counter next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The counter bore the blackened marks of cigarettes left to burn. “By the time anyone gets to the V’s the job is already done. I should have named the business ‘Asshole Painting.’ I would have got more calls.”

He would get no argument from Jenkins.

“I take jobs word of mouth.” The man stuck out a hand. “Chuck Kroeger.”

Bingo. “Lansford Johnson,” Jenkins said. “Then it’s a good thing I saw your sign. I need a house painted.”

“Where at?”

“Just down the road,” Jenkins said. “Hundred and eightieth off Cedar Grove.”

“I don’t recognize you from around here,” Kroeger said.

“It’s a rental. I manage the property for the owner.”

“Got it. Well, I can take a drive by tomorrow and give you a bid. Is this for the inside or the outside?”

“Both,” Jenkins said. “But I’m in a bit of a bind. It rented faster than I expected, and the renter wants to move in day after tomorrow. The person who moved out really left the walls in bad shape. The exterior can wait, but the renter wants it painted before he moves his stuff in. I was hoping to get someone out there today.”

Kroeger adjusted a black nylon baseball cap embroidered with the words “Beaver Liquors” onto the back of his head, struggling to solve the dilemma Jenkins had hoped to create. “I’m in the middle of a job now. Can’t get to it today or tomorrow.”

“Perhaps someone from your crew?”

Kroeger laughed, a single bark. “Hah! You’re looking at the crew. Me and my kid, and only when I can get his lazy ass to work.”

Jenkins removed a wad of bills from his pocket. Most were ones, but the two bills on top were hundreds. “I’m willing to pay extra to get it done quickly—cash under the table if that helps. Perhaps if you could get someone to do the interior, I could hold off on the exterior.”

Kroeger scratched the top of his head, thinking. “There’s a guy I use once in a while when I need the help. My kid knows him. He just got back from Iraq and needs the work.”

Bingo again, Jenkins thought.

“Not a bad worker. He can do the basics all right. I could give him a call and see if he’s interested.”

“I’ll add something on top for you, sort of a finder’s fee?”

Kroeger nodded as if that happened on every job. He was seeing dollar signs for doing nothing, and not about to pass up that opportunity. He shuffled around the makeshift counter. Posters of women riding, straddling, and lying across the hoods of expensive cars covered much of the unfinished drywall along with graffiti
symbols, phone numbers, and crude pornographic sketches. It was pretty clear what Kroeger’s kid did during the down hours in the office.

“So much shit on the wall I can’t find the number.” Kroeger traced a stubby finger over a number on the wall. “Here it is. When do you want him out there?”

“How about this afternoon?” Jenkins said.

Kroeger picked up the telephone, keeping his finger on the wall to mark his spot and looking back twice to remember the seven digits. “I can’t make any promises. He can be tough to get ahold of.”

“What did you say the kid’s name was?” Jenkins moved to memorize the number on the wall.

“Cassidy,” Kroeger said, still looking at the wall. “Butch Cassidy.”

THE TIN ROOM
BURIEN, WASHINGTON

IT WAS LATE
for lunch and too early for happy hour, but a boisterous crowd had gathered at the Tin Room, a popular bar and restaurant in Burien. The establishment’s popularity was one of the reasons Sloane picked it for his meeting with Colonel Bo Griffin. That, and Sloane knew some of the people who frequented the establishment, including the owner, Dan Hause, a local entrepreneur who had renovated a sheet metal and tin shop to create the restaurant, keeping an eclectic décor. The sign that had hung for decades on the exterior of the building now hung over the bar. Workbenches from the tool shop had been cut and turned into tables. Tools hung on the walls near a painting of Rolling Stones legend Mick Jagger. Near the entrance to
the kitchen dangled a firefighter’s bell. Ring it, and you bought everyone in the house a drink.

A man sitting on a bar stool stood as Sloane walked in the door. Though dressed in civilian clothes—khaki pants, a polo-style green shirt, and a windbreaker—Colonel Bo Griffin looked decidedly military, with short hair and the chiseled features of someone lean on body fat. This was the guy in the “break glass in case of war” box.

“Mr. Sloane?” Griffin had a firm grip. He eyed the orange-colored walls. “Interesting place.”

“It’s got good food,” Sloane said, smelling what he decided was meat loaf and brown gravy, though that could have been because he had ordered it the last time he ate at the restaurant.

He led Griffin to a table beneath a large black-and-white photograph of tin snips and sheet metal tools lining a workbench. A waitress greeted Sloane by name and handed them each a menu. The colonel asked for a Diet Coke. Sloane requested an iced tea. Neither ordered food and they handed back the menus.

“You come here often?” Griffin asked, making a poor attempt at small talk.

“I’ve watched a few ball games,” Sloane said, motioning to one of the flat screens to the right of the bar. He let the silence drag.

The waitress returned with their drinks. Sloane waited until she had left.

“You wanted to talk about James Ford?”

Griffin removed the straw and drank from the glass. Then he got down to business. “Every soldier’s death overseas is investigated by his company and by CID. Regulations require that it be an officer not involved in the operation, but those were my men, and I believed it important to hear what they had to say, to understand what went wrong that night.”

“You conducted the witness interviews?”

Griffin nodded. “One of my men died. It was my responsibility to make sure we minimized the possibility of reoccurrence.”

“What did you find out?”

Griffin fixed Sloane with a cold stare. “You were a marine.” It was not a question. “You saw combat in Grenada and suffered a shoulder wound when you removed your flak jacket in the middle of a military operation. Your psych evaluation said it was because you felt it weighed you down, that you wanted to move faster.”

Sloane sat back. “Is this about me or James Ford, Colonel?”

“I like to know who I’m meeting, Mr. Sloane. It’s an old habit. Don’t take it personally. Besides, if I had really researched your background I’m sure I’d know the real reason you removed your flak jacket instead of the story you told that doctor who signed the official report.” Griffin folded his hands on the table. “Am I right?”

Sloane kept a poker face. “So tell me, Colonel, since you conducted the witness interviews, did you find anything about them interesting?”

“You mean the fact that the four men told virtually identical stories?”

Sloane was surprised at the colonel’s candor. “My experience interviewing witnesses is that is not ordinarily the case. I find it even more implausible for four men engaged in battle. We’ve both been there. It’s chaos. You react. You don’t remember much of what you did.”

The colonel nodded. “And my experience is that sometimes what gets put in reports is what the witness wants other people to believe happened, not what actually did happen.” He stared across the table at Sloane, obviously implying that the report filed by Sloane regarding what had happened in Grenada was not the truth.

Sloane wasn’t interested in revisiting his past. “You think those men with James Ford the night he died rehearsed their stories before you interviewed them?” he asked.

“Did you, when you told that doctor why you took off your flak jacket?”

“Water under the bridge, Colonel.”

Griffin smiled. “I questioned the uniformity of what I was being told, yes.”

“And the soldiers’ responses?”

Griffin shrugged. “You read their statements.”

“But you have reason to believe something else happened, something other than what those men told you?”

“I do.” Griffin sat back.

“But not something that will turn up in any report I subpoena or get from any witness,” Sloane inferred.

“Captain Kessler was well liked and well respected by his men, and for good reason. He was an excellent soldier. The men he commanded were fiercely loyal to him. The fact that he only lost one man in that ambush is a testament to his capabilities.”

Sloane did not respond.

“I spoke to Captain Pendergrass,” Griffin continued. “You will not find anything untoward, anything that will allow you to successfully argue that Specialist Ford was not killed incident to his service. I didn’t.”

“You’re advising me to tell my client to take the money.”

“I’m giving you the facts.”

“Then I assume you are aware that Phillip Ferguson, one of the men in Captain Kessler’s squad, is dead?”

Griffin nodded. “I know about it, yes. Captain Kessler attended the funeral.”

“And are you aware that Dwayne Thomas, another man who served with James Ford that night, was found shot in the head in a vacant lot in Tacoma?”

Again Griffin nodded. “Someone showed me the article in the
Tribune.
”

“And are you equally aware that a couple of days ago a man paid a visit to my house and threatened my family.”

For the first time since they sat, Griffin did not have an immediate answer.

PUEBLO BONITO LOS CABOS
CABO SAN LUCAS, MEXICO

THE MAN HAD
put on a straw hat and removed his sunglasses, but Alex had no trouble spotting him in the yellow shirt. He sat on a stool at the hotel bar periodically letting his gaze slip from the television mounted on the wall to the mirror behind the bar. He watched the table on the outdoor patio where Tina and Jake sat with a horde of young men. Alex borrowed a pen from the hostess, wrote a note on a napkin, and intercepted a young woman selling red roses. She handed her $5 and the note. Then she stepped back out of view and watched the woman approach the table.