Dead Float (23 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

Mitch Hannon and I agreed to meet at a little bar called The What's Up
,
located on the southeast side of Newberg on the St. Paul Highway. The bar looked like a converted Grange Hall, which it probably was, since farm country started just a few miles south, after the highway crossed the Willamette River. Hannon had suggested the place, which was roughly equidistant from Dundee and Wilsonville. It sat on a large, treeless lot with no buildings on either side and a parking area in the back. It struck me as an odd choice for a meeting. I'd left the Glock at home, figuring we were meeting in a public place. I began to regret the decision.

The rutted, thinly graveled lot behind the place was unlit except for a single bulb dangling above the back door, where a sign said
For Employees Only
. I parked behind a dumpster reeking of rancid grease and other less savory aromas and made my way through a thicket of parked cars and motorcycles toward the front entrance.

It was a Saturday night, and the place was still filling up. The playoff game was winding down on a TV above the bar, and something not too twangy by Carrie Underwood played on the sound system. An older crowd, mostly couples, populated the tables clustered around a small stage, waiting, I assumed, for a band to arrive. The guys at the bar were younger and into the game. All in all, a friendly crowd.

Hannon had a kind of Clark Kent look about him, with the dark, wavy hair, horn rims, and strong chin, but his eyes were small and deep set, giving him a bookish aspect. Every inch the executive in casual attire, he wore a teal-colored golf shirt, tan chinos, and Armani loafers with tassels. He tried to strike a relaxed pose, but his right hand was curled too tightly around a glass filled with ice, which, judging from the fullness of the cubes, had been quickly drained.

He looked up and nodded at a chair across the table from him. “Have a seat, Claxton. Thanks for coming.”

I sat down, propped my elbows on the table, and grooved my fingers between the knuckles of my other hand. The ball was in his court.

He smiled and shook his head. “I, uh, had quite a laugh when I read about you smacking that cop from Madras. That guy Dorn's a real piece of work.”

I didn't smile. “He hit me first, but I'm looking at a felony charge for hitting him back.”

Hannon killed the smile. “Yeah, well I assume you can beat that.”

“Maybe. What's on your mind, Hannon?”

Before responding he flagged down the waitress and ordered another Scotch, which seemed to be the NanoTech drink of choice. I ordered a Mirror Pond pale ale. He turned back to me. “I don't think those idiots from Madras can solve my uncle's murder. That bothers me.”

“It bothers me, too. Why am I suddenly off your suspect list?”

He rattled the ice cubes in his glass and watched them for a few beats. “I have some good contacts in L.A. I checked you out. You were a DA down there, for Christ's sake. Spotless record. I don't think you'd kill someone with your own knife, then throw it in the river where it could be easily found.” He hesitated for a moment, and I sensed what was coming next. “And I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

I nodded. “So, why are we here?”

Our drinks came. Hannon took a long pull before answering. “I'll be blunt. We have big plans for the company, and having the murder of the owner go unsolved is unacceptable. And the longer this drags out, the less likely we are to find who did it, right?”

I nodded. “That's generally the case.”

“So, I'm thinking, why not hire a top-notch detective agency to investigate the murder? The detective could work with you, get this thing wrapped up. I'm sure you know a good outfit.”

I nodded again. “Interesting idea, but let me ask you about a couple of things before we go any further. First, Bruckner told you ahead of time the name of the campsite for the first night on the Deschutes, right?”

“Yeah, Whiskey Dick. He got a kick out of the name.” Hannon smiled wistfully and shook his head.

“What about the second night? Did you know the name of the campsite ahead of time?”

He wrinkled his brow in a confused look. “Uh, no. The only campsite I remember hearing about was Whiskey Dick. What's that have to do with anything, anyway?”

It was a reasonable answer, and I felt a little better about the guy. I waived a hand dismissively. “Never mind. Just a loose end I was trying to tie up.”

My next question was a lot tougher. “Why shouldn't I suspect you of killing Bruckner?”

He placed both elbows on the table, leaned forward, and looked me square in the eye. “I'm no more a killer than you are, Claxton. Jesus, Hal was my mom's brother. Okay, I had a dalliance with Alexis. That was a mistake, and it's over.” He stopped at this point and deadpanned, “Come to think of it, you made a similar mistake.”

That remark broke the tension, and we both smiled, despite ourselves. I waited for him to continue.

“Look, Claxton, let's not dance around. I think I know who killed my uncle, but I can't prove it, and those idiots in Madras are not listening to me. As you know, they've got a hard-on for you.”

I nodded. “I've noticed. Go on.”

“Duane Pitman wants to jump ship and take his technology with him. He can name his price at one of our competitors. But he signed a security agreement with Hal stating that the technology he develops belongs to NanoTech, not him.” Hannon shook his head and clinched his jaw in frustration. “But the Goddamn document has been misfiled or something.”

“Doesn't seem like a motive for murder.”

“Hal would've sworn in a court of law they entered into an agreement. He's dead now. Very convenient. And Duane's been on a rampage looking for the document. Hell, he broke into my office the other night. And I'm willing to bet he was behind the break-in at Alexis' place and the rental where Daina Zakaris is staying.

Whoops!
Pitman was being blamed for my bungled break-in at NanoTech. Finally, an unintended consequence with an upside. “You're sure Pitman was behind these burglaries?”

“Who else would've broken into the three most likely places to find the security agreement?” Hannon raised his hand and ticked them off on his fingers—Hal's study at home, his office at NanoTech, and Zakaris' place.”

I asked a few more questions, but it became evident Hannon's suspicions of Pitman were grounded more in emotion than hard evidence. I had to agree the other two burglaries might have been Pitman's, but I didn't say that to Hannon. And I was having trouble getting Pitman from burglar to murderer. The security document was the key thing for him, not the removal of Bruckner. Unless I was missing something.

I decided to change the subject. “What about Andrew Streeter? What would
he
gain from your uncle's death?”

Hannon removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before answering. “Andy? Hell, Hal didn't like him, but, you know, I'm a strong supporter of his.”

“You mean Hal was going to fire him?” I asked, pretending a bit of surprise. I'd read the memos and knew the answer to that question, but wanted to hear Hannon's response.

“Yeah, he was making noises to that effect before the trip, but I would have talked him down.”

“Did Streeter have that kind of assurance, that he wouldn't be fired and lose out on the public offering? I understand it's going to be a very big payday for all the officers.”

Hannon cleaned his glasses and put them back on. “Andy knew I was behind him.”

“Yeah, but Hal had the final word, right? And Hal was the boss.”

“Come on. What are you saying? Andy killed Hal?”

“No, he didn't kill your uncle. But he could've hired someone to do it.”

“So could Pitman. You're reaching, man.”

“Did Streeter know I was going to be on the trip?”

Hannon glanced down at his glass and swirled his ice cubes. “Uh, Andy and I are drinking buddies. I might've mentioned something about one of Alexis' ex-flames being a guide.”

“Did you know Streeter has a serious cocaine habit and gets his drugs from some pretty tough elements in Northeast Portland?” I decided to risk disclosing that but wasn't about to tell him about El Cuchillo and the rest of what I knew. I felt better about Hannon, but had no basis in fact to rule him out.

Hannon set his drink down, swallowed, and licked his lips. “Uh, no, I didn't know that. I suppose you can back that up?”

I nodded. “I talked to his dealer in person.”

“What else have you got?”

“What've
you
got?” I shot back. “Think about the trip. Did Streeter act unusual in any way?”

Hannon sat there for a moment, swirling his ice cubes and staring down at the table. Then he shrugged. “I don't know. He was keenly interested in the trip, wanted to know all the details.” He looked up. “But that's just Andy. He's a detail guy like me.”

That's all I got from Hannon on Streeter. He agreed to keep his eyes open at NanoTech, and I agreed to come up with a private detective agency that might be able to help us. We even exchanged business cards.

Hannon left the bar first. I stayed behind to finish my beer and think through what I'd just learned, which, I had to admit, wasn't a lot. I did find it interesting that Hannon had assumed a personality distinctly different from what I'd encountered on the river and at Alexis' place. Hell, I almost liked the guy now. The scent of money can do that to a person.

When I left the bar I stood out front stretching and gulping in the fresh air. The night was as black as shoe polish. As I headed around the building to the back parking lot, the smorgasbord of smells hit me again. Just as I got up to the dumpster, I became aware of two things. First, the light above the back entry was now out and, second, a new smell was riding on the odors from the dumpster, something pungent and familiar.

I sniffed the air again, and a chill sprinted down my back. It was a tobacco smell, and it came from the same brand of cigarettes El Cuchillo smoked. I was sure of it.

Chapter Forty-nine

That rank, unmistakable tobacco smell hit me like a sharp slap in the face. I stopped abruptly. I couldn't see a damn thing except the shadowy outlines of cars, trucks, and bikes, but I had no doubt Cuchillo was out there somewhere waiting for me. The objective this time was to kill me outright. No more faked accidents. I'd moved up in the pecking order. I backed out of the lot and didn't stop until I was around the corner of the building. I heard a car start up. A couple of moments later, a dark, late-model SUV with its lights off sped out of the lot and screeched out onto the highway, heading toward the bridge.

I broke for my car in a dead run, as visions of bled-out corpses and my near-drowning flashed in my head, and anger bloomed in my chest. I would catch the bastard, no matter what it took. But when I reached my Beemer, I had a dog-chases-car moment—what happens if I catch him? I started the car up anyway, figuring I might get close enough to him on the highway to get a plate number. But it was no use. By the time I pulled out, got the Beemer up to speed, and crossed the river, the SUV was out of sight.

I picked up Claire and Archie at Gertie's. When we arrived home, Arch started to dash into the yard for his nightly game of tag with the skunks and raccoons, but I told him to stay close. Once we were in the house, I went upstairs for the Glock before taking him for a quick walk. The barred owl was across the field in a Doug fir watching our place. It was reassuring to hear his familiar greeting. Stay vigilant, big fella, I told him.

Claire was waiting when we came back in the house. “Okay, Dad. I know that look. What's going on?” Her tone made it clear she wanted answers. No bullshit.

I exhaled and shook my head. “Look, this guy who killed the CEO on the river, it looks like he's still around trying to clean up the mess he's in. I guess he figures he's at some risk of being exposed.”

Claire's eyes narrowed, and she drew her mouth into a tight, defiant line. “Is he a threat to you?”

“Yeah, he's definitely a threat. He killed a woman who knew him just to keep her quiet, and he, uh, tried to ambush me tonight when I was going to my car.”

She sucked a breath involuntarily, but her expression remained unchanged. “When are you going to the police?”

“I already laid out the whole story to Escalante, but that was right after I'd hit Dorn, so it probably didn't take. I mean, they want me for the first murder, so it's going to take a lot to derail that train. And I don't have enough on the killer to go to the local cops for protection, either.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

I met her eyes. “First thing tomorrow morning I'm calling Hiram to arrange for you to stay with him until this thing gets resolved.”

Claire's eyes widened in disbelief. “
What?
No way. I'm staying with you, Dad.”

“Trust me on this. This guy's not just a threat to
me
.”

She gave me an indulgent smile. “Don't worry, Dad. He can't be any worse than the Janjaweed. I can take care of myself.”

I didn't return the smile. I knew I'd have to take the gloves off to convince her, so I did. “I know you can, Claire, but this guy's an utter psychopath. That young woman he killed, he ripped her throat from ear to ear and left her to bleed to death on her basement staircase.”

The smile faded. “The murder in the paper?”

“Yeah. That was his work. I don't want you to go either, but the killer knows I know too much about him.”

“But, Dad—”

“
Please
, Claire. It'll just be for a little while. I'm close to busting this thing open.”

She reluctantly agreed, and we said our goodnights. After rechecking all the locks, I went up to my room, knowing sleep would be hard to come by. The night was the deepest black, and I cracked a window open just to smell the jasmine that had begun to bloom on the front porch pillars. The frogs sang down at the pond, but without enthusiasm, and the barred owl was silent. With no light at my back, I stood at the window as waves of frustration, anger, and fear washed over me like storm surf.

Finally, I changed, got into bed, and tried to read, but I was too wired. Had Cuchillo followed me to the bar, or had Hannon set me up? I kept asking myself. I had no way of knowing. My mind was drawn back to that night on the Deschutes. I thought about the phone calls on the tracks, the speaking-truth-to-power session after dinner, the positioning of the tents, and the light that Blake had seen going back up to the tracks after the session. I combed through each detail over and over again.

I was missing something—a small piece in a nearly complete puzzle. Whatever it was, it was just beyond my grasp.