Not Dead Enough (23 page)

Chapter Forty-seven

Archie lobbied hard to come with me the next morning, but I left him standing at the gate with his ears back. I found two Shirley Norquists in a computer search the night before. One listing was for a woman living on the coast. I ruled that one out. The second was in Independence. I had to look it up on a map. Another small town like Dundee, it was located just southwest of the state capitol, Salem. From what Gage had told me, that had to be the one.

Independence was straight south of Dundee, and I got there in less than an hour. I pulled up to the curb a few houses down and across from the place at eight-twenty. It was a modest, ranch-style house with a couple of comfortable looking wicker chairs on the front porch. I'd fretted all the way from Dundee that she wouldn't be home, but a Honda Civic in the driveway and a couple of lights on in the interior gave me hope. I waited until nine and rang the bell.

A woman opened the door but left a screen door in place between us. She had a book in her hand and looked at me a bit warily, fearing, no doubt, that I was selling something. I recognized her immediately. Her hair was gray now, but the fine sculpting of her face was still evident below pale skin that had yet to show its age. She wore a black, cable-knit sweater and a pair of jeans that probably would have fit her equally well twenty years earlier.

“My name's Cal Claxton,” I said, holding up a business card and smiling affably. “Are you Shirley Norquist?”

“Yes I am.”

“The jazz singer who used the stage name Sheri North back in the fifties?”

She hesitated for a couple of beats. “Uh, yes, but—”

“I was hoping I might speak to you about your singing career in Portland and some of the people you knew back then.”

She put on a pair of glasses that hung on a cord around her neck and read my card through the screen door. “You're an attorney?”

“Uh, yes. It's a cross I bear every day.”

She tried to contain a smile but failed.

“I represent a Native American woman who's trying to find out what happened to her grandfather. He disappeared fifty years ago at The Dalles Dam. I have reason to believe you might be able to help us.”

“Fifty years ago? You can't be serious. I can't help you with something like that. I don't even know any Native Americans.”

“I realize you don't know my client or her family. It's a fascinating story. Give me a chance to explain. Your help would mean a great deal to her.”

She looked down at my card again and then back at me. “What's your client's name?”

“Winona Cloud. She's the first Wasco Indian PhD ever. She's doing great work for her tribe and for the Columbia River.”

She hesitated while seeming to ponder something weighty. My guess was she didn't necessarily want to revisit that time in her life. I waited, knowing her willingness to talk hung in the balance. Finally, she unlocked the screen door, stepped out on the porch, and shut the door behind her. “I doubt if I can help you, Mr. Claxton, but I guess I could try to answer a few questions.”

I sat down next to her in one of the wicker chairs. After I'd outlined the story of Nelson Queah's disappearance, I said, “We know from letters Mr. Queah wrote to his wife during this time that he had learned of a plot at the dam to steal money from the Corps of Engineers by using deceptive accounting procedures. We think he was killed to keep him from going public with the story.”

What I was about to say next would show my hand completely, but I was convinced it was worth the risk. “The construction project for The Dalles dam was being run by a man named Royce Townsend.” I paused again and met her eyes. “I know that you were seeing him during this time.”

Her eyes registered surprise. “My, you've done your homework.” Then she looked down at her hands in her lap and added, “I'm a very private person, Mr. Claxton. I'm not comfortable at all talking about my past.”

“I know it's difficult, and I respect that. But what if you could help rectify a great injustice? Mr. Queah was a tribal leader and a decorated war hero. The police who investigated his disappearance concluded that he got drunk and either fell into the Columbia River accidentally or killed himself. This has brought great shame to his granddaughter and his tribe. And of course, the person who murdered him has gone free all these years.”

She avoided my eyes and remained silent.

Fearing I was losing her, I quickly added, “This is a just cause, Ms. Norquist. And of course, what you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

“Are you suggesting Royce Townsend had something to do with this man's disappearance?

“Let's just say I have reason to suspect him. Nothing's been proven, however.”

She stared out at a spot on her front lawn for a while. Finally, she sighed deeply. “The singing was good. But the life wasn't. Smoky bars, lecherous drunks, patrons who didn't know blues from opera. God, I hated it. Yeah, I had a fling with Royce Townsend. I'm not proud of it. He was married.” She returned her eyes to me and smiled. “I was young, self-absorbed, and very naïve.”

“Weren't we all,” I replied, and we shared a laugh together. “I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember Townsend saying anything about an illegal scheme at the dam, or about keeping two sets of books, anything like that?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “You're not kidding about it being a long time. No, I don't remember anything about any scam. Royce never talked shop with me.” She fell silent. I could only imagine the avalanche of memories that had been triggered by my questions. When she came out of her reverie, she said, “You know, what you're implying doesn't really surprise me, at least the stealing part. Royce was always looking for the easy way, and he had a gift for getting people to do his bidding. But killing someone's a different matter. I don't think he would've gone that far.”

“What if he had someone else do the killing?”

She considered the question for a moment. “Maybe, if the stakes were high enough.”

“Did you know anything about Townsend being blackmailed over his affair with you?

Her eyes enlarged, and she put her hand to her mouth. “You're not serious.”

“It happened. Does the name Braxton Gage ring a bell?”

The question hit her like a body blow. Her face drained of what little color it had, and her eyes narrowed down. “He was blackmailing Royce over me? You're kidding.”

“Afraid not. He used pictures of you and Townsend together to get a fat contract at the dam and to avoid paying the kickbacks Townsend was demanding of all the other contractors.”

She blew a breath out and shook her head. “I told you I was naïve. I was swimming with sharks and didn't even know it.”

“How did you know Gage?”

She clenched her jaw and drew her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes smoldered. “I didn't, really. He came to several shows, seemed to like my stuff. Royce and I were having a spat at the time, so I was on the rebound. I only went out with him a couple of times.”

I knew there was more. I waited.

Looking down at the table, she said in a voice I could barely hear, “That was a mistake. Braxton Gage was not a gentleman.”

There was a long pause broken only by the whir of a neighbor's lawnmower and the cawing of a crow in the backyard. “I'm sorry,” was all I could think to say. There was little doubt in my mind about what she was implying. A disgusting image of Braxton Gage forcing himself on a young and beautiful Sheri North flitted across my mind like an ugly porno clip. I wondered why Gage had put me in contact with her in the first place. Apparently, he never dreamed she'd reveal his dirty little secret.

At this point she offered me coffee, which I readily accepted. When she returned with a tray, I could see that, like a passing cloud, her anger was gone. I found myself admiring this woman. I said, “Why did you leave Portland?”

She took a sip of coffee and shrugged her shoulders. “I got pregnant. I didn't want to bring my kid up in the life, so I moved here, had the baby and got a real job.” She laughed. “The rumor was I left to have an abortion, but that never entered my mind. I stayed out of the limelight and never bothered correcting the rumor. I didn't care what Portland thought of me.”

She didn't mention who the father was, and something told me not to press my luck. She told me how she became a paralegal secretary and about the struggles she had bringing up a son as a single mom. She wasn't forthcoming about her son, and I saw no need to press her on that, either.

By this time I was feeling pretty disappointed. She had more or less reinforced what Gage had told me, but she sure as hell hadn't given me the smoking gun I was hoping for.

She seemed to read my mood. “I'm afraid I haven't helped you very much, have I.”

“Of course you have. And I appreciate your being so candid. Remember, the confidentiality works both ways. I'm counting on your not discussing this with anyone, even your son or closest friends. Okay?”

“I was a paralegal secretary, Mr. Claxton. I understand the importance of confidentiality.”

She stood, and I took my cue that it was time to leave. In the vein of small talk, I said, “Any grandchildren?”

She frowned. “No. My son was married once, but it didn't work out.” Her looked turned wistful. “He lives in Idaho, and I don't get to see him nearly enough.”

“Beautiful state, Idaho. Where's he located?”

“Boise, mainly, but he moves around a lot. He's a hunting guide.”

I arrested a double take just in time. “Really,” I said as casually as I could while I frantically tried to remember the name of the guide service Townsend had used. “I've hunted in Idaho. Used one of the guide services out of Boise, but I can't remember the name. Does he guide for one of them?”

She eyed me for an instant, and I thought maybe I'd telegraphed something. Then her look turned embarrassed. “He used to work for the Idaho Wilderness Guide Service, but they went under a while back. I've forgotten the name of his new outfit.”

Her answers were vague, either because she was withholding information or she simply didn't know. I felt it was the latter, but I wasn't sure. I risked another question. “What's his name?”

“Jacob, after my father.

I gave her my broadest smile. “Well, I'll ask for him the next time I'm hunting in Idaho.” I left it there, fearing that if I kept probing she'd get suspicious, if she wasn't already. I had a name and a state. That should be enough.

I thanked her again, got into my car, and as I drove away there was only one thought in my mind—Jacob Norquist. Could he be the sniper?

Chapter Forty-eight

When I got out of sight of Norquist's place, I pulled over and called the Wasco County Sheriff's Office in Shaniko, Oregon. Sheriff Bailey would be the right man to contact first since both Sherman Watlamet and his own deputy, Cleta Grooms, were gunned down in his jurisdiction. The other reason I called him first is that I knew he wanted the man who shot Grooms as badly as I did. Bailey wasn't there, and I left a message for him to call me. “Tell him it's urgent,” I told the dispatcher at the other end.

I had a child custody hearing at the Yamhill County Courthouse that morning. I took the 99W straight north to McMinnville, and by the time I found a parking space in the courthouse lot I was wound pretty tight. Bailey hadn't returned my call. I tried him again and left a lengthy voice message this time.

When I finished I realized that my case against Jacob Norquist wasn't all that compelling and wondered how Bailey would react. Sure, as a hunter Jacob Norquist fit the profile, and Norquist was probably Townsend's illegitimate son. I knew Townsend had used guides from Idaho, too, and thanks to Braxton Gage, I had a possible explanation for the skimming at the damn, which had set this whole thing in motion. Then again, Norquist could be Gage's son, and Gage could be a clever liar.

Clearly, without a photograph to confirm he was the man I saw in Clarno I was way ahead of myself.

The custody hearing was gut-wrenching. Both parents let their antipathy for each other cloud their judgment on what was the best for two beautiful kids. I got through it, but honestly I wanted to crack their heads together.

Bailey called while I was in the hearing and left the following message: “Thanks, Mr. Claxton. I agree it's probably best to keep the mother out of this at this point. I'll try to secure an Idaho driver's license picture of Jacob Norquist. If there's more than one, I'll e-mail them all to you. If we get a match, call me at this number, and we'll go from there. Maybe the mother knows where he's hiding, since we sure as hell can't find him. Nice work.”

I had to skip lunch to prepare for a DUI case that afternoon, which turned out to be a waste of time, because my client got the book thrown at him. A client who plows into the back of a police car while intoxicated is tough to defend. When I got back to the farm I was hungry but still tight as a coiled spring. I took Archie for the long run up to the Pioneer cemetery with my cell phone in tow. No calls came in, and when I got back, nothing on the computer from Bailey, either. Damn, damn, damn.

I was low on groceries and berated myself again for not shopping more often. After feeding Arch, I fried up two eggs in olive oil and wolfed them down with couple of pieces of toast and a beer while checking my notes from the research Fletcher Dunn and I had done. The guide service Royce Townsend had used was called the Idaho Adventure Guides and Outfitters. Of course, even if Norquist worked there, it would only suggest a link between him and Townsend. In any case, it would be something Bailey could check out.

Norquist's picture was key, damn it. What the hell was taking Bailey so long?

I checked my e-mail again. A small, spinning circle on my screen indicated an incoming message was downloading. I waited and waited, and it kept spinning and spinning. If Bailey sent me too large a digital file my computer would choke on it. My DSL phone line didn't have all that much bandwidth, after all. Sure enough, I got an error message stating that an incoming e-mail had timed out. “Shit.”

I called Bailey again, but of course he didn't pick up. I left a message for him to only attach one photo per e-mail, and then I waited some more. Nothing happened, so I dragged my laptop upstairs, propped myself against the headboard of my bed, and tried to get caught up on my e-m
ail. But my mind kept turning back to the possible link between Jacob Norquist and Royce Townsend, which brought me around to another concern—if I was right about the connection, then Winona was swimming with sharks just like Sheri North fifty years earlier.

I decided to call Winona just to check in. “Hello, Cal,” she answered, sounding a bit surprised to hear from me. “How are you?” I felt better just hearing her voice, although it stirred something in me better left alone.

“I'm okay.” I was brimming with news but didn't dare share it with her. I figured the less she knew at this point the safer she would be. “I just wanted to check in and see how things are going.”

“Oh, I've been busy collaborating with a professor up at U Dub who's studying orcas. He claims they can't survive in Puget Sound unless the salmon populations are saved. Salmon's their main food source. Now, get this—he thinks the key is removing the four dams on the lower Snake River. I've seen his data. He makes a compelling case.”

“Sounds seditious. Have you cleared this with Oberf
ü
hrer DeSilva?”

Laughter. “Oh, shut up. I'm going to show this to Jason just as soon as I get the whole picture worked out. This is a completely new angle. I mean the fate of salmon and orcas intertwined? Think of the power of that argument, Cal.”

“I see your point. Maybe something as emotionally charged as threatened orcas would stir up enough anger to get something done. After all, they're warm-blooded mammals like us.” We kicked this around, and she plied me with more data and statistics than, given my agitated state, I was up for. I finally changed the subject, saying for no particular reason, “Has Timothy's mother had any more wolf dreams?”

She laughed again but with less levity. “I don't think so, but I haven't talked to her in a while. Actually, I've had a recurring wolf dream myself. I'm walking on a deserted beach and see this wolf in the distance. He turns and looks at me for a while and then trots back into the trees. That's it. Pretty weird, huh?”

“Well, I guess your totem's warning you to be careful.” I tried to make it sound light, but I meant every word of it.

“Could be,” she said before changing the subject. “Still nothing on the sniper, huh?”

I puffed a breath. “He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“How could he do that? I mean the terrain out there's so barren.”

“It's barren, but it's vast, too. And he knows the high desert. But if he hasn't slipped out of the perimeter they've established he'll eventually run out of food and water, and they'll catch him.”

She signed heavily. “Well, I hope that happens soon. God, will you ever forgive me for getting you mixed up in this?”

“Not your fault, Winona. I, uh, feel like this thing's going to break open any time now.”

“Do you still feel like Braxton Gage might be behind it?”

I forced a light tone. “Oh, I certainly don't have any evidence of that. That'll be something for the police to unravel once they catch the sniper. Speaking of police, have you heard anything from your friends in Portland?”

She sighed. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I have to go back tomorrow for another interview.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh, some details in my statement needed checking. I suggested we do it by phone, but that didn't go over. I talked it over with Jason and Royce, and Royce offered to have one of his attorneys sit in with me.” She paused. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

“A second interview is fairly common, but I would use the attorney, Winona. They might get more aggressive this time around.”

She laughed. “That's not possible.”

The conversation drifted off into everyday things, and before I knew it we'd talked for over an hour. Somehow, this engendered an intimacy neither one of us intended nor expected. I was still under her spell when she apparently realized the impropriety of our lengthy, late night chat and said a hasty, almost flummoxed goodbye.

Afterwards, I lay there thinking about how nice it was to hear her voice, although I had the damn dream she described stuck in my head for some reason. Every time I closed my eyes to sleep I saw that wolf on the beach. The funny thing was, it wasn't the wolf that drew my attention. It was the beach.

I had nearly drifted off when it hit me. “The beach!” I cried out so loud that Archie came out of his corner barking at the top of his lungs.

I flipped the light back on, logged back on my computer, and pulled up the white pages. I'd completely forgotten about the first address I'd found for a Shirley Norquist—the one in the beach town of Depoe Bay. I'd skipped over it, because Gage had told me she lived inland, near Salem. What if Jacob's mother owned that house, too? A small cottage in a tiny coastal town would be an ideal hiding place for someone on the run. I pulled up a satellite image on the computer. The cottage was on a narrow, isolated road off Highway 101.

Could Jacob Norquist have slipped out of eastern Oregon and be hiding there?

I still hadn't heard from Sheriff Bailey and thought about calling him but decided against it. My hunch was a long shot, and even if he bought it, I was sure things would move at glacial speed at best. He'd have to arrange to send in some local cops or the State Police to have a look, and he wouldn't do that without some kind of confirmation from me.

I wasn't in a glacial speed kind of mood.

I thought about the fact that Shirley Norquist had brought her son Jacob up in the small town of Independence. He must have gone to the local high school. High schools have yearbooks with lots of photographs. A few minutes later I was scanning a montage of photos for the Central High School Panthers' yearbook on the Internet. I found a formal picture of Jacob from 1979, his senior year—a nice looking kid with a narrow face and large eyes, like I remembered. But I wasn't positive. Then I found a candid shot of him bearing his nickname, Jake. His face was turned to the side, revealing a prominent nose. The smiling kid I was looking at was maybe twenty-five years younger than the man I'd glimpsed that day near Watlamet's ranch. But I was pretty damn sure he was the guy.

It was an easy decision. I could be in Depoe Bay before the sun came up to see if I could spot Jacob Norquist and seal the deal. Hell, I wasn't going to get any sleep now, anyway.