Nothing to Lose, page 30
As we sat there together in what now felt like companionable silence, I couldn’t help but think about how private investigators are portrayed on TV. Boob-tube PI dramas are always filled to the brim with fistfights, gunfights loaded with automatic firearms, and scene after scene of macho mayhem. It’s usually one death-defying act of derring-do after another. In all those scenes of never-ending drama, there are hardly ever any moments for quiet introspection.
A lot of what both cops and PIs do is boring—following one strand of inquiry or another just to see where it leads. When one thread dead-ends, you find another one to follow. Eventually those paths lead you from threads to dots and then from one small dot to another until you finally arrive at important ones. In this case those threads had involved paper chases rather than car chases—examining real-estate transactions and vehicle registrations until the puzzle pieces had finally come together in three separate homicides—two possibly provable and one not.
In addition, being a PI means showing up fully prepared to do whatever is necessary, which in this case meant looking after a middle-schooler who, without my being there, would have been either left to his own devices or stuck enduring two long nights in hospital waiting rooms.
The television and movie crime dramas seldom include stellar moments like the one I’d witnessed earlier in the evening when Danitza Adams Miller finally introduced her twelve-year-old son to his grandfather for the very first time. When Roger held out a frail, bony hand, Jimmy gave it a gentle shake. “I’m happy to meet you, sir,” the boy had said gravely. That one took my breath away.
As for Roger? At times he seemed somewhat more lucid than he’d been when I first met him on Saturday, but when an orderly appeared a few minutes later and deposited a food tray on his table, Roger had looked under the service plate’s cover and then dropped it as though it were hot to the touch.
“What’s wrong?” Nitz asked.
“I can’t eat that,” Roger objected, pointing at the food.
“Why not?”
“Because Shelley will be mad at me.”
“Why?”
“It’s my ulcer,” he said. “She says regular food makes me sick. That’s why she gives me that chocolate-flavored stuff to drink. Have them bring me some of that.”
Obviously there was still some confusion in Roger’s mind about what was really going on, but what he’d just said answered one lingering question. No wonder Roger Adams resembled a starving prisoner straight out of a Nazi concentration camp. He actually was starving and for months had existed on a liquid-only diet.
“It’s all right, Daddy,” Nitz assured him. “The hospital doesn’t have any of that chocolate stuff, and Shelley’s not here. Go ahead and try the food. You might like it, and if Shelley turns up, we won’t tell her about it, will we, Jimmy?”
“No,” a wide-eyed Jimmy agreed. “We won’t tell, cross our hearts.”
I couldn’t help but notice Nitz’s casual use of the word “Daddy.” In the previous hours, something important had occurred and the long estrangement between father and daughter had unobtrusively come to an end.
Moments later Roger was digging into his plateful of food. It was hospital fare—probably incredibly bland and mostly tasteless as well, but he downed it with obvious gusto. He was clearly disappointed when Nitz declared he’d eaten as much as he should and removed his plate with some food still on it.
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “If this doesn’t upset your stomach and you’re hungry again a little later, I’ll bring you something else.”
Shortly after that, Jimmy and I left the hospital. With the convenience of AJ’s just across the street from the hotel, I offered to take him there for dinner, but there was only one place in Homer where Jimmy Danielson cared to dine—back to Zig’s Place, so that’s where we went.
Just after nine the Driftwood’s glass doors slid open. Father Jared Danielson entered the lobby, followed by Twink carrying an armload of luggage. She went straight to the check-in desk while Jared headed for us.
“Is that him?” Jimmy whispered.
I nodded.
With that, Jimmy pocketed his phone, shot out of his chair, and went to greet the new arrival.
“Are you my uncle?” he asked.
Jared looked down at the boy and smiled. “If your name happens to be Christopher James Danielson, I certainly am,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” Jimmy said as they shook.
“You’re welcome to call me Uncle Jared. What should I call you?”
“Jimmy.”
“Okay,” Jared said. “Jimmy it is.”
Believe me, I had another huge lump in my throat during that brief encounter,
A few minutes later, I left Jared and Jimmy to get acquainted and hurried across the street to AJ’s, where Twink had arrived just in time to place her order before the kitchen shut down. I stopped at the hostess stand and made arrangements to cover Twink’s tab, sticky pudding and all. Then I wandered over to her table.
“Hey, Trouble,” she greeted me. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to pay my bill.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t have my credit-card gizmo on me.”
“No problem,” I told her. Slipping into the booth across from her, I pulled out a business card and scribbled a series of numbers on it. Then I passed the card to her. “When you do charge the account, that’s the amount you should use.”
Twink looked at the number, and her eyes bulged. “That’s way more than you owe!”
“And you did work that was above and beyond just being my driver.”
“But—”
“No buts, Twink. Having you and Maude at my disposal made all the difference. If nothing else, use the extra moolah to take that ding out of the fender and give the old girl a new paint job.”
“Thanks,” Twink said at last, pocketing the card. “Maybe I will.”
“And if you speak to that brother of yours, you might suggest that he get in touch with Lieutenant Price here at Homer PD. I’m not sure it’ll do any good, but someone needs to let investigators know that Jack Loveday wouldn’t have committed suicide just because the doctors whacked off his legs.”
“I’ll do that, too,” she said.
Rising to my feet, I held out my hand, and she gripped it with knuckle-grinding force. “This is it, then?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Too bad.” She grinned. “Doing business with you has been more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”
Chapter 39
On Monday of that week, Twink headed back to Anchorage while Father Jared and Nitz sat down and sorted out Chris’s final arrangements. He had supposedly been on his way home to Ohio when he’d disappeared a dozen years earlier. Now he was finally making that trip. In death his body would be returned to his mother’s hometown of Monroe, Ohio, where his funeral would be held, and he would be laid to rest next to his mother in the Hinkle family plot. The timing on all that was up in the air, but Nitz had agreed to go there for the funeral, which hopefully would give Jimmy a chance to finally meet his great-grandmother, Annie Hinkle.
A local mortuary had been brought into the picture to make arrangements for transporting the casket once Professor Raines released Chris’s remains. In the meantime the mortuary would host a small memorial service on Friday afternoon, with Father Jared officiating. I placed a discreet call to the owner and made it clear that I would be handling all charges related to Chris’s final expenses.
The service was being hastily organized, but it was no problem getting out the word. Chris Danielson’s long-ago murder was now headline news all over Alaska, and I was sure his memorial in Homer would be well attended. Siegfried Norquist had come forward and offered to close Zig’s Place to the public for the afternoon in order to host a post-service reception at no cost to the family.
I wasn’t planning on hanging around long enough to attend. I’d done as much as I could for Sue Danielson’s family. Now I needed to pay attention to my own. Mel was still hurting, and I wanted to be home with her where I belonged.
On Tuesday morning Shelley Loveday Adams, a former Miss Alaska who had once won the Miss America swimsuit competition, showed up at her arraignment in Homer wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, after a short stay in the Kenai Correctional Center. She was escorted into the courtroom by uniformed members of the AST.
What happened next was incredibly gratifying. Shelley ended up pleading not guilty to one charge of murder in the first degree in the death of Chris Danielson and one charge of attempted murder and another of elder abuse against Roger Adams. She also pled not guilty to fifteen counts each of fraud and theft based on her shoddy real-estate dealings. Despite her not-guilty pleas, the prosecutors thought they had a good case. Their request to try both cases together was granted. Not only that, claiming Shelley was a flight risk, they also asked for and were granted no bail, meaning Shelley would remain in custody while awaiting trial. All I can say to that is bravo!
Roger was still in recovery mode—physically at least. Mentally he was still lost in the woods, and his confusion persisted. Despite being told that Shelley was in jail, he kept asking for her and wondering why she didn’t come to the hospital to see him. I suspected the poor man would be living with a certain amount of mental impairment for the remainder of his life. Fortunately for him he now had Nitz to watch over him.
Speaking of Nitz, while trying to get a handle on Roger’s financial situation she’d gone through the desk in his home office, where she discovered a hidden compartment containing a handwritten revised, signed, and properly witnessed will. It was dated the same day as the change of beneficiary on his life-insurance policy. It specified that any properties not held in common with Shelley were to go directly to Danitza. Shelley must have somehow gotten wind of that arrangement and launched her scheme to liquidate as much of Roger’s solely owned real estate as possible. Fortunately, there was still a good deal of it that she hadn’t managed to unload.
On Tuesday night Jared, Danitza, Jimmy, and I had a farewell dinner together at Zig’s Place. The evening special was beef Stroganoff. The food was delicious, and the company was even better. On Wednesday morning, as I packed to leave town, I was tempted to abandon the boots in my room at the Driftwood Inn, but in the end I wore those home and packed the shoes I’d brought with me.
After that I drove from Homer to the airport in Anchorage, where I dropped off my rental, cleared security, and arrived at my gate in plenty of time. My flight left at eleven thirty. I had booked a first-class ticket, meaning I qualified for lunch, but as soon as that was over, I wrapped myself in a blanket and went nighty-night. I’d been in Alaska for a solid week, from Wednesday to Wednesday, but it felt like forever. Although I could give myself credit for a job well done, I knew that the case had taken a lot out of me. I was tired. I wanted my wife, my dog, and my very own bed, but most of all I wanted to be rid of those damned boots.
As we neared SeaTac and broke through the low-hanging cloud cover, it was raining like crazy—no surprise there—but I was relieved to see that the Pineapple Express churning in off the Pacific had done its work, as there was no snow on the ground. Sure there was visible snow in the Olympics and the Cascades, but not in the lowlands. It would be months yet before what Harriet Raines called the “big breakup” happened in Alaska. In western Washington it looked as though it was well under way in mid-December.
Once on I-5 headed north and expecting Mel to be at work, I punched her office number into my phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “I’m currently out of the office,” Mel’s cheerful recorded voice told me. “If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise leave your number and a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Obviously she hadn’t forwarded calls to her cell as she usually does, which meant she probably wasn’t answering that either.
I admit to being a little annoyed. I hadn’t called earlier because I hadn’t wanted to interrupt her at work. A lot of good that did me. I made the rest of the drive in silence, without even bothering to turn on the radio. By the time I opened the garage door, I was a long way down the road to being Mr. Grumbly Bear.
But then a miracle happened. Mel’s Interceptor was already parked in her spot. She hadn’t answered the phone in her office because she was already home! When I pushed open the door, two things happened, one after the other. First my nostrils were assailed by the peppery aromas of fresh Thai takeout. At Mel’s and my house, that qualifies as home cooking.
For a brief moment after that, I caught a glimpse of Mel standing at the far end of the entry hallway. An instant later my view of her was completely obliterated when a mass of galloping gray fur launched itself in my direction. As Sarah’s wet nose touched mine, her front paws landed square on my shoulders and almost knocked me over.
Coming from the garage, I had planned to announce my arrival with that old Desi Arnaz line, “Honey, I’m home.” Thanks to Sarah I never had a chance. Mel and I were both laughing too hard.
Once the doggy greeting subsided, I dropped my luggage and gathered Mel into my arms. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Better,” she said, “but I gave myself an excused absence from the planning meeting I was supposed to attend tonight. I figured we both needed some time to debrief.”
“You’re right about that,” I said.
And that’s exactly what we did. We had a quiet dinner, then we talked, and then we went to bed. I can tell you for sure it was wonderful to be home.
Chapter 40
It seemed like only a matter of minutes from the time I got home until it was Christmas Day, and we had a blast. Contrast is everything, but the brightness of the holiday compared with the darkness of what had happened in Alaska made everything seem extraordinarily special. Kelly and Jeremy weren’t there, of course, because that year they were spending the holidays with his folks. But even with the Ashland, Oregon, contingent of the family missing, we all had a glorious time.
First thing in the morning, we used modern technology and FaceTimed while Athena, grandchild number four, opened her gifts in the presence of her other grandfather, Alan Dale, in Jasper, Texas. Next up we watched grandkids numbers one and two, Kayla and Kyle, open their gifts under Jeremy’s folks’ Christmas tree in California. Grandchild number three, Jon Jon, not yet one, was the only grand personally in attendance. By the way, as soon as Scotty and Cherisse announced they’d be naming their baby after his two grandfathers—me, Jonas, and Cherisse’s dad, Pierre—I was worried that being called Jonas Pierre would destine the poor kid to the same kind of name-challenge misery I’d endured growing up. I’m eternally grateful that he’s now known as Jon Jon.
Christmas dinner (delivered already prepared from the grocery store and heated before serving) was set for 2:00 p.m. Christmas Day, which it turned out was still full daylight in Washington State. Scotty and Cherisse were on hand for the meal, and so was the newest member of the family, my adult but only recently discovered daughter, Naomi, who also happens to be Athena’s mother. The reason Athena is in Texas while her mother is in Washington State is a long story I’ll save for another occasion. Also in attendance was Father Jared Danielson.
At the time we first learned about Naomi’s existence, Scotty hadn’t exactly been thrilled to learn that he had an adult sister he knew nothing about. I was a little nervous about how things would go, because our family Christmas celebration would be the longest period of time he and Naomi had spent in the same room. I need not have worried. The meal was perfect, and everyone got along. And when it came time to unwrap gifts, everyone loved the presents I’d obtained during my pre-Christmas shopping spree in Anchorage.
Naturally some of the conversation swirled around Christopher Danielson’s homicide, which had also surfaced in Seattle’s news media. I would have preferred it if Scotty and Naomi had peppered Jared with fewer questions about his younger brother, but Jared seemed totally at ease in answering them. Long before we knew for sure that the human remains found at Eklutna Lake belonged to Chris, Jared had resigned himself to the idea that his brother was probably deceased. He had less need to grieve now because he’d done that years earlier. Even so, grieving is never completely over.
By five o’clock in the afternoon, the guests had gone home, the table was cleared, the leftovers put away, and both dishwashers were loaded and running. In the living room, Scotty had cleared the floor and furnishings of every smidgeon of torn wrapping paper and ribbon by stuffing it all into an enormous plastic trash bag. Sarah, worn out by so much hubbub, was snoozing in front of the fireplace while Mel and I—she with a glass of wine and me with a cup of coffee—enjoyed each other’s presence in the enveloping silence.
Without presents stacked under and around it, the Christmas tree looked a bit sad. That’s when I noticed that a single gift still lingered there, hidden almost out of sight.
“Oops,” I said, getting up to retrieve it. “Someone forgot something.”
“Nobody forgot it,” Mel said as I returned with the box in hand.
“I don’t know who it’s for,” I said. “There’s no tag on it.”
“It’s yours,” Mel said. “It’s a surprise. I put it under the tree while you were loading the dishwashers.”
“How come?” I said. “Why wasn’t I allowed to open it when everybody was here?”
“Orders from headquarters,” Mel said mysteriously, “but you’re welcome to open it now.”
So I did. Mel had obviously wrapped it. The paper was the same pattern we’d used on several other packages. With the holiday wrapping removed, I was left holding a small rectangular box. It was about the size and shape that an expensive ladies’ necklace might come in, but this was plain unadorned cardboard with no identifying markings of any kind.
