Dead Float (19 page)

Chapter Forty

I awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and the insistent cawing of the crows—that excited tone they use when the morning is clear and fine. I immediately noticed that Archie wasn't in his customary corner. Then it hit me. Claire was here, safe under my roof. She was exhausted when we arrived and, after an emotional reunion with Archie, had gone straight to bed. Archie would be in with her now. He knew instinctively that she needed special attention. Not that he needed an excuse to shadow her. She was definitely his favorite person, eclipsing even my vet, Hiram Pritchard, for the top honor.

I went down the hall and looked in. My daughter was sound asleep, and my dog, having heard my approach, lay at the side of her bed with his head erect, looking up at me. I stood there watching Claire sleep for a several minutes. There was no doubt she had her mother's face. The delicate trace of her nose, the high, sculpted cheeks, and the mouth that seemed to smile, even in sleep, were all maternal gifts. But the line of her jaw was more sharply drawn than Nancy's, reflecting a resolve that some called stubbornness. This—together with her five-ten height and broad, freckled shoulders—had more to do with me. She was lovely to behold, and I felt an immense sense of gratitude that she was finally back, safe and sound.

I left her sleeping and made my way down the back stairs to the kitchen, where I made myself a double cap before calling Hiram.

“Is she home?” my friend said in answer to my greeting.

“She sure is. She's tired, sleeping now, but she looks great.” I went on to describe the status of her injured leg and to tell him about the surprise press interviews and how well Claire had handled herself. We agreed to get together as soon as Claire regained her strength.

Next, I went into the study and forwarded the picture of El Cuchillo to Philip with the following note:

Philip,

This is the guy who sent me swimming. I know you're on the river today, but please run this photo by Oliver Dan and his buddies as soon as you can. I'm hoping they can put him at the railroad yard.

Cal

By mid-morning Claire was up, and after breakfast we were sitting on the side porch taking in the view. The sun fought through thickets of low clouds scattered across the valley, and out near the horizon, the colors of the coastal range changed restlessly from greens and blues to deep shades of violet and back again. Closer in, fields and vineyards throbbed with early summer colors in the shifting light. Claire's broken leg rested on a chair, and her crutches leaned against the porch railing. Archie was laying against her other leg. I knew he wouldn't let her out of his sight.

I nodded toward her crutches. “You seem to be getting around okay.”

“Yeah. Getting around on crutches is no problem. I spent six weeks on crutches when I blew my knee out playing basketball. Remember?”

“Oh, I remember all right. I never heard so much whining in my life.”

“Very funny,” she answered, and we both laughed. Her laugh, sweet and carefree, cut straight to my soul, and the pillars that supported me seemed to firm up.

“You want more tea? It's your favorite.”

“I know, Dad, thanks. Sure, I'll have another cup.”

I came back out with a tea for her and another coffee for me.

We were bringing each other up to date, but very cautiously it seemed. I didn't know where to begin about my mess, and I wasn't sure why Claire seemed reluctant to talk much about her experiences. In any case, I didn't push it.

She was much more interested in what I was up to, and telling her it was “the same old, same old” didn't cut it. At one point she fixed me with her eyes and said, “Okay, Dad. What's going on?”

I dropped her gaze and stroked my mustache with my thumb and index finger, searching for the words. “Well, I've got a situation I'm dealing with. Actually, two. But they're related.”

She raised her eyebrows and leaned her head forward slightly. Her smile faded.

I sketched in an admittedly sanitized account of Hal Bruckner's murder on the Deschutes and the effort to frame me for it. When I told her about the affair with Alexis, the smile came back. “You had an affair?
Really?”

I shook my head and tried not to smile. “It was stupid. I got involved with her against my better judgment, and I wish I could erase the whole episode. Feels like bad karma to me.”

“No. It wasn't bad karma, Dad. And she came on to you, right? Don't beat yourself up. Besides, since when does having an affair constitute a motive for murder?”

“I need you to talk to a couple of gentlemen in Madras who have a contrary view,” I said with a laugh.

“Their case is a joke, Dad. Trust me.” She raised her chin and gave me a look taken whole-cloth from her mother. “I don't have a Dad who's a lawyer for nothing.”

When I finished telling her about the train-hopping killer I knew only as El Cuchillo, she said, “So, when are you going to track down this woman who might know where to find this dude?”

I felt a twinge of anxiety at having found CJ Manion's place vacant. I hoped she hadn't left town. “Just as soon as we get you settled in. She lives in Portland.”

“Well, you need to get on that, Dad. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Then I came to my run-in with Bull Dorn. She listened as I described how he'd baited me from the beginning, our encounter in the storage unit, and my subsequent arrest.

Claire's face clouded over and tears brimmed in her eyes. “Thank God his partner was there. I think he would have shot you and claimed self-defense.”

I nodded like a guilty school boy. For the first time I saw clearly how my reckless actions could have impacted her as well as me. She'd be an orphan now, for God's sake.

“You just can't lash out, Dad. You roughed up that witness in the Parker Center, and what happened? They made you give up the job you loved. This guy, Dorn,
wanted
you to try something.”

I studied the planks on the porch like a shamed little kid. “Yeah, I know. He definitely knew what button to push.” I looked up at her. “He said he heard I caused your mother's death.”

Her eyes closed, squeezing out a single tear that slid down her cheek and stopped just above her jawline. She dried her eyes with a paper napkin before replying. “I'm not surprised he said that. He's a sociopath, Dad. You're a good man. You're just trying to cope with a violent world.” Then she gazed out at the valley for several moments. “I guess we all are.”

I knelt beside her chair and hugged her until the tears in my own eyes stopped flowing. “I'm glad you're home, Claire.”

“Me, too, Dad. Me, too.”

***

We had dinner out on the side porch. The sun died slowly behind the trees and the twilight sky deepened to a violet glow. I barbecued some fresh halibut and served it up with a mango salsa and sweet potato slices I fried in hot oil. The dinner was a big hit, and we both ate with gusto. Afterward, we sat in the Northwest gloaming, talking softly and half listening to Dylan's “Blood on the Tracks,” one of Claire's favorites. Claire began talking about her experiences in Darfur, and I listened, silently pleased she'd decided to open up about what had happened there. I knew the basic story, of course, and I also knew there was more. I could sense it. So I listened and at the same time steeled myself.

She spoke with affection about her teammates, the interesting people she'd met, and the strange things she'd seen. She spoke with pride about the wells her team had dug and what that basic act meant to villages lucky enough to be selected for the Well Spring program. I learned that in addition to clean water and better sanitation for all, the women of those villages were much less likely to be raped by marauding militiamen, because they didn't have as far to go for water. I stiffened involuntarily at the mention of rape. The word seemed to stand there between us like an unwelcome guest.

As she began to relate the story of her captivity, tension seeped into her voice. “After we wrecked our jeep trying to escape, the Janjaweed took us out at gunpoint and put us in the back of a pickup. The ride back to the village where we'd been working was really rough, Dad.” Tears filled her eyes.

“Hey,” I said, “we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to.”

She smiled, fought to regain control of her emotions, and continued. “It's okay. I need to tell you this, Dad.”

I struggled to keep my expression neutral; it seemed important to do that. I nodded for her to continue.

“Instinctively, I knew I shouldn't let them know I was hurt. But by the time we got back I couldn't stand it anymore. When I tried to climb out of the pickup I collapsed.” She paused, gazed at the space between us and grimaced slightly as that scene played out again in her mind.

“Did they give you any medical help?”

Claire laughed sardonically. “We had a few ibuprofen, but they didn't cut the pain much. Jerry, our team leader, complained bitterly to the guy in charge of the group left to guard us. His name was Mustafa. The guy was right out of the Arabian Nights. Tall, with a full beard. His eyes. I remember his eyes. They flashed at you. And he carried a scimitar. No kidding. Anyway, Mustafa listened to Jerry, then just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.”

“Bastard,” I said under my breath.

“Wait, Dad. Let me finish. About an hour later two scruffy looking guys came in and said they'd been sent by Mustafa to take me to a doctor. Jerry was suspicious, but since he'd complained so much, he let them carry me out on a slab of plywood. He started to go with me, but the guards at the door stopped him. There was a struggle, and I heard him shouting, but I didn't give a damn. I was in so much pain I would have gone with the devil himself if he promised to get me a doctor.”

As I listened my hands got cold, and my heart shrunk inside my chest.

Claire continued, her voice wavering again. “They carried me down an alley, and after a block or so they started laughing hysterically. Like kids who'd gotten away with something. I knew I was in deep trouble when they brought me into a deserted house.”

“Oh, no,” I said, half to myself. I wasn't sure I wanted her to continue, but I didn't say anything more.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Jerry told me later what happened after I was taken. Mustafa came back with some narcotics for the pain. Jerry told him about the two men. Without a moment's hesitation, Mustafa turned and took off running as fast as he could down the street.”

I must have gasped, because Claire stopped speaking for a moment. Then she continued, “He got there while the two creeps were still arguing about who was going to go first. There was a violent shouting match in Arabic. I was afraid they would kill Mustafa. But the two backed down when he drew his sword. Mustafa made them carry me back to the holding room while he walked behind us.”

I exhaled and muttered, “Thank God.”

Claire straightened up in her seat. “I never saw either one of those creeps again.” Then she looked me full in the face and added, “They didn't touch a hair on my head, Dad.”

After Claire was in bed, I went to my study and poured a glass of Rémy with a shaky hand. I felt profound relief and a sense of closure. Claire was back, and she was back
whole.

It was over now. A stranger had intervened on behalf of my daughter. I was willing to bet this man had a daughter of his own. I raised my glass and said aloud, “To Mustafa, wherever you are.”

Chapter Forty-one

I was still nursing my Rémy and trying to think my way forward when my cell rang.

“Cal?”

“Yes?”

“It's Daina. I just called to see how your daughter's doing. Is she home now?”

“Uh, yeah, she is. Everything's fine. She's in bed now. I'm, uh, just relaxing.”

“Oh. Well, I'm glad to hear everything's okay.” She paused, and I searched in vain for something casual to say. Finally she said, “Are you all right, Cal? Is something wrong?”

“Uh, no. Everything's fine.” I tried to keep my voice light but didn't quite manage it. I wasn't ready for the call. I hadn't come to terms yet with how to handle the situation with Daina.

There was another pause, and then she said, “You know, don't you?” Her voice was low, fearful.

“Know what?”

She hung up. I stood there with the phone in my hand and shook my head. I'd forgotten that this woman didn't need a lot of information to figure out what was going on. I thought about driving over to Wilsonville and confronting her, but there was no way I was leaving Claire alone.

I poured another Rémy, went upstairs and checked on Claire before settling back with a James Crumley. Whatever I needed to do, it would have to wait until morning. It wasn't long after that that Archie growled and barked a couple of times from his spot in the corner. I got up and went to the window just in time to see the lime green VW pull up in the dimly lit driveway. I took the Glock off my nightstand, and after pulling my shirt out, concealed it in my back waistband. I wasn't taking any chances.

By the time I got downstairs, Daina was knocking softly on the front door. I opened it, and Archie moved around me to greet her, his tail wagging furiously. She knelt down to hug him, then stood but made no move to come in. Her hair was swept under a paisley kerchief, and her baggy jeans made her look disarmingly child-like. Her eyes were huge, luminous discs, registering fear. I stepped back and she came into the hall without saying anything. “Hello, Svetlana.”

Her eyes were down, her shoulders slumped. “How did you find out?” Her voice was husky, yet I caught a hint of defiance in it.

“I had a friend run the name Daina Zakaris. Did it on a whim. I didn't suspect a thing”.

She showed a bitter smile. “Then why did you run my name?”

I shrugged. “Instincts, I guess. Anyway, Philip Lone Deer was down in L.A. to pick up Claire for me. He drove over to Inglewood and talked to someone who knew you as Svetlana Tetrovia, here on a visa from Russia.”

Her face brightened like a flickering light. “Was it Gladys? Did he talk to Gladys?”

I nodded. “Yeah. She gave him a picture of the real Daina Zakaris, and there you were, standing next to her.”

Her eyes filled, but she didn't speak.

“Look, I need to know what the hell's going on.”

She sighed like she'd just caught the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Can we at least sit down?”

The near-perfect American accent had cracked, and I could hear a little more of the eastern European inflection. I nodded in the direction of the living room, followed her in, and sat down across from her. “What happened in Inglewood?”

She sat on the edge of a small sofa and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. I handed her my handkerchief, and she dabbed her eyes. “Daina was very sweet. We'd become good friends. She was Lithuanian. All alone here, but a naturalized citizen. I'm Russian. We understood each other. One morning there was this terrible explosion in her apartment—hot water heater or something. I never heard exactly—”

“I know about the explosion, about Daina's death, and the fact that you vanished afterward.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Well, the blast blew me out of my chair. At first I thought it was a plane crash. I ran to what was left of her apartment and found her in the kitchen. I knew she was dead the moment I saw her. A small fire had started in the living room, and as I was putting it out, I saw a desk drawer on the floor. The contents had spilled out—her passport, birth certificate, and other personal papers. I scooped up the passport and birth certificate and left the other papers to smolder there. It all happened so fast. I told myself I was just trying to save them, that I would return them. But deep down I knew I wouldn't. My visa was about to expire, and I dreaded the thought of going back to Russia. Don't you understand, Cal? This was a gift.
Pure freedom
.”

I didn't answer.

“The rest was fairly easy. I moved to Seattle and hired some Russians skilled in the art of helping people like me stay in the U.S. I became Daina Zakaris, U.S. citizen, Lithuanian by birth. She was dead. What was the harm?”

“So you stole the identity of the dead Lithuanian woman and went on to reinvent yourself? These Russians who helped you—are any of them working for you now?”

She puffed a breath from her lips in a distinctively European manner and looked at me through tear-soaked eyes. “No. None. I built my company on my own. I made a clean break with those people. I didn't want anything more to do with them.”

I raked my fingers through my hair. I wanted to believe she wasn't mixed up in Hal Bruckner's murder, but every skeptical bone in my body screamed for me not to. “Look, I really don't give a damn what you did fourteen years ago, and why you did it. We all have our secrets. All I want is to clear my name and get on with my marginal existence.”

She blinked rapidly to clear the moisture from her eyes and scanned my face. “I want to help you do that, Cal.”

“Okay,” I continued, “we both know that
someone
at NanoTech helped plan the murder of Hal Bruckner. Tell me why the hell I shouldn't suspect you?”

The tears had stopped, and her huge eyes were now burning with a passion I hadn't seen before. “Let me explain. You Americans, you have so much, and you take so much for granted. But in Russia, it is different. We learn early in life to fight for what we want and what we need. We learn that
nothing
is given.”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded slightly.

“When I came here it took me very little time to realize that I
had
to find a way to stay. Going back to Russia was simply out of the question. It would be like dying. I decided I would behave as though I was staying in L.A. Like a citizen. I enrolled in school and worked full time. Daina Zakaris was my mentor. She encouraged me. I knew the woman well, Cal. She would have wanted me to have her identity,
I know it
.”

I still didn't speak.

“No, I'm not proud of taking those papers, but I'm not ashamed of what I did with them, either.” Then she met my eyes. “And I think you know, in your heart of hearts, Cal Claxton, that I had nothing to do with the murder of Hal Bruckner.”

I broke eye contact and raked my hair again. She was partially right. Part of me did believe she wasn't involved, but the skeptical side of my nature wouldn't shut up. I was stuck somewhere in the middle.

All I could do was shake my head.

“Someone broke into my house and tried to kill me, Cal. Think about it. And the information I've given you, think about that. I've gone out on a limb for you. And why would I want to harm Bruckner? Christ, I need this account.”

I had to think fast and ruthlessly. Suppose she's telling the truth about Bruckner? If I turn her in I lose an invaluable source inside NanoTech, to say nothing of getting her deported, which didn't sit well with me. If she's involved in the plot to kill Bruckner there still might be some upside to playing along, provided I could make her believe she'd fooled me. The decision seemed clear, but it made me queasy. What were the chances of fooling this woman?

I exhaled a decisive sounding breath. “Okay. Like I said, I'm not interested in your past. And you're right, I don't think you had anything to do with Bruckner's murder, but you can bet I'm going to check out your last fourteen years.”

Defiance flashed in her eyes. “Go ahead. You won't find anything.”

“Good.” I allowed myself a tentative smile. “Uh, so what am I supposed to call you now?”

“Daina. It's Daina Zakaris. That's my name.”

“Daina it is, then.”

A long silence ensued before she said, “What about the police? Do they know about me?”

“No, don't worry about that. The source I used will keep the information confidential.”

She nodded and tried to smile but didn't quite succeed. After all, now I knew her deepest secret. She brought her eyes up and met mine. “Thank you, Cal. You won't regret this. What else can I do to help you?”

I hesitated for a moment, not liking myself for what I was about to propose. But I was up against it. Hard. “Well, there is one thing.”