Vanishing Day Page 16

  Most of Fractals’ donors were hard-working individuals, families, and small businesses who wanted to give back or simply use their money to support organizations they felt made the world a better place. Logan didn’t mind explaining herself and her program to these donors.

  No matter the motive, all donors needed detailed proof of where the money they gave went, and how that money was used. Each grant had its own specific requirements. Rita had Carla set up a Gantt chart for Logan to keep it all straight. It listed each donor, the grant amount, and all tasks to be completed, with accompanying costs, which tasks were dependent on other tasks being completed first, and due dates for projects and reports. All color coded. It was a work of art. Carla, a fast learner, was becoming an invaluable member of Rita’s team.

  Today, Carla was showing Rita and Logan how to pull subsets of information from the raw data for the written reports. It was a slog, but they got through it. When Carla left to finish her own work, Rita stood up and stretched, then gave Logan directions to Little Whale Cove, where she would be staying for the vacation part of her trip.

  “Your GPS should work, but here’s a map for you just in case,” Rita said, opening the paper drawer on the printer, pulling out a blank sheet, then popping the drawer shut.

  “It’s about twenty minutes south of Lincoln City. After you leave your friend’s place, just turn south. Watch out for the speed changes as you enter Depoe Bay. It’s 25 miles per hour in town and they enforce it. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss it. Park across from the shops on the ocean side, next to the sea wall and get some whale watching in. This time of year, you should see some up close. There’s a whale watching center you can stop in at the end of town near the bridge. There’s usually someone there who can tell you more if you’re interested. Kind of a hexagon, the white building on the right. Everything’s within walking distance. Gracie’s Sea Hag is a good stop for lunch or dinner. She makes a killer Cioppino. Well, Gracie’s not there anymore, but her kids keep the quality and service up.”

  “Is your place in Depoe Bay?” Logan asked.

  “Technically, yes. The address says Depoe Bay, but we’re about a half-mile out of town. Keep going over the bridge and look for a low, blue, wooden sign on your right that says Little Whale Cove. You turn in front of it. Takes you right in.”

  Rita reached into her pocket and handed Logan a clicker and a set of keys.

  “It’s gated, so use this. If for any reason it doesn’t work, check with the community manager at the gatehouse. I let her know you’re coming. She’ll let you in. Name’s Diane,” Rita said. “Big key is for the house, 75 Cedar Way, the little one is for the mail. We’re A17.”

  Logan pocketed both clicker and keys, thanking Rita again for the use of her house next week.

  “My pleasure, Logan. We don’t get to use it as much as we’d like. Sits empty half the time,” Rita said. “Take advantage of the trails—they’ve got over 12 miles of them throughout the forest and along the bluff. We pay for all of them, so you might as well use them. Oh,” she said, going back to her desk to retrieve a white, rectangular piece of hard plastic, handing it to Logan, “Here’s the keycard for the clubhouse. There’s a pool and jacuzzi in there.

  “There are basics in the freezer and out in the garage are canned goods, but you’ll want to stop at Thriftway on your way into Depoe Bay for fresh groceries. For big shopping, we go into Newport or Lincoln City. Just throw away what you don’t use and take it to the trash. There are recycling directions on a piece of paper on the fridge. Our trash bins are across from the clubhouse.”

  Logan’s brain was approaching overload.

  “Don’t worry, wrote it all down here on the map,” Rita smiled, handing it to her.

  Logan spent the rest of the weekend polishing her reports, triple checking the figures. Satisfied with her results, she took a well-deserved nap. Actually, she never slept, just read a few more chapters on her Kindle, then took a short wake-up shower, arriving at the dining hall just as everyone was gathering. She was getting to know the faculty better, enjoying a discussion of the link between Visual Arts and Music with the woman in charge of the art department, when Huey came in. She removed the jacket she’d thrown over the seat on her right so he could sit down.

  When the art director got up to get one of the craft beers peeking out of a small tub of ice, Logan took the opportunity to fish in her jacket pocket for the flash drive she put there earlier.

  “Before I forget,” she said as she handed it to Huey.

  He took it and said, “What’s this?”

  She gave him as much information as she could, which wasn’t much.

  “I didn’t see anything when I looked, but could there be something on it?”

  “The short answer is yes,” Huey said, “but depending on what they used, it may take some time. I’ll try the usual, low-level approaches, but if they don’t work—if someone really wanted to hide something on here and knew what they were doing—I’ll have to get some help. I know someone with the programs I’d need—and the expertise. Is it OK if I share this with him if I can’t find anything?”

  Logan hesitated.

  “Can you trust them? I don’t want to get Lori into any trouble,” Logan said.

  “Well, let’s hope I can get into it. If not, I think we’re safe with this guy. People who know how to get into things they shouldn’t, are not the type to report anyone else’s questionable activities,” he smiled.

  Huey slipped the flash drive into his shirt pocket as the art director sat down to resume her conversation with Logan. GI Joe clanged a triangle he’d hung by the kitchen window and everyone trooped up to fill their bowls, cowboy style. In addition to becoming a master gardener, Joe also started keeping bees. His honey butter was a hit on the cornbread.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t eat another bite, Joe fired up the BBQ and grilled fresh peaches for dessert, topped with the rest of GI Joe’s vanilla bean ice cream.

  45

  By 9:00 a.m. Logan was on the road to Lincoln City. Both she and the Tucson were full. Breakfast for Logan was leftover grilled peaches on waffles, topped with whipped cream, with plenty of high-octane coffee. The Tucson had to settle for regular gas. Made Logan glad she wasn’t a car.

  Traffic was light. Most people were heading the other direction, back to Portland, after enjoying a weekend on the coast. About five miles out, she took a sharp left to merge onto Highway 18, which took her through open country, McMinnville. She stopped for a bathroom break at Spirit Mountain Casino in Grande Ronde. The place was huge. Nothing else around. People must drive here specifically to gamble. It amazed Logan that anyone would want to sit in front of a slot machine in a stuffy room, throwing away money.

  Just before Highway 18 merged onto the 101, the trees got closer together, until she was passing through a lush tunnel of green she later learned was called the Van Duzer corridor. It was gorgeous, but she wouldn’t want to get stuck driving it on a foggy night or in a storm.

  She was meeting Rose at her shop around 10:30. Stretching seven miles along Highway 101, Lincoln City, like most cities along the coast, had no town center to speak of. It was more of an extended wide spot in the road, created as businesses and homes sprouted up on either side of the highway. Premium real estate was on the ocean side. There was a cluster of tourist shops and restaurants between North 21st and 14th Street that looked like a downtown, but the shops were only one building deep, all facing the road.

  Still, as she drove slowly south on 101, Logan liked what she saw. An old Art Deco theater called The Bijou, several antique stores, an upscale newer store called Prehistoric, fronted by a mechanical T-Rex. She almost missed it, but spotted Rose’s place, Coastal Threads, two doors south of the Bijou, on her left, next to a store sporting pirate hats and t-shirts advertising last summer’s kite festival.

  Fifteen minutes after ten, the Tucson’s G
PS informed her she’d arrived at her destination. She pulled into an available parking spot and went to feed the meter, but was surprised to see there weren’t any. Awesome. Crossing the street at the light, she stopped to admire the wooden loom, mid-project, Rose had in her window. A large, wooden bowl overflowing with skeins of thick, natural yarns sat at the foot of the loom, next to a plaque that read, “Those who weave in Summer are warm in Winter.”

  People must have taken the sign at face value, because Coastal Threads had more customers than either of the neighboring shops, other than Prehistoric across the street. T-Rex was a big draw. A brother and sister squealed with delighted fright as they scurried past the monster into the store, parents in tow.

  Logan stepped aside for two women with full bags of yarn and various knitting or weaving implements as they exited past her onto the sidewalk. Silver bells chimed melodically when Logan pushed open the door and let herself in. Recessed lighting highlighted one wall of shelves, displaying natural fibers and yarns arranged by color family. Hanging Tiffany lamps created a soft interior glow over stacked display tables scattered here and there with artful arrangements of hats, scarves, sweaters and baby clothes. Abstract weavings hung along the wall behind the long checkout counter on the right. Tucked into the back, right–hand corner was a well-lit table and work area where some women worked on individual projects, several of them Christmas stockings. This seemed odd, but then again, Logan realized you must have to start early if you made your gifts and wanted them all done by the holidays. A tall, skinny woman hoisted a bulging tote bag on her shoulder and pushed in her chair. The rest were gathering their things, following suit.

  Behind the counter, Rose, an imposing forest Goddess clad in a linen tunic and loose pants, luxuriously draped in sage-green and taupe scarves, looked up from helping a customer. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she saw who had entered. Sturdy and straight, crowned with cinnamon and silver curls, Rose always reminded Logan of a towering redwood.

  “You made it! Open workshop is just ending,” Rose said over her departing customer’s head. “Let me finish up here. I’ll kick these lagging ladies out,” she winked back at the group in the work area, obviously old friends. “Then I’ll lock up and we can go get some lunch.”

  Logan browsed while Rose finished cleaning up. It took her host longer than a few minutes, as she graciously stopped to help one woman untangle a mess she’d made of her project and get her back on the right track.

  “You’ll finish it in plenty of time, Ronnie!” she said as she clapped the woman on the back, thus pushing her towards the door. “Your daughter’s going to love it!”

  This whole world was foreign to Logan. She complimented Rose on the samples that filled the store.

  “These are beautiful, Rose. Amy would faint dead away if I ever tried to do anything crafty like this,” she said.

  Rose bristled slightly, “We prefer the term Textile Arts. Hopefully we’re a step above popsicle sticks and pot holders.”

  Properly chastised, Logan changed the subject, asking Rose about current projects. As soon as they were seated at the Grilled Eggplant, a vegetarian restaurant a few doors down, and their orders taken, Logan filled Rose in on the news of their mutual friends, Thomas and Lisa Delgado, who introduced them originally. Rose participated as one of the guest artists at the Otter Arts Festival every summer.

  “How’s Lisa? Still in remission?”

  “Doing great last I saw. Amazing difference. She gives her aunt all the credit for her current remission,” Logan said, taking a big bite of her Greek salad. Lisa’s aunt was an herbalist and Native American healer specializing in cleansing ceremonies.

  Rose took a bite of her souvlaki, which looked delicious, “I’ll bet none of those treatments are covered by insurance, either.”

  She emphasized her point by stabbing her fork at Logan, “They never cover anything that actually works! Those insurance companies have it all wrapped up. Big Pharma keeps tight control over their profit margins.”

  She took a sip of cucumber iced tea, then said, “Are you registered to vote, Logan? You’d better be. No one can afford to sit this one out.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Rose continued, “You’ve got to feel the Bern!”

  “I’d like to vote for a woman,” Rose continued, “but Hillary’s just more of the same. We need a public health option, a single-payer system. Bernie sings a one-note song, but I like his music!”

  She laughed at her own joke.

  “Hillary will probably win, but even so, she’s already adjusting her platform to accommodate us. We lefties mean business! We won’t settle for status quo anymore!”

  “Who are you voting for?” Rose asked.

  Not a shy woman.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Logan replied, truthfully.

  She sure as hell wasn’t voting for The Donald. She couldn’t believe the things he had been taped saying about women — was he just a side show? She was surprised he’d made it this far, but she wasn’t crazy about the other two options, either. So far, the debates were a circus...everyone repeating the same canned position statements, no matter what questions were asked of them.

  Why was there never a candidate she could get excited about? Where were the educated, intelligent, experienced and honest men or women who spoke from the heart and weren’t bought and paid for by corporate lobbyists? Not one candidate truly represented her. It seemed by the time they worked their way up to become candidates, they were already part of the very system they needed to change.

  When the waitress brought the dessert menu, Rose ordered a strawberry and ganache-topped, rich chocolate brownie, finished with a generous dollop of whipped cream. Since she had more driving to do anyway, and no schedule to keep for the next few days, Logan got a double espresso with some baklava.

  Promising to visit both Bernie’s and Hillary’s websites...Rose was open minded and wanted to make sure Logan looked at both the liberal candidates; she didn’t count Stein... Logan flagged the waitress down and tried to pay her part of the bill. Rose snatched it up and insisted it was her treat. Logan said she’d return the favor when she came back through town.

  She was suddenly anxious to get to Rita’s house and be alone. Rose was wonderful, as was everyone at the New School, but she was all caught up and wanted nothing more than her own company for a few days.

  She had a lot to think about, what with Ben’s surprise revelation. He hadn’t given her any ultimatums or set a time limit, but nature had. Any eggs she had left were nearing their expiration date.

  They walked back towards the shop and Logan clicked her car door open and got in, an old salt at keyless entries now.

  “Don’t forget to stop by on your way back to the airport,” Rose said, bending down so Logan could see her through the driver’s side window.“

  Without making any promises, Logan nodded and said she would if she could, then backed out and pulled onto Highway 101, waving goodbye in the rearview mirror.

  46

  Detective Andrews took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down. Three more cases landed on his desk this morning. He just came back from grabbing lunch off the taco truck.

  Diaz was all but dancing out of his chair. He hung up the call he was on.

  “It’s them!”

  He flipped his screen around so Andrews could see what he was looking at.

  “Say hello to our Jane Doe, Lauren Alicia Delaney and her three-year-old daughter, Shannon Katherine Delaney. Wife and daughter of one Mr. Garrett Dirtbag Delaney.”

  He smiled smugly. “Just verified it with sweet widow lady named Mrs. McCluskey, next door neighbor to the Delaney’s. Oh, and not a big fan of the father.”

  Andrews looked hopeful. He wanted this guy.

  “Don’t get excited—nothing specific, just a feeling she has about him,” Diaz explained.
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br />   “How’d she see the pictures? We haven’t sent anything up to Seattle PD yet,” Andrews asked.

  “The old dearie is surprisingly computer literate. Has a Facebook page to keep in touch with her granddaughter. I just uploaded a couple photos the social worker sent over of the little girl, described our Jane Doe. Mrs. McCluskey opened them on her end.” He tapped the screen with his pencil. “No hesitation at all. Says it’s them. Says she hasn’t seen either of them for months. That fits.”

  Another piece of the puzzle just fell neatly into place. It was coming together. They had Garrett’s wife on the run, presumably from Garrett. Andrews was sure they’d find ER records now that they had a name. That would establish a pattern of behavior, if not motive, for this attack. The little girl seemed unharmed, they couldn’t get him on that, but maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to smacking her around yet.

  He mentally ticked off the list. Wife was a runner. They had his driver washed up dead in the same town where she gets beat half to death. Strong coincidence. Lots of circumstantial evidence. No eye witnesses of the attack. Except the victim, of course, if she ever regained consciousness. Just Logan McKenna’s brief glimpse of the guy hightailing it out of there. Hadn’t found the car yet.

  Not enough.

  Since it would be a felony charge, if they could get an arrest warrant, they could force him to do a cheek swab. The DNA would clinch it. They still had the tissue from under the assault victim’s fingernails under lock and key. If they could get a match—game over! In the meantime, they had enough for a search warrant. Andrews grinned and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, putting it on as he flew down the hall.