Vanishing Day Page 17

  “See what you can find on the ER visits. Keep digging,” he said over his shoulder. “And have Singh go over that CCTV footage again. We need to place that asshole there that night. We need that Jeep.”

  47

  “Fractals, student speaking,” a cheerful, teenage voice answered the phone.

  A Google search for Logan McKenna quickly yielded quite a bit of information on Lauren’s neighbor. One of the first listings was an article on the new Music/Math program, Fractals, the Tilcott school district had launched, with a Logan McKenna as the Director. Including contact information. Still, he needed to double check.

  “Yes, Mr. McNamara here,” Garrett said, “Lloyd McNamara. Is Logan McKenna available? Is she still the Director of a student program called Fractals?”

  If they put him through, he could always hang up.

  “Yes, Ms. McKenna runs things around here,” the student said, obviously enamored of the woman. “She started the whole program. She’s awesome, but she’s not here right now. If you want to talk with her, she’ll be back Monday. Want me to take a message?”

  It sounded like the boy was scrabbling around for something to write with and on.

  “No, I don’t think that would work. We’re on kind of a deadline here. We really need to get in touch with her”.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m supposed to give out that kind of information,” he said.

  Garrett tried another tack, “I understand your hesitation, and respect your loyalty...what was your name?”

  “Brandon, Brandon Lancaster.”

  “Well, Brandon, this is the situation,” Garrett said, clearing his throat for effect, going for the landed gentry tone — authoritative, but not condescending. Kids were easily impressed.

  “We’re considering giving Ms. McKenna a lot of money for Fractals. More than she asked for in her original grant request. It’s between her program and another, very worthy one. The board is meeting now. If I can’t get in touch with her in the next hour or so, to sign the adjustment, I’m afraid we’re going to have to fund the other program instead of yours. Do you know where I can find her?”

  He paused. ‘Yours’ was a nice touch. Made the boy feel it was his personal program that was on the line here, unless he could tell him where his mentor was.

  “I promise not to share Ms. McKenna’s whereabouts or contact information with anyone,” he added, “of course.”

  “Of course,” Brandon said, “I can’t give you her cell phone number or anything like that, but I can tell you she’s up at The New School in Oregon. Here, I’ll get their number.”

  He repeated the number twice, then said, “Oh, well, She was there, but she might not be there now. She went on vacation to the coast—I wish I was there—I hear they have some awesome waves ...”

  Garrett cut him off. He didn’t have time for this surfer boy’s jabbering.

  “Do you have an address for her there?” he asked.

  “Well, not an address, but I know she’s staying at Rita Wolfe’s house for a few days. Like I said, she said she’d be back here Monday at the latest, so she should still be there.”

  “Where is there, Brandon?”

  It took all Garrett had to keep his cool. He was so close.

  “Uh, she said it’s a ways south of Lincoln City, about a half hour. Deep Pot Bay ... something like that,” he continued, wanting very much to be helpful and help get the grant. He wasn’t sure how grants worked, but he knew without them, the program would fold.

  With subdued glee, Garrett jotted down the address and disconnected the call, then pulled up Google Maps.

  Deep…Dep ... Ahhh! Depoe Bay, 12.2 miles south of Lincoln City. Right on the beach. There it was.

  Next cyber stop was an online property records search for anything owned by Rita Wolfe. He used one of those fee-for-service search sites, but it was worth it. Within the hour, he sat looking at an address, a plat map, and the top of the roof of a little house hemmed in by a bunch of trees.

  57 SW Cedar Way, Depoe Bay, OR.

  From there, he got the land line number. Then he entered in his own address in Google Maps in Directions. Five and a half hours there, five and a half back. An hour to get the job done. It would only take a day. No one would know. He’d tell Patricia he was working from home tomorrow. He could take her calls on the road, say he was driving in town, visiting clients, taking a lunch break, doing errands.

  Get ready, Ms. Logan McKenna. You’ve got company coming!

  48

  Highway 101 was the wild cousin of the Pacific Coast Highway back home. Both hugged the ocean, but PCH in Southern California was much tamer, broader. More used to people. Edged with palm trees, upscale shopping malls, clay rooftops, suburban homes, and adobe missions, sandy beaches dotted with sunbathers and volleyball courts stretched to where surfers rode the waves. Other than sand, nothing natural remained. Every square inch of Southern California was developed.

  Highway 101, on the other hand—at least this stretch of it in central Oregon—was a narrow ribbon of road carved into dense, green forest, sprinkled with dramatic ocean vistas around every winding curve. The ocean here was fiercer, younger, and more ancient, all at once. Twisted, dark pines jutted from the outer lips of sheer cliffs. Sharp black, basalt cliffs, broken over time, sent huge chunks of rock tumbling into the crashing waves. Frame after beautifully imperfect frame, arranged by gods of forest and sea, pleased the eye and spirit.

  Logan had never seen anything so beautiful. The word awesome was not hyperbole when used here. Lewis and Clark must have been awed into silence when they saw this for the first time. The highway crossed several rivers with Indian names. After skimming over a wide, flat one called the Siletz, a hand-painted sign caught her eye. It pointed east, away from the highway, up a narrow, gravel road, reading simply “Borden’s Ceramic Studio.”

  She wanted to stop, but she didn’t know when it got dark here and wanted to find Rita’s house before it did. She wondered how they made a living. Not very many people would see the sign in time to drive up and find them. And it didn’t say how far back in they were. Maybe they sold their work online. Maybe it was just someone’s hobby, and they worked at a gas station in town.

  Where were the gas stations? There must have been one in town, but she hadn’t seen it.

  Logan checked her odometer. Good, she hadn’t missed it. Just a few more miles to go. She’d been so busy looky-looing, she hadn’t been paying attention. She got through Depoe Bay without a ticket. Rita was right, the speed limit changed at least three times, it was a strict 25 mph in town, and town was only three blocks long.

  A half-mile later she started looking for a low, blue and white wooden sign, the only entrance to Little Whale Cove. Some fog rolled in and, although the mist was pretty, she was glad it wasn’t too thick or nighttime yet. Rita said LWC community didn’t believe in streetlights. If she needed to go out, she should use the flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer.

  She saw the sign in plenty of time and turned right, digging in her purse for the gate clicker to get in. She found it, and the wooden arm lifted to admit her. The posted speed limit was 18 mph throughout Little Whale Cove. Funny it was 18—why didn’t they just round up to 20? Logan’s inner rebel wouldn’t let her go less than 19 mph.

  Two lefts and a right onto Cedar Way. Rita’s house was a single-story Northwest cottage, tucked into an older section of the development, at the end of a cul de sac. It had been in her family since the early 70s. Several large cedar trees towered above the roof line and spread graceful, lacy branches over the walk. She pulled into the cobblestone driveway and parked.

  Everywhere she looked, Logan saw giant trees and mounds of green shrubs and ferns. No one had lawns, just natural landscaping, and it looked as if they didn’t believe in cutting down trees. She also saw several empty lots that must have been too expensive to devel
op, or they would have been built on by now. She couldn’t remember the exact number, but Rita said there were several miles of walking paths running through 12 acres of old-growth forest in here. According to the map Rita showed her, one of the paths started two doors down. She couldn’t wait to explore tomorrow.

  Tonight, she just wanted to eat, shower and crawl into bed.

  She forgot to stop at the little market Rita told her about on the way in. Hopefully, there would be at least a can of beans and coffee to tide her over. She’d go into town for supplies tomorrow.

  She checked the fridge when she got inside. No fresh food, but she found a box of frozen waffles and a couple of frozen dinners in the freezer, and plenty of staples like olive oil, spices, and a bunch of canned goods in some shelves in the garage. Small, but efficient, the house had been modernized, so Logan zapped a frozen lasagna dinner and had some applesauce for dessert. Even found some cinnamon in a drawer of spices to sprinkle on top. She dug in. She stored the rest of it in the fridge. She’d have it for breakfast with the waffles before she went to the store.

  Dinner done, she went back to the garage, where she’d spotted a small stash of wine. Hoping she wasn’t drinking some $100 bottle of Bordeaux, she took a chance, picked out a red, brought it in and opened it. Smelled good. She poured herself a glass, opened the slider in back, and walked out on the deck. Since no one else had porch lights on that she could see, she didn’t turn hers on either. She could see well enough to pull a folding chair out. She sat down to unwind.

  49

  Logan thought Rita was exaggerating when she said her place backed onto a forest, but the trees were just a few feet away. If she got up and leaned over the railing of the deck just right, she could probably touch the nearest one.

  Modest, but adequate, the deck had no stairs. A gas BBQ sat at one end, a small cafe table on the other. Kuan Yin graced the corner, pouring her endless supply of mercy onto graceful pots of white heather and blue lithadora in a variety of sizes, below her feet. Needle-strewn, mossy ground sloped down and away from the deck, providing just enough space to walk all the way around the house. In the distance, she heard the lyric lullaby of a stream. So different from California, or even the New School. Entirely different ecosystem, dripping in green. It hurt her neck just to look up to try to see the tops of all the trees, so she settled for looking straight out in front of her.

  From here, according to a book called Flora and Fauna of Little Whale Cove she found on the coffee table and looked through during dinner, Logan could make out what she thought might be the lighter and smoother bark of cedars, next to the darker, rougher skin of shore pines. Lacy, western hemlocks peeked out here and there. An alder glowed ghostly white, a slim interloper among her thicker, forest siblings. Mounds of salal and ferns filled in the low-lying gaps, all anchored by a carpet of moss and twigs.

  The drive was beautiful, but any long drive left her stiff after the accident. Logan placed her feet flat on the deck and rested her arms in her lap, then took a few minutes to run through a muscle relaxing exercise her physical therapist taught her. She scrunched her shoulders up to her ears, held them for the count of five, then let them drop all at once, releasing any tension held there. After repeating this for muscle groups in her head, back and arms, she sat still, listening to the forest. She closed her eyes and breathed. The air smelled fresh, alive, and full of oxygen.

  As the night deepened, a surprising number of stars emerged overhead. Now that traffic had died down on the 101, she could hear the distant boom of the waves. Rita hadn’t been kidding. The ocean must be really close here. Douglas squirrels chittered and chattered loudly, scolding her for intruding on their territory. Or maybe they were sharing acorn-pie recipes. The book said there were deer, raccoons, a few resident coyotes, and even an occasional brown bear in here. She wouldn’t mind seeing a deer or even a raccoon, maybe even a coyote, but she hoped the bears kept to themselves.

  After about twenty minutes, she finished the rest of her wine and realized it was cold outside. Not wanting to go to bed yet, she was about to get a jacket when her phone burred in her pocket. It was Huey. She pulled open the slider and stepped inside. The trees weren’t going anywhere.

  “Hi, Huey,” Logan answered.

  “Good, I was hoping I wasn’t calling too late,” Huey said, “I got something on that flash drive. You got a minute?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she said, walking into the living room, “what did you find?”

  She curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs flanking the gas fireplace. Reaching down, she cranked the gas key up to high.

  “I was able to get in without too much trouble,” Huey said, “but I’m not sure what I found.”

  “What do you mean?” Logan asked, “What did you find?”

  “Bank records, mostly. Also, a record of online transactions purchasing some cryptocurrency called Monero.”

  “I’ve heard of Bitcoin, but not Monero. I don’t really know what cryptocurrency is, exactly,” Logan said.

  “Just think of it as banking without the bank. It’s electronic money, in a way,” Huey said.

  “Huh ... Is Lori on any of these accounts? Do you see her name anywhere? Her last name is Wright.”

  “No. Most of the records I’ve looked at so far list a Mr. Yoshimoto. There are also some other records—real estate, restaurants, stocks—involving a company called Delaney Investments. Either of those names ring a bell?”

  “No, Lori never mentioned either of those names to me,” Logan said.

  “This woman is a friend of yours?” Huey asked. “How well do you know her?”

  “New friend, and not very,” Logan admitted. “She moved in next door. Seems nice. She told me her name was Lori Wright, but they didn’t find any ID on her when they took her to the hospital, and there was none in the house. No birth certificate for her daughter, either. I assume she’s in some kind of trouble.”

  “No driver’s license?” Huey asked.

  “Nope. Obviously she didn’t trust anyone, including me, to tell them what this file is or why she was hiding it,” Logan said. “Does anything on there look like something worth attacking someone for?”

  “I don’t know. My friend, Lucas Kai, is a finance guy, heavy into crypto. I hope you don’t mind ... I didn’t tell him why I wanted to know ... but I asked him if there was anything special about Monero. Oh, and another cryptocurrency wallet, with a smaller balance, called Z-Cash. He said Monero is known for being the most anonymous. Money deposited and withdrawn from Monero is virtually untraceable.”

  “Wow,” Logan said. “I bet the banks don’t like it.”

  “Or the government. Hard to tax money you don’t know exists,” Huey said. “He also said it was used, or rumored to be, for money laundering. Any chance your friend was involved in anything like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Logan answered.

  “If this little flash drive got your friend attacked, you shouldn’t hang onto it. Whoever came after her is going to come after you if they find out you have it,” Huey said.

  “I don’t see how anyone would know I have it. I didn’t even know I had it until Purgatory discovered it in that doggie toy,” she said. “And we don’t know it’s even related. It could be completely innocent.”

  “Well, if it was me, I’d turn it over to the police. I can overnight it to you...you going to be there for a few days, right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m here till Thursday,” Logan said, “I’ve got a flight out of Portland Friday. And thanks, Huey. I owe you one.”

  “Just promise me you’ll take it to the police when you get back.”

  “I promise, Huey,” she said.

  As soon as I open it up and take a tiny peek at those files.

  50

  How weird. The room was somewhat light, so it must be morning. Logan took one of her earplugs out, sat
up in bed and listened. Nothing. Absolute quiet. No alarm, no traffic. Wow. It was like someone put the world on mute.

  Because she slept with the windows open, even at home, Logan was in the habit of using earplugs to drown out noise. Here, there wasn’t any. She took out the other earplug, got out of bed and went over to the window. Twisting open the blinds set off a flurry of wingbeats as four or five black and orange birds flew up to perch in the safety of the nearest low-hanging cedar branches.

  Logan watched for a few minutes, but they remained hidden, so she padded into the kitchen to start some coffee. She’d spied half a bag in the refrigerator last night, and a basic coffee maker on the counter next to the toaster. No cream, but she’d live.

  Though the house was compact, it was obvious Rita put some money into the remodel. Both kitchen and bathroom counter tops were made from a gorgeous white granite that looked like marble, streaked with black, grey, and shades of jade green.

  Coffee ready, she poured herself a cup, grabbed a kitchen towel, and went out onto the deck. After drying off one of the cafe chairs, she settled in. Propping one of her feet up on the middle railing of the deck, she thought back to her conversation with Huey last night and what the discoveries on the flash drive meant.

  She remembered Lori made some comment about taxes once. Sounded like she knew something about managing money. Could these be her accounts? Whose money was being laundered, if anyone’s was? Where did the money come from in the first place? Her illegal or corrupt activities, or was she laundering money for someone else, then taking a cut? And the biggest question of all: who attacked her and why? It may not have had anything to do with the financial records on the drive.

  There were just too many possibilities. All of these documents could belong to someone else, someone else involved in criminal activities, and that someone wanted them back. Bad. Bad enough to violently attack Lori and force her to give them up.