Page 64 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

64.

“We’re good. Six feet of stone and gravel.”

This pronouncement was from Ordell Balboa, who was a real sergeant in the real Army Corps of Engineers. The man and his team of eight had helicoptered in from a base near Sacramento. (He’d reported, with a confused frown, that, no, there had been no aviation groundings yesterday anywhere in the area. That was yet another fiction spun by the mercenaries.)

Colter stood with him and Dorion on the north side of Route 13. They were examining the dam.

He asked, “Who did the demo? Good work.”

“Man I use from time to time. Hire Denton.”

“That’s not a name.”

Dorion chuckled. “He’s a private explosives consultant and facilitator.”

Colter decided that would be an attention-getter if he had the job description written on his business card. He’d met Denton a few times. He was amused that the only way he referred to his sister was his “boss.”

Balboa was nodding as he examined the rockwork again. He glanced back to Dorion. “How’d you get the authorization to do the blasting so fast?”

“I didn’t,” Dorion said. “I just ordered it. Paid for it myself.”

She offered nothing more.

There was a pause as he digested this.

Colter knew that any demolition work involving explosive materials needed local and state approval. The feds too, since the levee, as small as it was, still fell under the purview of the army engineers.

“I guess I don’t need to put in my report anything other than a rockslide being the cause of the damming obstruction.”

“Appreciate it.”

“But give me that man’s number. I could use him from time to time.”

Colter wondered how the U.S. military would respond to a man who named his explosives.

And apparently also had conversations with them.

The soldier shot a look at the remnants of the levee. “We can have a temporary one up in a week and a permanent one in a month. Then blast out Denton’s work, start the river up again.”

Colter glanced at his Winnebago.

Hell.

A slug from the phony soldiers had smacked into the windshield, spidering it, and ended up in the passenger seat headrest.

Expensive to fix. And he’d have to have it done soon. If police were inclined to write you up for a mere crack in a windshield, which they were, they would definitely do so if the damage was caused by a .45 projectile.

Dorion and Shaw left Balboa to his engineering work and walked down the hill to her SUV.

The case was not, of course, over. Bear and the phony engineers were merely hired guns. The latter had been arrested, but their boss was still at large, ID unknown.

And it was time to find out who that was.

The two skirted the command post, which had been hermetically sealed off by Officer Debi Starr, who had strung more yellow tape in the past six hours than had been used in the hamlet of Hinowah in the past six years, he guessed. Starr had also used the metal detector that had found the slug traversing Eduardo Gutiérrez’s calf to discover the burial sites for scores of bullets fired by the mercenaries. These were marked with plasticized playing cards. Clever idea if your small-town police station didn’t have enough yellow numbered evidence sandwich boards in its inventory to go around.

It had taken two bombs and a lethal shootout, but the Olechu County Sheriff’s Office had finally decided Hinowah was not crying wolf. They had a crime scene team running the workshop at the Redding mine and they would soon tackle the levee, the command post and the black Expeditions. The FBI’s experts also were en route.

Colter and Dorion walked past the prisoner transport van that had very nearly been Annie Coyne’s crematorium. It too was festooned in yellow.

They joined Han Tolifson at the bottom of the road where it curved left and descended into the town proper. He looked their way with raised eyebrows.

“So it’s solid?” he asked.

Deadpan, Dorion replied, “You could call it a ‘boulder’ dam.”

Though stern in her disaster response work, Dorion probably had the best humor of all the siblings.

It took a beat, then Tolifson smiled.

“We’ll convene at the office.” He gave directions.

Colter got into Dorion’s SUV and they drove into the village center.

As they approached the modest one-story Public Safety building, which had government architecture written all over it, Colter spotted on the sidewalk beside the front door his mother, Annie Coyne, Mrs. Petaluma and a gray-haired woman in a purple dress—a friend of the Indigenous woman, Colter guessed.

Their mother noticed the siblings and waved. The foursome on the sidewalk hugged one another, then split up, Mrs. Petaluma and her friend walking away toward the town square, and his mother and Coyne heading toward the front steps of the PSO, where they waited.

Dorion parked and she and Colter, along with the two women, walked inside.

The office was part of a government complex, not a stand-alone building, so you couldn’t judge the size from the outside, but Colter was surprised to see how small the law enforcement operation was.

It was clear somebody loved houseplants.

Immediately inside the front door was a reception desk, presided over by Marissa Fell, a large brunette in her mid-thirties. Her heart-shaped face, light olive in complexion, and mass of curly hair gave her an alluring air. Had she been on duty throughout the day, even during the worst of the flood scare? Colter guessed she had been. Her eyes and expression told him she was that sort of person.

Tolifson poked his head through a door in the back, gesturing them to follow. As they walked down a short corridor, he said to Colter, in a low voice, “I tell her it’s unprofessional, the place looking like the Garden Center at Home Depot, but her position is that we’re in charge and we shouldn’t pay any mind to the opinions of others. She’s not wrong there.”

Colter noted a particular tone in the mayor’s voice. He had seen too the absence of wedding rings on his and Fell’s hands. The percentage they had more than a working relationship?

Sixty plus percent. Part of the proof: she’d won the houseplant dispute.

They now entered an office pen of six desks, only three of which showed signs of habitation. One belonged to the town’s third patrol person, currently on vacation, L. Brown . The second was TC McGuire’s, who was at the moment sitting in front of a large computer screen, keyboarding in a clattery blur, his big head looking straight forward instead of where his fingertips were striking. On the screen was the reality-show tape of John Millwood pointing the Glock 42 in Colter’s direction at the Good Luck and Fortune Mine.

The other occupied desk was Debi Starr’s, the name plate reported. He noted a number of framed pictures, the subjects primarily a handsome blond man about her age and twin boys, presumably around ten, with blond crewcuts.

Windows into another world.

On the wall was a bulletin board featuring mug shots and security cam images of fugitives and suspects. As most wanted notices were digital, these printouts seemed from a different era, almost decorations, though the dates were recent. He couldn’t help but note a reward for one suspect in particular, a mean-looking man with a broad, flat face and narrow eyes, resembling a predatory whale. The reward was for $25K, and as the crime was domestic kidnapping, Colter was tempted to pursue it. Maybe he would come back here after all was said and done.

He wouldn’t mind an excuse to stay in the area a bit longer; Colter Shaw was very aware that Annie Coyne was three feet behind him.

Tolifson directed them into a conference room, big enough for just about as many people as their party made up. They found seats in mismatched chairs. On the floor were dusty boxes of file folders and stacks of documents without cardboard homes. In the corner was an ancient minifridge, whose hum suggested it still worked, and on a counter a coffee maker that had clearly surrendered long ago.

Debi Starr smiled a greeting, though it was a harried offering. She’d been poring over notes in scrawly handwriting and making tick marks next to some entries.

Tolifson sat at the head of the table and said to Dorion, “Maybe your associate could join us.”

“Of course.” She pulled out her phone and dialed a number. A moment later the screen morphed into a FaceTime call.

Eduardo Gutiérrez, in a blue robe, was peering into the camera from a green-and-beige hospital corridor.

“Ed. We’re with Colter and a few others, including the entire police force of Hinowah.” She slowly panned the camera.

“How are you, sir?” Tolifson asked.

“They’re making me walk. Asking nicely, but still.”

“Your shooter’s gone,” Dorion said. “He’s probably in the same hospital you are. But in the basement. In a bag. Want to meet the SWAT officer who took him out?”

“You bet I do.”

She swung the phone to her mother.

Gutiérrez gave a laugh. “Mary Dove!”

“Eduardo.”

“You’re the one who…”

She nodded.

“Well, thank you for serving the writ of habeas corpus.”

The term literally meant “producing the body,” though it referred to a living one, pursuant to a legal proceeding.

Tolifson opened a file and skimmed it, nodding. Then he looked up. “I need to brief the CHP and County Sheriff Barrett. He’ll be taking over. So…” He put his hands flat on the table. “First of all, I’ll need AB Fifteen oh sixes from everybody who fired a weapon today.”

Colter noted Starr hesitating. She frowned and pressed her lips together, about to speak. He sensed something delicate was coming. She cleared her throat and said, “Actually, Mayor, that form applies only to law enforcement. So TC and I are the only ones who need to file one.”

A blink. “That’s what I meant. I’ll need statements from the civilians.”

Dorion said, “We’ll get those done, Mayor.”

He lifted a pen over a yellow pad. “Now, any leads on who hired them?”

Colter said, “Only that they’re probably local.”

A frown. “How’d you figure that out?”

Without looking up from her notes, Starr said, “I’m just thinking: Because the feud between Annie Coyne and Gerard Redding was part of the scenario they concocted. Doubt anybody outside Olechu County would know a thing about it.”

“Sure. Makes sense. But local…who?”

Marissa Fell stepped into the room, then handed out sheets of paper. “Their IDs. From prints and facial rec in NCIC, Sacramento, San Francisco and Oakland.”

She had done a comprehensive summary of each perp.

If Tolifson ended up police chief, she’d be key in helping save his ass when it needed saving.

Which Colter suspected would be frequently, at least during the first year.

Through the phone, Gutiérrez asked if he could get one too.

Dorion took a photo of hers and sent it to him.

Colter looked over the sheet.

Bear was Waylon Foley, forty-three.

Combat in the Middle East, dishonorable discharge for stealing small arms and freelancing as a mercenary on weekends. Witnesses recanted so they just kicked him out, he wasn’t court-martialed. Lives mostly off the grid. Used to own a firearms restoration shop in Montana. But the past ten years has been suspected of putting together teams for high-priced hits—and a few heists. NCIC has quite a profile. Interpol and Europol Bank accounts total two million. Other accounts probably but they’re hidden. He likes elaborate plots, setting up fall guys.

Impressive plan indeed, Colter reflected. Two layers of misdirection. He led everyone to think that the levee sabotage was put together by Redding, who wanted to destroy the town for lithium. But in case the team tipped to that, he had a backup: setting up Annie Coyne.

The memo added:

Foley’s MO is that he operates on a need-to-know basis. Never tells the people he hires who the ultimate client is. He’s known for his watertight compartments.

Interesting metaphor under the present circumstances.

“Tamara Olsen” was in reality Alisette Lark, thirty-four. She was a former adult film performer, a profession not known for fine acting skills, though she was clearly an exception.

Colter read:

Married at 19 to her quote “manager” then got divorced two years later and quit the business. She went on to pursue a very different career. She was never arrested but records show she’s been questioned in a dozen schemes involving extortion, internet fraud, crypto fraud, felony larceny, conspiracy to commit homicide. All suspected. Nothing has ever been proven.

Fell’s report also disclosed the IDs of the two corporals. Lawrence Williams was really Devon Smith, who worked in a gym in Oakland and ran with the Fifth Street Bloods. Robert McPherson was Trey Coughlin, a small-time drug dealer suspected of two hired killings, also in an East Bay crew.

Tolifson said, “If the profiles’re accurate, the watertight thing, none of them know who’s the boss.” He added absently, “Too bad Foley’s dead. He’s the only one who could finger the ultimate perp.”

Mary Dove smiled pleasantly. “He was trying to shoot my children.”

Gutiérrez spoke from the phone. “I have a thought.”

“The floor is yours,” Tolifson said.

“Dorion was telling me about that guy who came to see us, Howie Katz. From the chip company.”

Colter explained to those in the room who weren’t aware. “Community relations, GraphSet Chips in Fort Pleasant. Offered anyone displaced from town by the flood a payment or interest-free loan to rebuild. I see where you’re going, Ed.”

Gutiérrez nodded. “Blowing the levee and diverting the river could mean less flooding in Fort Pleasant, less risk of damage to the company.”

Annie Coyne said, “But destroying the town just to save your inventory?”

Tolifson said, “An inventory that’s probably worth a billion dollars.”

Colter: “So Katz comes to Hinowah, talking about helping the town out after the levee goes, but it’s just an excuse to check out the progress of the erosion firsthand. If it wasn’t enough he’d order Foley and the others to blow the second set of charges.”

Then another thought occurred. He said, “Water.”

Those in the room looked his way. He said to Coyne, “You were telling me about the bottled water company in Fort Pleasant. One of the biggest in the country?”

“Olechu Springs,” Tolifson said. “Three dollars a bottle retail, and that’s one hell of a markup when you don’t pay for your raw materials.”

Dorion asked, “Would they have an interest in diverting the river? Was it polluting the source?”

Gutiérrez said, “Or maybe flooding would damage their processing plant and wells. A water company destroyed by water.”

Annie Coyne said, “There was a big controversy when they were looking for a place to build their plant.”

Tolifson added, “That’s right. Remember it well.”

“The company made a pitch to everybody in Fort Pleasant about selling the town’s water rights. Half didn’t want to, the other half did. And the way the town charter was set up, the county board was the sole decision maker. I remember Prescott Moore, the supervisor, did a full-court press and it got approved. Checks went to everybody who had well water in town. From the get-go, they regretted it. The checks were a lot smaller than they’d expected—and they lost all control over their water—there were guarantees that personal supplies would be protected, but the lakes and rivers vanished. And then sediments started to appear in the town tap water.”

Annie Coyne said, “You know, water transit works the other way too. You take it out of aquifers, but you can also add it back.”

Those in the room—and Gutiérrez from afar—were looking her way. She continued, “During a rainy season farmers pump water underground to save it for dry ones. Here, the Never Summer’s ninety-nine percent pure. But as it moves south of Nowhere it starts flowing past residential areas and companies. It picks up pollution. By the time the water gets to Fort Pleasant it’ll fill up the aquifers with all kinds of crap.”

Tolifson said, “You’re saying they need to divert the flow so it doesn’t pollute their product.”

“A possibility.”

Starr said, “We’ll put them both on the suspect list. The water company and GraphSet.” She frowned as she doodled a daisy on the yellow pad. Then she looked up at Colter. “This reward business of yours. You do interrogations, right?”

“I call them interviews. But yes.”

She said, “I know those kids from Oakland, the muscle, don’t know diddly. They’re willing to squeal like whatever animal squeals—some pigs do and some pigs don’t. But that Lark woman, she’s not talking either, but seeing her reaction to Foley getting killed, I got this feeling we could call her Mama Bear.”

Dorion asked, “Sleeping together?”

“Dollars to donuts. Which means she could’ve picked up something about who the client is. She shut down completely with me and the mayor. Want to have a go at it, Colter?”

He nodded.

Starr and Colter rose and left the conference room. They walked to a security door, and she punched in the code to get into the lockup, which consisted of four cells and an interrogation room.

The metal doors had small head-high windows and Colter caught a glimpse of two Oakland thugs sitting sullenly on beds. They continued to the room at the end, where a weapon lockbox was mounted by the door—you never met with a suspect armed. But Starr couldn’t find the key. She shrugged. “She’s shackled.”

“If I can get out of shackles, she can get out of shackles.” He handed her his Glock.

“You can do that, really? The shackle thing?”

“I’ll teach you how if you want.”

“?’Deed I do.”

Starr opened the door and he stepped inside.