Cold Trail Read online

  COLD TRAIL

  A JERI HOWARD MYSTERY

  Janet Dawson

  PERSEVERANCE PRESS / JOHN DANIEL & COMPANY

  PALO ALTO / MCKINLEYVILLE, CALIFORNIA

  2015

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, ­institutions, organizations, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

  The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.

  Copyright © 2015 by Janet Dawson

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-56474-788-4

  A Perseverance Press Book

  Published by John Daniel & Company

  A division of Daniel & Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

  Post Office Box 2790

  McKinleyville, California 95519

  www.danielpublishing.com/perseverance

  Distributed by SCB Distributors (800) 729-6423

  Book design by Eric Larson, Studio E Books, Santa Barbara

  www.studio-e-books.com

  Cover photo by Mark Hillestad

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Dawson, Janet.

  Cold trail / by Janet Dawson.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-56474-555-2 [first printed edition] (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Howard, Jeri (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Women private investigators—California, Northern—Fiction.

  3. Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction.

  4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  5. Mystery fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3554.A949C65 2015

  813’.54—dc23

  2014041661

  To my brother, Roger Dawson

  Acknowledgments

  I appreciate the assistance of Sarah Andrews, who is a great friend, mystery writer extraordinaire, geologist, and gold mine of information on all things concerning the community of Graton as well as western Sonoma County. I also wish to thank Bette Lamb, potter and ceramicist, for her expertise; Norm Benson, retired forester with the California Division of Forestry; Hazel Jens and the ladies of the Graton Community Club; and Julia Turner, for trekking around Sonoma County with me as I did location research for this book.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Author’s Afterword

  About the Author

  One

  I felt cold, and it wasn’t only because of the morgue’s temperature. The pathologist, a middle-aged woman in green scrubs, walked to the oversized stainless steel refrigerator and opened the door. She pulled out the drawer that held a covered body.

  “You know there was a fire,” the pathologist said, by way of warning.

  I nodded, glancing at Griffin and Harris. They were detectives with the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office Coroner Unit. They’d met me here on this sunny Tuesday in August and they had prepared me for the condition of the corpse I was about to view.

  “The body was burned,” the pathologist said. “That’s why we weren’t able to get fingerprints. But the damage is mostly to the lower part, the legs, the hands and forearms. The head and chest are... Well, you’ll see.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  The pathologist reached for the sheet that covered the body. My hands tightened into fists. I shoved them into my pockets. I breathed in the scents of formaldehyde and decay as the pathologist uncovered the dead man’s head and torso. I stared at the face, willing myself to move past emotion and examine what was there.

  The dead man had thick brown hair that fell past his ears. The ends looked singed. So did his eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyes were open and staring, a pale blue. His mouth was open, too, his teeth exposed in a disturbing rictus. The teeth were stained by tobacco. His skin had been reddened by the fire, but I could make out a faint crescent-shaped scar on the man’s lower left jaw. His earlobes were long and fleshy, and they’d been pierced.

  He hadn’t died in the fire, though. He’d been shot. The bullet had entered his chest near the heart.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. I shook my head.

  “It’s not him.”

  “You’re sure?” Griffin asked.

  I nodded, relief and disquiet washing over me, as I concentrated on cataloging what I’d seen and what I knew. “You told me this man is six feet tall and a hundred eighty pounds. That matches my brother’s description. But the hair is too long, and too dark.” I raised a hand to my own short auburn hair. “Brian’s hair is like mine, a bit lighter. And it’s thinning on top. His eyes are blue, but darker. He doesn’t have a scar on his chin. Or pierced ears.” I gestured at the dead man’s open-mouthed grin. “Brian has a crown on the upper left side of his mouth, and his two upper middle teeth are slightly larger than the others. This guy’s teeth are more even. And they’re stained. That tells me this guy was a smoker.”

  I looked at the pathologist. She nodded. “Definitely a smoker,” she said. “The victim doesn’t have any crowns. Just fillings. He’s missing a tooth on the upper right, way at the back.”

  “I don’t know who this man is,” I said. “But it’s not my ­brother.”

  Griffin nodded and exchanged glances with Harris. “Thank you, Doctor. Thanks for coming in, Ms. Howard.”

  The pathologist covered the body and returned the corpse to its resting place in the refrigerator. The detectives and I headed for the door.

  Outside in the corridor, I turned to them. Harris was the taller of the two men, with a broad coffee-colored face and big shoulders inside the jacket of his blue suit. He looked older, too, in his forties. Griffin was my height, about five feet eight inches, and appeared to be in his late thirties, with a wiry, athletic build under his gray suit. He had short blond hair over a tanned face, looking as though he spent a lot of time outdoors.

  I reined in my emotions as best I could. “May I see the bracelet again?”

  Griffin took the evidence bag from his pocket and handed it to me. I held it up in the bright fluorescent light, examining the bracelet inside the clear plastic bag.

  The bracelet was made of brushed stainless steel, with a rectangular plate and a stretch band, like a watch. It had come through the fire with a layer of soot, and I saw a bit of burned fabric caught in one of the links. There were also scratches on the links where the bracelet band had broken, as though the bracelet had caught on something str
onger than it was, metal probably. The link must have separated as the bracelet was pulled away. It looked as though some of the links were missing.

  The front of the plate was engraved with the medic-alert symbol, a serpent-entwined rod as wielded by the Greek god Asclepius, a deity associated with healing and medicine. Next to this was the name BRIAN. The back of the plate was also engraved, with a name—BRIAN HOWARD—and information noting my brother’s penicillin allergy. Below this was the identification number that led the detectives to the MedicAlert Foundation and ultimately to Brian’s family.

  I willed the inanimate object to tell me where my brother was. But it didn’t. I handed the bag to Griffin.

  “It’s Brian’s bracelet, all right. Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor inside the boat’s cabin, near the corpse.” Griffin put the evidence bag back into his pocket. “We think maybe it was in the victim’s pocket.”

  “When did this happen? And where?”

  “Early Sunday morning,” Harris said. “Newman’s Marina near Lakeville. The boat was tied up at a dock there. There was an explosion and a fire, probably due to a propane leak somewhere in the boat’s cabin, according to the Lakeville Volunteer Fire Department. After they got the fire out, they found the body and called us. We figured it for an accident until the pathologist did the autopsy. Now it’s murder.”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” I said, “my brother didn’t know anything about boats. He’s not a sailor. I can’t imagine why he’d be at a marina on Saturday night.”

  “You can’t think of any reason why your brother’s MedicAlert bracelet would turn up at a homicide?” Griffin’s expression was bland.

  I shook my head. “No. Not a clue.”

  The detectives exchanged looks. “In the meantime,” Harris said, “our body’s still unidentified. We’re back to square one.”

  I sighed. “So am I.”

  Two

  The detectives and I walked through the door at the end of the corridor. It led to another hallway. Several members of my family waited there, stress and anxiety etching lines on their faces and circles under their eyes. They looked up as I approached them, their faces full of questions and fear.

  “It’s not Brian,” I said.

  “Oh, thank God.” My mother, seated on a nearby bench, slumped over, her hands clasped tightly together on her lap. My father sat beside her. Now he covered his face with his hands. Then he straightened and put his arm around my mother’s ­shoulder.

  My brother’s wife, Sheila, stood next to the bench, her face stricken. She didn’t speak. Then she turned away and leaned against the wall, her palms and forehead against the painted surface. Aunt Caro, my father’s younger sister, had been standing on the other side of the bench. Now she walked to where my sister-in-law stood and put her hand on Sheila’s arm.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  Then I could figure out what to do next.

  Mother got to her feet and reached for Dad’s hand as he, too, rose. Together, hand-in-hand, they walked slowly toward the front door of the Sonoma County Coroner’s Office. Caro and Sheila followed. I told Griffin and Harris I’d be in touch. Then I walked out into the midday sunshine.

  In the parking lot, my parents were climbing into Dad’s car. Caro had her arm around Sheila, who was standing at the open door of her Honda Civic hatchback.

  “I have to go back to Petaluma. I left the kids with a neighbor.” Sheila glanced at me and Caro, as though expecting us to argue with her. Then she tossed her shoulder bag onto the passenger seat, slid into the driver’s seat, and fastened the lap belt and shoulder harness.

  “I’ll talk with you later,” I said.

  Sheila didn’t acknowledge my words. She started the car, backed the Honda out of the space, and drove out of the parking lot.

  “Something’s going on there,” Caro said. It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded. “Yes. Not sure what it is. But I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’ll see you back at the house.” Caro embraced me. Then she walked to Dad’s car and got in. As soon as they drove away, I reached for my cell phone and called my friend, Dan Westbrook.

  “It’s not my brother,” I told him. “Yes, I’m relieved. But I still don’t know where Brian is. Thanks. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll talk with you later, when I know more.”

  I disconnected the call, got into my Toyota, and drove toward the parking lot exit. The coroner’s office is on Chanate Road, in the northwest part of Santa Rosa. As I headed into town, I recalled that quick exchange of looks between the two detectives.

  I knew what they were thinking. If Brian wasn’t their corpse and his MedicAlert bracelet was at the crime scene, these two detectives had reached what was for them the next logical step.

  My kid brother was a person of interest, maybe even a suspect, in a homicide.

  ——

  My brother, Brian, had disappeared a few days earlier. I wasn’t even certain when he’d gone missing, and until yesterday, I hadn’t known he was gone. I didn’t have any idea where he was or why he’d left. Or why his MedicAlert bracelet had been found with an unidentified body on a burned boat at a marina in rural Sonoma County.

  I reviewed what I did know.

  Brian called my cell phone on Friday morning. But he didn’t leave a message. I returned the call later in the day. His phone went straight to voice mail, so I left a message for him. He didn’t call back.

  I’m a private investigator, working out of Oakland. A couple of weeks earlier, I had finished up a big case that resulted in a big check deposited in my business account. I’d cleared up several small cases as well. I decided to take advantage of my light workload and take some time off. So I rescheduled several appointments, cleared a week in my calendar—this week—and arranged for my tenant to feed my cats, water the plants, indoor and out, and take in the mail. I was going to take a vacation, time away from the day-to-day routine, and quality time with Dan, since our friendship had evolved over this summer into something more than just a friendship.

  On Saturday, Dan and I drove up to Lassen Volcanic National Park. The park is located in the northeast part of the state. The annual snowfall at Lassen is usually the heaviest in California. There are permanent snow patches on Lassen Peak. We planned to spend the week hiking, relaxing, exploring the park and the surrounding area.

  Things didn’t work out that way.

  Yesterday—Monday—we hiked the trail up Lassen Peak. It’s the southernmost active volcano in the Cascade Range. The mountain had rumbled frequently between 1914 and 1917. A powerful eruption on May 22, 1915 spewed boulders that were too hot to touch for days afterward. The cloud of ash produced by the volcano drifted as far as 200 miles.

  Lassen Peak is likely to erupt again, one of these years. I was reminded of this frequently during the hike, since the area has constant geothermal activity, with boiling springs, mudpots and fumaroles.

  The trail Dan and I hiked was a five-mile round trip with an elevation gain of two thousand feet, and we were on the mountain most of the day. Though it was early August, we encountered snow on the ground at the higher elevations.

  It was nearly five when we got back to the cabin where we were staying, at the Mill Creek Resort, not far from the park’s southwest entrance. We stripped off our hiking clothes and headed for the bathroom. The hot shower felt good on my aching muscles, and so did Dan’s shoulder massage. We dressed and made plans for dinner.

  Only then did I look at my cell phone. I had four missed calls and two voice mails from my sister-in-law. I listened to the voice mails, with growing alarm. In the first message, Sheila sounded concerned. In the second, worried. She wanted to know if I knew where Brian was.

  I called Sheila. “No, I don’t know where he is. What’s going on?”

  Sheila told me, her voice trembling, that she and the children had left Brian at home in Petaluma twelve days earlier. She had driven to
Firebaugh, in the southern part of the Central Valley, to visit her parents. When she returned from her trip on Sunday afternoon, Brian was gone. He’d left a note saying he was going away for a couple of days. He didn’t say where he was going, just that he would be back on Sunday.

  He never showed up.

  Sunday night gave way to Monday morning. Still no Brian. He wasn’t answering his cell phone. Calls went straight to voice mail. Text messages went into the ether.

  I asked for more details, firing questions at my sister-in-law. She told me she had talked with Brian several times while she was in Firebaugh, most recently on Monday of last week. She hadn’t spoken with him since then, although he’d called two days later. He’d disconnected when the call went to Sheila’s voice mail. But the missed call showed on her phone’s list of recent calls.

  Usually when Sheila and Brian were apart, they talked with each other more frequently. If that routine had been broken, something was amiss. I pressed Sheila for answers, sensing that she was leaving something out. She seemed reluctant to answer my questions. Finally, she told me she and Brian had had a fight, a big one, during that phone conversation a week ago. But she didn’t want to discuss that over the phone.

  Fine, I thought. But we will discuss it, in person.

  I told Sheila to file a missing persons report with the Petaluma police. Then Dan and I packed our gear into his Subaru wagon and checked out of our cabin, heading west out of the mountains to the town of Red Bluff, where we had a quick dinner before driving south on Interstate 5. From there it was another three hours, or more, driving time to Oakland. Dan was at the wheel, pushing the upper limits of speed. I called Sheila several times during the drive, hoping for news. But Brian hadn’t called, nor had he come home.

  Sheila hadn’t contacted my parents. I had to make those calls, letting them know that their only son was missing.

  The first call was to Castro Valley, where my father lives. Tim Howard is a retired professor who’d taught history at California State University in Hayward, now known as Cal State East Bay. Dad was at home. He told me he’d drive up to Sonoma County first thing in the morning. He said he’d call his sister in Santa Rosa, so we could use Aunt Caro’s place as a rendezvous.