Thirty-four
“The detective’s here.” Cassidy paused at the doorway to the den where Chase was propped up on a recliner. He’d never said a word to the police in the hospital, only answered questions with a nod or shake of his head.
“Well, by all means, show him in,” Chase said.
A few minutes later T. John was declining Cassidy’s offer of coffee and balancing himself on the arm of a leather sofa. “You may as well stick around,” he said to Cassidy, “this might interest you as well.”
“What?”
“Our John Doe finally got himself a name. Postmortem, but a name nonetheless.”
Cassidy ignored the hammering of her heart and braced herself for the truth. “Did he?”
“Marshall Baldwin.” Chase’s voice was the clearest it had been since the accident, though he was still speaking through a wired jaw.
T. John grinned. “Thought you might have known him.”
“Who is he?” Cassidy asked.
“Well, now, that appears to be the million-dollar question. Ol’ Marsh, he seems to be some kind of enigma.”
“He’s a developer and lumber broker from Alaska.”
“That’s right; a self-made millionaire.”
“What was he doing here?” Cassidy asked, her eyes rounding on her husband. How many secrets had he hidden from her over the years? She’d been so certain the dead man was Brig. Relief swept through her blood.
“Interested in selling me raw lumber. Even talked about buying out our mill, or some other one down here.”
Cassidy couldn’t believe her ears. “Now? In Oregon? When mills are shutting down all over the state? That doesn’t make much sense—”
“I know. Told him as much. But he said the prices were right. He could get a helluva deal.”
“Why were you meeting him at night?” She couldn’t help being suspicious.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want you or Derrick to find out. I suggested we meet in Portland, but he wanted to see the operation firsthand, so we settled on meeting at the mill, then going into town.”
“You were hiding this from me?” she asked, a trace of bitterness in her words. She shouldn’t have been surprised—she’d learned over the years that Chase ran his life by his own rules. Still, she felt betrayed.
“I just wanted to get all the facts straight. Then, if I’d decided we should sell—”
“If you decided? Don’t I have a voice in this? For God’s sake, Chase—” She caught the warning look in Chase’s eye and stopped cold. This wasn’t the time or place. He seemed to be silently warning her, telling her not to make a scene in front of the detective.
“Baldwin was interested. That’s all.”
“And so you met at the mill and then what?” Wilson asked.
“We’d just left the office and were walking up the ramp to building one when there was a blast—so loud it sounded like dynamite exploding in a tunnel. The walls started to collapse and we tried to run.”
“Was Marshall holding anything in his hand?”
“I don’t remember.”
T. John shifted. “Was he wearing a chain with a St. Christopher’s medal?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Hell, I don’t remember.”
“A suit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sport jacket and slacks?”
“Jeans maybe, but it was too hot for a jacket. I left mine in the office.”
“Why wasn’t his wallet in his pocket?” Wilson demanded.
“I don’t have any idea.”
Wilson slowly unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and frowned, his gaze centering on the fireplace, though Cassidy suspected he was watching Chase’s reaction in his peripheral vision. “Let me get this straight. You planned to meet a guy you’d never seen before late at night at the mill to talk about the possibility of selling it.”
“Or buying his lumber. Either way.”
“The way I heard it, you were like a son to Rex Buchanan, put in eighty—maybe ninety-hour weeks. Some people around here think that mill meant more to you than anything, even your family, but all of a sudden, out of the clear damned blue, you were thinking of selling?”
“I’m always thinking of selling if the price is right.”
“What would your father-in-law say?”
“Hadn’t gotten that far.”
“But he’d taken you under his wing, loaned you money for your education, let you work your way into being the corporate attorney and then senior vice president. Above his own son.”
“Not above. Not even equal to. But almost. Rex has great faith in my abilities.”
“And for that you sneak around, thinking about selling out your share without telling him.”
“Yes.” Chase’s glare was cold as ice.
“Well, why’s that? Hell, I’m no businessman, just a podunk policeman with a badge, but it don’t make a helluva lot of sense.”
Cassidy went cold inside. She never would have thought Chase would have entertained the idea of selling. Not the night of their last fight.
“You were thinking of getting out, maybe?” the detective persisted. “Leaving town because of marital problems?”
“Wait a minute—” Cassidy interrupted but Chase held up a hand to stop her protests.
“That’s personal, and has nothing to do with the mills.”
Rage poured through her blood. He had no right to discuss this with anyone! Not even the police.
“All patched up, I hope.”
“All patched up,” Chase said without inflection.
T. John thought about it, lifted a shoulder as if to ask, Who could understand love? “Okay. Whatever.”
Cassidy knew he wouldn’t give up on it, he was just appeasing them both. He stretched out his leg before bending it and clasping his hands over his knee. “So you and Baldwin, you’re both two big corporate execs—hell, you’re a goddamned lawyer and neither one of you remembered your button-down shirts, suits, or briefcases for a meeting that might result in some major corporate changes.”
“It wasn’t that kind of business meeting.”
“What kind was it?”
“Casual.”
Wilson’s eyebrows drew together. “So you said. Just strikes me as kind of funny, that’s all.”
“We’re not talking Wall Street, for Christ’s sake. Major deals are struck every day on tennis courts or on golf courses. It isn’t always necessary to get the board together—not until something’s been decided, and this was preliminary, very preliminary. As I already said, I might have ended up just milling some of his lumber.”
Cassidy stared at her husband, looking for perspiration or any sign of nervousness. There was none. His face was impassive, nearly bored, one arm in a sling, the other resting on the arm of the chair. No fingers drummed, no sweat dampened his hair, no nervous tick gave a clue to the level of his anxiety.
Wilson scratched a day’s growth of beard. “So what did you discuss that night?”
“Not much. He’d barely gotten there when I started to show him the layout.”
“Wouldn’t he want to see the mill up and running, you know—check the equipment, make sure it was in working order, keep track of the employees to find out if they showed up on time or cut out early? Watch the men working together and see how you bring in log trucks and empty them, how you cut your boards, all that shit?”
“That would come later—if he decided to buy and I was willing to sell. It wouldn’t matter much if he was just trying to sell me some raw lumber, though. All he’d be interested in would be the terms and the price.” Chase leveled the detective a single-eyed gaze meant to cut through granite. “It wasn’t such a big deal.”
Wilson considered. “You think whoever set the fire was trying to kill Baldwin?”
“I have no idea.”
“Otherwise the timing seems a little coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”
“I couldn’t even venture a guess.”
Cassidy watched the detective try and bully Chase into saying something he didn’t want to, into slipping up. “Chase, maybe we should call a lawyer—”
“I am a lawyer,” he said swiftly.
“I know; I mean a criminal lawyer.” Things were moving too quickly; she needed time to think. “Besides, Detective, my husband’s just gotten out of the hospital and he tires easily—”
“I’m not tired,” Chase snapped. “And I don’t think Detective Wilson is here to charge me with anything.” He leaned forward in the chair. “Or am I wrong?”
“’Course not.” The good-old-boy grin slid across the detective’s jaw. “Just lookin’ for information about the crime.”
“That I can’t tell you; I don’t know who set the fire or why. I wouldn’t have any idea if the explosion was a means used to kill someone or just an expensive prank. Obviously someone wanted to do some damage. I’m just not sure how much.”
“You didn’t see anyone else at the mill that night?”
“No one.”
Cassidy rubbed her hands on her jeans. Her palms were sweaty, her insides shaking. What about Willie? He’d been there.
T. John crossed one leg over the other and popped his gum. “You know, I was a little disappointed when we finally pieced together Baldwin’s ID.”
“Why’s that?” Chase asked.
“Because up to that point, I would’ve bet my badge that the John Doe was your brother.”
Cassidy didn’t move.
“My brother?” Chase repeated, again without so much as a hint of emotion.
“Yep. I had myself a notion—call it gut instinct—that Brig had come back to town and met with you.”
“Late at night at the mill?” Chase said, his voice filled with derision.
“Why not? He’s still a fugitive. Wouldn’t chance prancin’ through the streets of Prosperity in broad daylight, now, would he?”
Chase didn’t even glance at his wife. “Brig’s dead.”
“You know that?”
“He’s dead to me. Never showed his face around here after the first fire.”
“That first fire; that’s what got me thinkin’,” T. John said. “I was of the mind that the two fires were connected, and it’s a damned shame I couldn’t have talked to Baldwin to find out why he was down here.”
“I told you why.”
“Yeah, yeah.” T. John stopped chewing. “But did it ever occur to you that Baldwin might be your brother?”
Chase snorted. “Don’t you think I would’ve recognized him?”
“Well, that’s just it; I don’t know.”
Cassidy could barely breathe. It was one thing to have her private fears, another to have them voiced. “You’re saying that you think Baldwin is Brig?”
“He wasn’t Brig. I was there,” Chase cut in.
T. John rubbed his chin. “I’m saying nothin’s for sure. Not yet. See, Marshall Baldwin doesn’t have any family, none that either we or the boys up in Alaska can find. He claims he’s from California and we’re checking birth certificates and such, from somewhere around L.A. All government records show that he was never married, no brothers and sisters, parents dead. Not even an uncle or a third cousin is crawling out of the woodwork and you’d think that someone would want to lay claim to his money. I told you he had himself a pile, didn’t I?”
“You mentioned it, yes,” Cassidy said, knowing that the detective was sharp enough to remember everything he’d said.
“Yep. Showed up in Alaska, near as anyone can tell, as early as 1977. Not a dime to his name. He got himself a job working on the trans-Alaska pipeline, maintenance. I think it was already built—finished the year before. Worked for three or four years before he bought out a guy who owned a sawmill and worked round the clock to get that mill on its feet—kind of like you,” he said to Chase. “The man had no social life, just sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. It worked, too; pretty soon he bought himself another mill and another. Invested in a fishery or two, a mining operation and even some kind of farm…” He screwed up his face, then snapped his fingers as if the thought finally struck him. “Potato farm, I think it was. Don’t that beat all?”
“Don’t it just?” Chase mocked.
“Anyway, most of the time Baldwin kept a low profile, but he was suspected of being an anonymous donor to quite a few charities up there—especially saving the wilderness, that kind of crap.”
Chase let out a sound of disgust. “I know you don’t remember him, but Brig…well, he was never what you’d call a philanthropist.”
“He was just a kid when he took off.”
“Well, he used to laugh at Cassidy’s father, claiming old man Buchanan was always trying to save the world by donating to good causes just to ease his guilty conscience.”
“No—” Cassidy said.
Chase ignored her. “Brig also had no ambition. And he was always in trouble with the law. I think you can find records that prove it.”
“Not our friend Baldwin,” T. John said, placing his hands on his knees as he straightened. “The man was lily white. Not so much as a speeding ticket according to the authorities in Alaska. Can you believe it? A man lives up there nearly twenty years, makes a shit-load of money and remains practically invisible.”
“But you think he’s Brig.”
“Could be.”
Cassidy felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine.
“How about dental records?” T. John asked as he walked to the fireplace and leaned against the cool stones. “I can’t find any record of you or your brother going to the dentist.”
“We didn’t. No money and good, strong teeth.”
“Funny, Baldwin didn’t have a dentist up in Anchorage, either. Or Juneau or Ketchikan or anywhere else, near as we can figure. Can’t believe a guy can live over thirty years without a toothache. Ah, well, we’re still lookin’. Too bad his mouth was so busted up. Teeth broken. Kinda like yours.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“We took what we could, his hands were pretty burned. So far, no match.”
Cassidy could barely think straight. “Brig—he was arrested; here in Prosperity, there should be some record.”
“Well, now, that’s interesting, Mrs. Buchanan, because Brig never was printed. Not once. Oh, he was dragged in, talked to a lot, scolded and slapped on the hands, but never once did he have to put his fingertips in ink. Because of your daddy and some fancy lawyer always steppin’ in. Ain’t that convenient?”
“And Baldwin?” she asked.
“No military record. No criminal record. No prints. Like I said, damned convenient. No kin to claim his body or petition for his money, a will that leaves a provision for the employees to buy out the sawmill and fishery if they want, and the rest of his money is to be given to a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving the Alaskan wilderness, an organization that Baldwin helped found. He kept his name and face out of the papers, but spent money, lots of it, on causes he cared about.”
“That’s not my brother.”
Wilson shrugged. “Maybe he was a changed man. Trauma can do that.”
Chase made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.
T. John ignored it. “I thought maybe you might recognize him, so I brought along some snapshots, the few that we’ve got.” He dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a manila envelope. Cassidy’s heart began to knock, as, one by one, the glossy prints fell onto the desk. Were they Brig? She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she picked up one picture and studied it carefully. A bearded, dark-haired man stared back at her, his eyes deep set and brooding, his demeanor one of complete and utter distrust.
“I guess the man looks a little like Brig,” Chase admitted.
“Dead ringer, I’d say.”
“But Baldwin didn’t have a beard.”
“Ain’t that strange? Been wearing one up in Alaska for seventeen years, then shaves it off to meet with you.” T. John smiled and shook his head, then he pulled out another piece of paper, an artist’s sketch. “We had one of our boys draw the guy without a beard and we’re trying to reconstruct his face by computer, then compare it with photos of your brother. Trouble is all we’ve got is a couple of shots from a high school yearbook.”
“You’re serious?” Chase glared at the detective.
“Damned straight.” For the first time Cassidy got a glimpse into T. John’s soul. No cocky grin. No twinkle in his eye. No good-old-boy laughter. Just blind ambition glinted in his eye.
“Why is it so important that Marshall Baldwin be Brig?”
“Well, that’s interesting. Your brother, he takes off after one of the worst fires in the history of Prosperity, then shows up again seventeen years later at a fire just like the other one. Nearly the same incendiary device used. Helluva coincidence. Lots of ’em.” T. John flipped through the pictures and scowled.
“I’d know Brig.” Chase picked up a grainy snapshot of Marshall Baldwin and stared at the black and white image.
“You ever talked to Baldwin before?”
“Just on the phone.”
“How’d he get your name?”
“He was interested in the mill, called and asked for me.”
“Not Rex Buchanan, even though he’s the CEO or whatever fancy name you want to put on president these days.”
“Baldwin had heard at a convention that I run the company; Rex is semiretired and Derrick’s just a figurehead.”
“Even though he’s Rex’s son.” T. John tugged at his lower lip. “So you never once suspected this guy was Brig?”
“He wasn’t.”
“Sure.” T. John scooped up the pictures, straightened and cast a smile in Cassidy’s direction. His eyes silently called them both liars as he popped his gum and started for the door. “Here—you might want one of these. I got more at the office.” He handed Cassidy a picture of Marshall Baldwin, one where he was squinting against the sun as he stood on some rocky cliff. “I know you’re both tired. It’s been a helluva week. If you can tell me anything more about Marshall, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”
Chase struggled to his feet. “And when you hear anything about my mother, I’d like a call.”
Wilson clucked his tongue. “Now that’s odd, don’t you think? Seems as if she up and disappeared into thin air. Thought you might know where she was.”
Chase’s jaw clenched hard. “Find her, Wilson,” he ordered.
“Doin’ my best,” the detective said with a cold smile. “Doin’ my level best.”