“A little,” Jimmy admitted with a self-conscious shrug, “but I’m not very good at it.”
“Your father was terrific when it comes to drawing. You’ll need to ask your Uncle Jared to show you the portrait your father did of your grandmother.”
“Your partner you mean,” Jimmy asked quietly.
He had me there. Jimmy’s Internet search about the clash between Sue and Rich Danielson was still bearing fruit.
“Yes,” I agreed with a lump in my throat, “she was definitely my partner.”
Just then a gigantic human shadow fell over our table. Jimmy and I both looked up to see the looming figure of Siegfried Norquist standing there. When I noticed he was cradling something in the crook of his arm, I knew exactly what it was.
“You must be Chris Danielson’s son,” he said, beaming down at Jimmy, holding out his massive hand. “I’m so glad to meet you. You look just like your father.”
“Is it true that he worked here?” Jimmy asked.
Ziggy smiled. “It certainly is. Your father was a fine young man—upstanding and dependable, and talented, too. Here’s something he drew for me.”
With a flick of his hand, Ziggy turned the framed pencil portrait so Jimmy could see it.
“Who’s that?” the boy asked.
“My wife,” Ziggy explained, “my late wife. Her name was Sonja. She managed the restaurant at the same time your dad worked here. One night when we weren’t very busy, he sketched this. He tossed it in the trash, but one of the waitresses spotted it and gave it to me. Sonja died two years ago, and I keep this in the kitchen with me. I was so sorry when he disappeared.”
“He’s dead now, too,” Jimmy said quietly. “Someone found his body a long time ago, but they’ve only just now identified it.”
Marvin Price and the AST might not have made any official announcements about Chris Danielson’s homicide up to that point, but the story was out in public now, and I didn’t care. After all, this was Jimmy’s family and his story to tell.
The welcoming smile vanished from Ziggy’s face. “I’m so sorry to hear that, so very sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
Our waitress showed up just then, carrying our order. Ziggy stepped aside and watched as she delivered the plates of food to our table. The last thing she put down was our ticket.
“There’s one thing I can do,” Ziggy said, grabbing the tab and stuffing it into the pocket of his pants. “Breakfast is on me.”
I have to say, cold winter weather or not, the little burg of Homer, Alaska, was starting to grow on me. Or as Jimmy Danielson would say, Really starting to grow on me.
Chapter 37
With Christopher James Danielson finally stuffed to the gills, we left the restaurant and drove to the hospital. When we arrived, we found an Alaska State Trooper vehicle as well as one from Homer PD parked end to end in the tow-away zone outside the front entrance. Inside, the woman at the reception desk informed us that Mr. Adams had been moved from ICU to a regular room. When we started in that direction she called after us, “Wait, children under sixteen aren’t allowed.”
With cop cars parked right outside the front door, I figured I was golden. “Jimmy here is a witness, and the detectives need to speak to him.”
“Okay, fine,” she relented. “Go ahead.”
In the hallway outside an open door, I spotted Nitz engaged in a low-voiced huddle with two individuals, one of whom was Marvin Price. The one I didn’t recognize was a woman wearing a pantsuit and a pair of boots that were more of a fashion statement than they were weather-related. Nitz broke away from her companions as soon as she saw us and hurried over to gather her son in her arms.
“Jimmy,” was all she said as she held the boy tight. Nitz looked weary beyond words but far better than I would have expected after an all-night vigil.
“How are things?” I asked.
“He’s sleeping right now,” she answered. “The doctors have upgraded his condition to fair.”
“So he’s going to make it?”
She nodded, then added, “But there may be some residual long-term damage.”
I was puzzling over that when Marvin approached. He, too, looked as though he’d pulled an all-nighter but with far more visible ill effects than Nitz displayed. He clearly hadn’t gone home to change. By contrast the woman accompanying him—perfectly made up and with every hair in place—looked fresh as a daisy.
“Glad to see you,” Marvin said. “You were scheduled to be our next stop. Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Genevieve Madison of the AST. And this is J. P. Beaumont from Seattle, the private investigator who brought this matter to our attention.”
Detective Madison offered me a firm handshake with a grip that wasn’t quite as forceful as Twink’s but close.
“Glad to meet you,” she said, with a welcoming smile. “Call me Jenny.”
“And I’m Beau,” I told her. “So what’s going on?”
“We were just discussing Mr. Adams’s latest lab results with Ms. Miller here,” Marvin explained. “It appears that Shelley has been controlling her husband for some time by administering low doses of both scopolamine and LSD.”
Those initials took me back several decades. I knew people who tripped out on LSD in the sixties and never returned to any semblance of reality. No wonder Roger’s doctors feared there was a possibility of long-term residual consequences.
“But here’s the good news,” Jenny Madison offered. “We ran the photocopies in Tracy Hamilton’s notary file through our facial-rec program and hit pay dirt. The guy posing as Roger Adams for the power-of-attorney application turns out to be Duncan Langdon.”
I nodded. “I met him,” I said. “He’s married to Shelley’s cousin Nadine and goes by the name of Dunk. According to Shelley they did odd jobs around the house.”
“Boyfriend and girlfriend rather than husband and wife,” Jenny supplied. “Oddly enough, they were booked on an early-morning Alaska Airlines flight out of Anchorage headed for Seattle with a final destination of Cancún. They spent the night inside the terminal. We had a team of officers intercept them before they were able to board.”
“Cancún,” Marvin added. “It’s the same place Shelley was going. I’m sure they were expecting their big payday. Turns out Dunk Langdon is, as we say, ‘someone known to law enforcement.’ He’s Homer’s resident drug dealer—mostly a small-time operator who deals in more exotic things than, say, your basic methamphetamines.”
“Like LSD and scopolamine, you mean?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Marvin replied, “to say nothing of fentanyl. So we put both Nadine and Dunk in separate interview rooms and, after a certain amount of persuading, offered them the same deal. Surprise, surprise, they both took it.”