She got back
into the cab and pulled into a service area to hide her truck. She changed her deputy coat for a camouflage all-weather coat. She took off running to catch up to him. After a quarter-mile, she thought she’d lost him. Then she glimpsed him when he turned off the main trail toward the north side of the peninsula.
An idle thought crossed her mind, as idle thoughts do at the oddest, most inappropriate times: she’d read about Lookout Cape being the most westerly point in the continental United States.
He’d taken a backpack, so she guessed he wasn’t out to get a head start on a swim to Hawaii. Now what should she do? There was no way she could follow him and be sure he didn’t spot her. And once he did, she might not find any incriminating evidence, and he’d be too spooked to ever come back here again. She couldn’t wait hours for him to return, and even if she did, what then? She needed Sheffel’s help.
She went back to her truck and resumed a normal patrol. After giving someone a speeding ticket, visiting a dairy farm whose owner complained about a neighbor’s dogs harassing his cows and making them give less milk, and driving along a good hundred miles of side roads—paved, dirt, and gravel—she stopped at the little berg of Beaver at the head of the Nestucca Valley and nine miles from Pacific City. This far inland, the early fog burned off earlier, and the clear blue sky belied the forecast of another storm the following day. She stopped at the Beaver Shopping Center, which consisted of the Beaver Post Office, a small grocery that served hot and cold sandwiches, and a beauty salon. She ordered a beef and Tillamook white cheddar sandwich on sourdough, mustard, no sprouts, and water and sat at one of the four two-person tables.
After eating half the sandwich, she called Sheffel’s cell phone.
“Dave, it’s Greta. I think I may have something.”
She outlined what she knew of Lawton and Lookout Cape. Sheffel agreed it deserved a closer look, although with a storm coming and hanging around the next day or two, nobody would be diving. They decided to wait for the next clear-enough day and appropriate low tide. The weather and the tide tables didn’t coincide again for six days to make conditions favorable for diving.
Thanksgiving fell on that upcoming Thursday and the fifth day of waiting. To Greta’s chagrin, her thoughts of inviting her younger sister out for the holiday had gotten lost in her focus on the Toompas case. She worked a normal patrol in the morning and early afternoon before sharing Thanksgiving dinner with Sharon Tomasini’s family. The Cloverdale High School basketball forward’s invitation came after Sharon overheard Greta wish Emily Sievers a pleasant holiday at her daughter’s house in Portland. Greta had then mentioned that she expected to eat alone.
She arrived at the Tomasini house still in her uniform. Sharon’s parents, four siblings, several other relatives, and neighbors totaled more than twenty at the folding tables set up in the family room. Greta contributed two pumpkin pies she’d made the previous evening. She thoroughly enjoyed herself. Three hours passed with good humor, a close community spirit she missed having, too many glasses of some kind of wine, and way too much food. When she rolled herself back out to her vehicle, she momentarily wondered whether the springs would hold her. She drove home slowly and crashed by eight o’clock.
The low tide occurred at 2:37 p.m. the next day. Greta called in to the Tillamook office that she was assisting Fish and Game in possible abalone poaching. She didn’t mention a connection to the Toompas case.
Sheffel met her at an old logging road exit on 101 about two miles south of the Lookout Cape entrance. Both wore nondescript civilian clothing.
“One thing bothers me, Greta. You said he was carrying an empty backpack.”
“It looked empty.”
“Then where’s the diving gear? Even with minimal equipment, there’d be a wetsuit, fins, tools, a bag for the abalone, and who knows what else?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is, it looks suspicious.”
Sheffel agreed but wasn’t enthusiastic. “If he is up to something illegal, we’ll have to catch him at it. You say he took a side trail to the north?”
“Yeah. About a quarter mile from the parking lot.”
“Hmmm . . . the drop is sheer on both sides of the cape, with the north side much worse. I don’t know any way down to the water on the north side. On the other hand, if he’s diving there, it means less chance of anyone seeing him, especially on a day like today. If the fog still hangs in, and even if you found a spot to look down at the water, you wouldn’t see the surface.” Sheffel checked his wristwatch. “If Lawton’s coming today and follows the pattern you think he has, he should arrive in about an hour. Either there’s something here, or there’s not. I suggest we go down the main trail as far as we can and still see the parking area. Once we see his car, we’ll hotfoot to where you saw him cut off the main trail and step into the brush. If he keeps going on the main trail, it’ll be pretty certain he’s just some local who likes to walk at Lookout Point. If he takes the side trail, then we’ll give him some time and follow.”
Having no better plan, Greta agreed. She had driven her own car. They left Sheffel’s Fish and Game truck on the logging road and drove north to the Lookout Cape parking lot.
They waited almost an hour before Lawton showed up in his green Toyota and parked near the trailhead. Greta and Sheffel trotted to the trail fork, stepped into the foliage opposite the side trail, and waited. Ten minutes later, Lawton came into view. Once again, he wore an empty-looking backpack. He stopped and casually looked around. His gaze passed over their position without stopping, and he took the side trail, as before.
Greta had had the urge to take along her shotgun because it was a murder case, but she hadn’t seen any way to suggest it to Sheffel. They both carried their sidearms, and she felt silly suggesting more firepower for abalone poaching. Still, if Toompas’s killing was related to abalone poaching . . .
“Do we follow now?” she asked.
“Give him a little time to do whatever he’s doing, and then we’ll go down the trail and see if we can find him. If he’s just a citizen doing his own thing, we’ll run into him or miss him entirely. If he’s up to something, we’ll either see it or miss him again. You see any other options?”
“No. Okay, so we wait.”
They sat on a fallen log. Two other single walkers passed them, heading to the point. They exchanged greetings.
Sheffel looked at his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes. He’s had time to get down and into a dive. Might as well see what’s happening.”
She followed Sheffel down the narrower trail. They didn’t hurry. Sheffel slowed as they came to bends in the trail to sneak a peek ahead for their “quarry.” Greta felt a little silly. Two armed law enforcers lurking in the woods, trying to catch a snail poacher.
The trail branched several times, and at each fork Sheffel confidently picked one option.
“How do you know which way?”