Scott William Carter - [Myron Vale Investigation 01] - Ghost Detective

by Carter

  I went for a walk at dusk, the fall air crisp and cool, and saw the same Ford Explorer that had tailed me on Friday parked at the end of the street. Irritated, I started to approach them, but they gunned the engine and screeched around the corner. How long would they keep tailing me? I was going to have to get the word out to them somehow that their efforts were pointless.

  On Sunday afternoon, I met Alesha at Sharkey’s, a pool hall about halfway between my house in Sellwood and her condo in northeast Portland. We met there about every other week, and we liked Sunday afternoons because the place was generally deserted—at least of the living. A few ghosts always wandered around from table to table, mostly old-timers who’d spent hours playing the game and now watched the movement of the balls longingly.

  Alesha was racking up a set when I got there, alone, at our favorite table in the corner. Sometimes she brought a boyfriend, but mostly she came alone. Smoking had been banned in all Portland bars for years, but the smell of cigarettes still clung to the green felt and the dark-paneled walls—walls so thin I could feel the November breeze flitting through the gaps in the wood. Billie was at home finishing a painting. When I’d left, there’d been a particularly annoying ring to the way she’d told me to go have fun. She said it the same way she might tell me to go to hell.

  While we played, I told Alesha about what Billie had learned about Tony’s fate. When I was done, she was already three balls ahead of me and had set the table up to make it hard for me to come back.

  “Interesting,” she said. “And how do you know all this?”

  “Sources,” I said.

  “Right. And I take it that these sources probably wouldn’t be willing to testify in court?”

  “Let’s just say their testimony probably wouldn’t do much good.”

  Alesha picked up the chalk and polished the end of her cue stick. “No chance of putting anybody in Loretto’s operation behind bars, then. Six, corner pocket.”

  No surprise, she banked it off the wall and into the pocket.

  “I’m glad we don’t play for money,” I said.

  “Yeah, whose idea was that again?”

  “I forget. Tell me something. Do you really think Loretto’s men would keep following me because they think I might lead them to the money?”

  “With Tony dead?” Alesha said. “It’s possible, I guess. They might think you were hired to find the money. Why, you have to reason to believe they’re still following you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The Ford Explorer was parked down the street from my house yesterday.”

  “Hmm. You think they might be outside right now?”

  “It’s worth a check,” I said.

  We checked, peering carefully through one of the windows, and sure enough, the black Ford Explorer was parked across the street in front of the Subway and the H&R Block. I could clearly see the same two guys I’d snapped pictures of on Friday sitting in the front, eating sandwiches, and I said as much to Alesha.

  “Since you know what they look like now,” she said, “it’s hard to believe Loretto would send the same guys.”

  “Somehow I doubt they told Loretto about our little meeting.”

  “Yeah, probably. That little oversight might get them in a heap of trouble if Loretto finds out, though. You know, they look awfully lonely over there.”

  That got me to smile. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there’s a back door to this place they probably don’t know about.”

  We used that back door to gain access to the alley behind the buildings, circling around our friends in the Explorer, deftly crossing the street and approaching them quickly from behind. Two old Jewish men in tweed suits were arguing about how it was President Truman’s fault we were going to war in Korea, and I veered around them, which got Alesha to raise her eyebrows at me. She took the driver’s side, me the passenger side, and we both popped into the backseats at exactly the same moment.

  Cursing, the two Mexicans dropped their sandwiches in their laps and went for their guns, but Alesha flashed her badge before they’d gotten far.

  “Now, now,” she said, “let’s not do anything hasty. You’d hate to have all of Portland’s finest hunting you down.”

  The big one with the blocky face swallowed what was still in his mouth with one big gulp. He looked as if he wanted to throw up. The smaller, snappier-dressed man wiped the lettuce off his lips. He did not look happy, but he didn’t look scared either.

  “We done nothing wrong, man,” the smaller one said. “We just sitting here having lunch. It’s a free country.”

  “Oh yeah?” Alesha said. “I assume you’ve got concealed-weapon permits for those pieces you’re carrying?”

  They said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Here’s the deal. My partner just has a few questions for you. Tell him what you know, and I’ll look the other way on those permits.”

  “We not saying fucking nothing,” the big guy said. “You—you take us in, we call a fucking lawyer. No hay problema.”

  “That may be true,” I said. “But what if I get the word back to Loretto how you never told him how I took your pretty picture yesterday?”

  They made a show of glaring at me, but I saw a flicker of fear in their eyes.

  “You no fucking cop,” the big guy said.

  “That’s right,” I said, “and it’s why I can do all kinds of things that cops can’t or won’t do. I could get you in all kinds of trouble. What if it got back to Loretto that your mistake allowed me to get enough evidence to put him behind bars for Tony Neuman’s murder?”

  I expected another show of fear from them, but they just looked confused.

  “Why you think Tony dead, man?” the smaller one asked.

  “A little bird told me,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “You tell me. You’re probably the one who dumped the body.”

  The smaller man shook his head. “I don’t know what the fuck you talking about, man. Manuel Loretto is a respected businessman. He’s no murderer.”

  “Look,” I said, “give me something to work with or I’m telling him how you screwed up tailing me. You’re better off working with us. Somebody’s going to go down for killing both Karen and Tony, and unless you’re careful, it’s going to be you.”

  The bigger one shook his head. “Shit, this is fucking crazy, man.”

  “Shut up,” the smaller one said. “We’re not telling them nothing.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Better pack your bags, because he’s going to go ballistic when I send him the picture I took of you two.”

  “I don’t get it,” the smaller one said. “Why you think we following you if we already know Tony’s dead? It don’t make no sense.”

  “Stop bullshitting me,” I said.

  “Hey, man, we just want to find the dude. He’s a friend and he been missing a long time. We just worried about him.”

  Alesha chuckled. “Your concern is very touching. How much did he rip off from your boss?”

  “I’m not saying nothing else,” the smaller one said. “You gonna arrest us, go ahead. But otherwise get out of the fucking car.”

  “I’m going to send him the picture,” I said.

  “You do that, man. You tell him what you told me and he just think you another loco hombre blanco. Anything else?”

  “Stop following me.”

  “It’s a free country, man.”

  “Stop following me or you’ll regret it.”

  “What you gonna do? Shoot me?”

  “I might. Remember, I’m not a cop.”

  “Boo-ya. Done?”

  There didn’t seem to be anything more to gain, so we reluctantly got out of the car. They left with all the speed of a hearse carrying a full load, easing down the street well under the speed limit, turning on their right blinker long before they disappeared around the corner.

  Just another pair of nice, law-abiding citizens.


  * * * * *

  After our fun little encounter with Loretto’s henchmen, Alesha and I bought our own Subway sandwiches and ate in a booth in the back, trying to puzzle out what we’d gleaned from talking to them. Rather than help clarify things, I had more questions than ever. While it was quite possible they were bluffing about looking for Tony Neuman, they certainly did seem sincere.

  When I got home, I didn’t tell Billie anything about my afternoon other than that I’d had a fun time playing pool with Alesha. She hardly noticed me, deep into one of her paintings. I still leaned toward thinking that Loretto’s men were lying to me about Tony Neuman, but there was another more troubling possibility.

  Billie may have been the one lying.

  She might have done it to protect me, because she thought Loretto was more than I could handle, but she’d still lied to my face. It was a breach of trust that cut deep. I wasn’t quite ready to confront her on it yet, though. I needed more information.

  Monday morning, I woke when the sky was just starting to soften from deep black to a hazy gray, the sun nowhere to be found. Billie, who’d lain down beside me on top of the covers, as she did most nights, was already up and painting. She was working on an ocean landscape based on a photo I’d taped on the wall for her the evening before, one she’d taken years ago when the two of us stayed at a B&B in Pacific City. I asked her if she wanted to join me at the office when I relayed what I’d learned to Karen, and she said maybe later, that she wanted to go for a walk first.

  It was just as well. I still wasn’t quite sure what I was going to say to Karen. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Billie either.

  The Ford Explorer wasn’t out front when I headed out in the Prius, the early traffic just picking up. It wasn’t parked outside the office either. Elvis was just setting up shop with his hot-dog stand. I asked if he’d seen the Explorer around the past couple days and he said no, not that he remembered. I showed him the cell-phone picture of the two Mexicans and asked if he’d seen them either. When he said no, I asked if he could keep his eye out for them. He said he’d be more than happy to oblige.

  An Asian kid delivering newspapers, riding by on a bike while I was speaking to someone he obviously didn’t see, gave me a funny look. I smiled at him like a madman, really putting as much crazy into it as I could, and he peddled away very fast.

  The one benefit of coming in so early was that no tsunami of screeching emanated from the Higher Plane Church of Spiritual Transcendence down the hall. My office was so quiet that the drumming of my fingers on the desk echoed off the walls. Karen wasn’t due until ten, which gave me nearly three hours.

  It may have been early to make some phone calls, but I didn’t care. First I tried Karen’s sister, Beth, but there was no answer—on any of her three phones. I left another message for her. Worried, I called Bernie’s cell phone, and he picked up on the first ring. I asked him if he’d heard from Beth lately and he said yes, he’d talked to her yesterday, they’d had lunch at Jake’s downtown. I told him to have her call me if possible. It might help the case. When he asked me how, I told him it was too early to say. He wasn’t happy when he hung up.

  I tried Karen’s mother, Margaret Thorne, next. I wasn’t sure what she might bring to the case, but it never did hurt to ask. After a half-dozen rings, a woman answered hello, or at least some groggy approximation of it.

  “Mrs. Thorne?” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Myron Vale. Do you have a moment?”

  “What time is it? Do you know how early it is?” She sounded like she was waking up fast, and what she was waking up to was not a happy person. “I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’m investigating your daughter Karen’s death.”

  There was silence on the other end. I heard what sounded like a bird twitter in the background, followed by a flutter that might have been wings.

  “Who hired you?” she asked, a new wariness in her voice.

  “Your husband. Ex-husband, I mean.”

  “Why are you investigating? Does Bernard actually think … Well, of course he does. He always did watch too much Columbo, and these days, well, he’s more paranoid than ever.”

  “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  She was silent. I sensed that I was onto something, and that maybe getting in touch with her when she was still too muzzy-headed to remember to keep her guard up had been a smart move.

  “I think I’ve said too much already,” she said.

  “Please, Mrs. Thorne. Don’t hang up.”

  “I don’t even know you. I don’t know what your motives are here. I really should go.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Even if all your help does is convince Bernie that Karen’s death was all her own fault, wouldn’t that be a good thing? I know she had a serious drinking problem.”

  “Well, you could blame that on him, too, couldn’t you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She sighed. “Drinking, drugs, she was just trying to be like her daddy. There, I said it.”

  “You’re saying Bernie Thorne is—”

  “A drug addict. He’s taken just about anything a person can take over the years. He’s very high-functioning, you understand. But I finally put my foot down. It was either the drugs or me, and, well, you can see what he chose. He had more love for little piles of white powder than his wife.”

  “Cocaine?”

  “Mostly, yes. I think he tried just about everything, though. Meth, crack, you name it. In his own way, he was very careful about his addictions. He was careful about alcohol because he didn’t like what it did to the brain. He knew what some drugs could do to him if he wasn’t careful. He said he understood the lure of meth, but he didn’t like what it did to the body. I think he thought of cocaine as a rich man’s drug.”

  “Do you know how he got it?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I just thought—”

  “I was not part of that world, Mr. Vale. I wanted no part of it. I have no idea who his dealer was.”

  “Did he sell any himself?”

  “Bernard? No! He would never take that kind of risk. That was part of the problem. A man in his position had a hard time finding a way to get what he needed without consorting with the wrong sort of people.”

  “What did you think of Tony?”

  “Karen’s husband? I only met him at the wedding. I’m afraid Karen and I had a bit of a falling out during the divorce. But he seemed like just the sort of man who would appeal to Karen—very handsome, very suave, and very phony. Now, is that it? I’ve said far more than I should, but as much as I despise Bernard, I hate to see you wasting his money. After all, he cuts me a very nice check every month. My daughter died because she was loaded, and she decided to drive while doing it, nothing more.”

  “It’s shocking you don’t all get along better,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Can I call you again if I have more questions?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, and hung up.

  Mulling it over, I swiveled around in my chair and watched the street out the window. Elvis was serving hot dogs to two lumberjacks wearing red plaid shirts and muddy overalls. An Office Depot truck rumbled past, spitting black clouds from its exhaust pipe. The mailman stopped at the bar across the street, dropping a couple of envelopes into the slot in the door. Another mailman, an older man with snowy white hair and dressed in a uniform several decades out of style, followed close on his heels. It was another day in Portland—the world of the living and of the dead coming to life.

  If Bernie Thorne was a drug addict, then where would he get his drugs? The obvious answer was that he was getting them from Manuel Loretto’s operation and that Tony Neuman was his supplier. That’s how the puzzle made sense. Tony was probably a supplier to lots of rich people, acting as the perfect middleman between
the street gangs and the upper-class folks who would never stoop to getting their stuff from someone in the gang itself. But Tony screwed Loretto over somehow, tried to get a lot of money fast by killing Karen, but his plot failed, and now Loretto wanted to find him.

  Maybe it was to get his money or drugs back. Maybe it was just for revenge. It was probably for both.

  Was Tony still alive? That was the question. I had a hard time believing that if Loretto’s people had found him already, they wouldn’t have been able to squeeze out of Tony where the money or drugs were before they killed him. It’s not like their powers of persuasion were limited by the Geneva Convention. They also must have believed he was still around Portland, or at least that there hadn’t been any reason to think he’d fled the city.

  I thought about calling Bernie to confront him about the drug thing, but I wasn’t sure what I would gain from it—at least not yet. He would probably just deny it. It was also possible that Tony was dead, and Bernie had been the one to do it—maybe because of a deal gone wrong between them, maybe for revenge because Tony had killed Karen. But if that was so, then why did Bernie hire me to find Tony?

  Of course, he hadn’t, had he? Even if he was the one paying me, Karen had hired me, and I’d managed to convince Bernie that this was the case. If he’d resisted helping me and his daughter, that would only have made him look suspicious. He also desperately wanted to talk to his daughter using me as the medium. That might have been motivation enough to send me on a wild-goose chase. He wanted to please his daughter, after all. But he must have known that my investigation could lead right back to him. It was hard to believe a man so cautious about how he got his drugs would take that kind of risk—or that he would have stooped to murder.

  I was still watching the street when someone cleared a throat behind me.