by Trevor Scott
He didn’t know if Frank Peroni had anything to do with Dan and Barb Humphrey dying, yet he was certain the man knew something about it. And the fact that he had disappeared right around the same time as their deaths was reason for concern.
He’d watched far too many old episodes of Barnaby Jones to dismiss the notion that Frank might have died in the fire at Cascade Peaks Estates. Since there hadn’t been much left of Dan after the blast and blaze, it was a possibility.
Tony pulled into the parking lot of a new development west of Bend’s old downtown. It was one of those trendy complexes of tourist shops, condos, and high tech manufacturing along the Deschutes River on the former site of a huge wood products facility. At one time a couple thousand people used to work there dur-86
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ing Bend’s heyday as a lumbering town. Pickup trucks and black coffee. Now it was Beemers and cappuccino.
As he walked up to the building housing Cliff Humphrey’s development company, he stopped for a moment taking in the scene of Mount Bachelor to the west. He had found out that this was Humphrey’s second office. The main office was in downtown Portland on the twentieth floor of the Lange Building, a tall mirrored generic structure with a view of Riverfront Park and the Willamette River, and, presumably, Mount Hood whenever it wasn’t raining.
Looking out across the Deschutes, Tony realized that almost directly across the river was Dan Humphrey’s old office. Dad looking down on son. Nice.
The outside of the building was stone over wood. It was a single story structure with a prime spot along the river. Canada geese wandered about in the wet grass along the shore.
Inside was a large, open room with fairly modest industrial carpet, pure white walls with original watercolors, and large plants positioned nearly everywhere. There were a few drafting desks facing away from the bank of windows that ran the length of the room. Tony could see why. The architects wouldn’t have gotten any work done with a view of the Cascades like that. In the center of the room was a few more desks divided by padded parti-tions.
There wasn’t much activity in the place for a Monday. Maybe the boss had let them go early to catch some of the powder that had fallen on the mountain the night before.
A receptionist sat at the front of the large room. Although she had all the attributes of a full-fledged woman, she looked pre-pubescent in her retro 70s attire. Reminded Tony of someone he might have asked to a high school dance in the Disco era. She was wearing one of those headset phones over curly red hair, talking at someone who didn’t want to listen. So she hung up and smiled at Tony.
“You’re Tony Caruso,” she said.
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“Good guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess,” she said. “I looked you up on the web for Mr. Humphrey. Saw the picture of you after that explosion in Seattle.”
One of his finer moments. Tony had damn near lost his left arm in that debacle. He had been shadowing a young bomb squad officer who had watched one too many Mel Gibson movies where the crazy cop tries to decide if it’s the red wire or the green wire to cut. Tony was right in the middle of telling the rookie not to try to outguess a bomber, who could be colorblind anyway, and try to figure out where the wires were going. Too late. Luckily it was only a small charge pipe bomb.
“That was my right side,” Tony said. “My left side is better.”
He cocked his head to the side for her to see.
She laughed.
Cliff Humphrey came out of his office, startled when he saw Tony, and then came over and shook his hand.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he said, and then escorted Tony away from the reception area.
Humphrey’s office was decorated in a southwest motif. Navaho rugs. A carved wood sculpture of an eagle. Tall cacti in two corners by the windows.
Cliff Humphrey took a seat in his plush brown leather chair that squeaked with the slightest move he made.
Tony’s chair was leather also. In fact, it could have been cut from the same steer as the one in Larry Gibson’s office across the river.
“What have you dug up, Tony?” Humphrey said. He had his hands on the shiny oak desk in front of him, his fingers rolling nervously.
“Do you know a man named Frank Peroni?” Tony asked.
His fingers stopped. “No. Should I?”
Tony laughed at that. “How am I supposed to know what you should know?”
Humphrey gazed off at the river and then rose from his chair.
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“It’s a nice day. Let’s go for a walk by the river.”
Tony wasn’t sure where that came from, but he didn’t argue. He was always game for outdoors over indoors.
They walked down to the river. Geese waddled away from them as they approached the water. The walk from the building had given Tony time to think. Somehow Cliff Humphrey knew Frank Peroni. He was sure of it.
“You see this complex,” Humphrey said, spreading his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea. “I conceptualized the whole thing. Came up with the idea of condos and shops side by side, along with the new industry. There are bike trails that follow the river to downtown. Buses come right through here picking up residents for Mount Bachelor. You could walk to work here, walk downtown for dinner, and even shop for almost anything you need right here.”
Sounds nice, but why was he telling Tony this? He wasn’t sure.
“People think that developers are Lucifer in the flesh,” he said.
“They think we’ll do anything to make a buck.”
Okay. Now Tony had to speak. “Seems to be some truth to that.”
Humphrey tried to laugh. “Maybe so. In fact, I know some people in Portland who might think of me that way. But it’s just not true. We opened our Bend office almost fifteen years ago. There was huge potential here. Californians had discovered the place.
Moved here in droves, selling their houses in L.A. and San Francisco for big bucks and then building veritable mansions on golf courses or up on Awbrey Butte for a fraction of what it would have cost them back home. We have people at Cascade Peaks who moved here from Singapore and Hong Kong. The influx has slowed somewhat in the past few years, but that won’t last long.”
“Is that why you want to build the new destination resort up the mountain toward The Three Sisters?”
Humphrey looked surprised. “You’ve heard about that?”
Tony nodded. Anyone in Bend for more than a day would have had to be brain dead to not hear about that.
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They started walking upstream toward the park used in the summer for open-air concerts. There was nobody there today.
“It may never happen,” he said. “Still has to clear the county land use board. They’re not sure Bend needs another resort.”
“I also heard the property is land-locked. It would cost a lot if everyone had to fly in to their houses.”
Humphrey thought about that for a moment, as if he were actually considering the concept. “We’ll get the land,” he assured Tony. “We always do.”
Tony had a feeling he did. He started to walk away and then stopped, his eyes locked on Humphrey’s uncertain expression. “I stayed at a nice condo unit near Yachets recently,” he said.
“They’ve got a week in September available for five grand. Is that a good price?”
Humphrey shrugged. “It’s a steal. I know the guy who built that place. A week was fifteen grand a few years back. I’ll give him a call and have him hold it for you. You can check out the unit after you prove Dan didn’t do this.”
His words came out almost like a warning to Tony. Find in his way or else. “Listen,” Tony said, “I’m sure it must be very difficult for you. With your wife’s death this year. . .”
His expression filled with incertitude, Humphrey said, “You do your homework.”
“I like to know who I work for.”
Humphrey turned toward the northeast and lifted his
chin as he said, “She died over near Prineville on a ranch. She was an excellent rider. Dressage. Western. Won enough ribbons and trophies to fill a huge mahogany case I had built for her.” His eyes seemed to tear up and his throat clamped down.
“I’m sorry,” Tony said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
After some hesitation, Humphrey turned to Tony and said,
“Don’t find yourself alone, Tony. Find a good woman and have children. This is painful, but you have to remember all the good times. This will pass with time. That’s why you have to find out the truth, Tony.” His watery eyes indicated nothing less.
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♦
Cliff Humphrey had just returned to his office and barely sat down when a side door opened and a woman dressed in Bend business attire, a white silk blouse, dress slacks, and cowboy boots, stepped in and took a seat across from him, her left leg tapping on the Navaho rug.
“What he find out?” Melanie Chadwick asked, her teeth biting down on her lower lip.
“Wanted to know about Frank Peroni,” Humphrey said.
“Where’d that come from?”
He shrugged. “Portland, I guess. He didn’t tell you why he was going there?”
She wrinkled her nose and said, “Hell, no. We’ve only known each other for a couple of days. What’s the problem? You always knew Peroni might pop up in his investigation.”
Humphrey sunk into his leather chair, his expression wavering from concern to indifference. He shook his head. “This is getting out of hand. Maybe I should call the whole thing off. Pull Caruso from the case.”
Melanie’s foot stopped tapping and she rose suddenly, her hands on her hips. “Bullshit! This development will go through.
That’s the plan. Stick with the plan.”
Humphrey tried to calm her with open hands lowering toward the seat. “Take it easy, Mel.” He smiled and let out a slight laugh.
“I lost my son, here. Not to mention my daughter-in-law and possible grandchildren. My whole legacy is lost.” With those words he rose and went to Melanie, placing a hand on each shoulder.
“Don’t, Cliff.”
He turned and went to the window, glancing down at the river.
This had to work, he thought. Or all of it would be for nothing.
He couldn’t let that happen.
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CHAPTER 15
One of the problems with being single at Tony’s age was that it was easy to forget that someone else might be interested where he might have been for the past couple of days. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to concern himself with such triv-ial aspects of life. He was either dead or alive, he figured, and someone would eventually find out which were true, unless he ended up face down in the high desert with buzzards picking at his decaying ass.
In Tony’s case, under his current situation, he had called Melanie from his cell phone just after crossing the pass on his way back from Portland. She had sounded relieved, but tried to hide it with humor. She’d offered to have him over for dinner.
She was going to make a curry stir fry.
Tony got to her place around six p.m. He was worn out slightly from the drive and from racking his brain over this case. He knew where he wanted to go as the crow flew, but navigating the narrow roads below was frustrating.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek as he entered.
“The news said the snow was really bad on the passes yesterday,” she said. “Lots of accidents.”
He took a seat at the kitchen counter. Steam seeped out of a large pan on the stove, bringing the smell of ginger, curry and soy with it. “It took me seven hours to get to Portland. Some idiot flew past me and then crashed a few miles up the road.”
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She poured him a glass of Chianti and handed it to him.
“What were you up to in Portland?”
“Checking into the guy who went home with Dan and Barb the night they died.”
She nodded, went to the stove, and lifted the cover on two pans.
Then she dished up fried rice and chicken curry stir fry. They sat at the counter to eat, neither saying a word for a few minutes.
“Sold a house today,” she finally said.
“Big one?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
“That’ll be a nice commission.”
They finished eating and Tony excused myself to go to the bathroom. On the way back through the master suite, he sat on the bed to use the phone. He needed to check his messages. As he was listening to his messages, he noticed a small piece of paper on the nightstand with a number on it. He almost dismissed it, but the number looked familiar. When the last message went through, he pulled out the card Cliff Humphrey had given him. The number on Melanie’s nightstand was Cliff’s cell phone number.
As he was getting up from the bed to leave, he turned to find Melanie standing in the doorway.
She stared at him blankly. “What’s up?”
“I was just checking my messages,” Tony said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “Battery’s dead. By the way, I’d love to come to dinner.” He tried on a smile.
“You should check those more often.” She turned and left him there.
Tony was a little confused and tired, so he decided to get the hell out of there. He had a feeling she wanted an after dinner treat, but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea.
Driving back to the condo where he was staying, his mind wandered. On one count he should have asked Melanie why she had Cliff Humphrey’s cell phone number on her nightstand. More reasonably, though, it was none of his business. He was so pre-occupied, he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary as he BOOM TOWN 93
pulled up to the garage. At least not until the door wouldn’t open with the remote.
“Fuck!”
Tony got out in the darkness, leaving his truck door open, the headlights shining his way, and went to the door, giving it a tug.
Knowing anything about electric garage doors, which Tony did, he should have known that was a total waste of time. Even the Incredible Hulk couldn’t yank the door through an electric motor.
But he pulled on it anyway, just for the hell of it. Damn near ripped his arm out of the socket in the process.
He wasn’t sure what made him turn back toward the truck when he did. Maybe he heard a rustling in the bushes. Maybe he had some sixth sense telling him to turn. Maybe he was the luck-iest bastard in Oregon. Whatever it was, he turned just in time so the first bullet merely grazed the front of his shoulder. If he hadn’t turned it would have probably severed his spine, or at least lodged itself into it, since, based on the pop, it was a small caliber round.
But the flash and crack of the bullet in the night air gave him enough time to dive behind the front of his truck as the second and third rounds smashed into the garage door.
Again, Tony wished he had a gun. Two times in two days. But even if he did have a gun, it wouldn’t have helped him much in this situation, except maybe to scare off the shooter.
He crouched behind the front of the truck waiting, imagining whoever had shot the gun was watching his headlights for his shadow. He scanned the outer pines along the visitor parking area, the direction from which he had seen the muzzle flashes.
Nothing.
Then he heard it. A vehicle starting up and tires screeching.
He got to his cab and turned off his lights. Then he checked the back of his truck. Panzer was quiet and that bothered him.
“You all right, boy?” Tony asked, after lifting the topper door.
Panzer greeted him with a lick to his face.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
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It took the first Deschutes County sheriff’s deputy less than five minutes to get to the condominium complex. Not a bad response time. Must have passed the shooter along the road leading down from the golf community, Tony though
t.
In fifteen minutes, there were four cars surrounding Tony’s area, their lights circling around the roofs. People from some of the other condos were out on their balconies gazing about, wondering what in the hell was going on.
Tony had wanted to avoid talking with the local cops until the time was right. Now he had no choice.
The first young deputy on the scene, not knowing the story, pulled his gun on Tony. He raised his left arm, since his right was in some pain from the bullet ripping flesh. When Tony said he had been shot, the deputy finally approached him cautiously and let him put his arm down.
Tony was keeping his mouth shut until someone with authority showed up. No use explaining himself more than once.
Finally, a man approached wearing blue jeans and a Blazers sweatshirt. He had just been talking with the first man on the scene. He was a tall beefy guy, his hair almost completely gray.
He had a Hitler-like mustache, the only type military personnel or cops were allowed to have, and which Tony had always found amusing. But the man’s most significant physical feature was his tremendous head. It gave him the impression of a bear that had been feeding at a nuclear waste dump.
“I’m Sheriff Bill Green,” he said, shaking Tony’s left hand.
Tony told him his name, nothing more. He figured if he told everyone he was a private investigator, how private could that be?
“What happened here?” The sheriff looked directly at Tony’s shoulder. “Is that all right?”
Tony looked at the blood, which had soaked into the sleeve of his Columbia jacket. “It hurts, but I’ll live.”
He was still waiting for Tony to tell his story.
“I was set up,” Tony said. He told him what happened with the BOOM TOWN 95
door. How he got out to try to budge it. How he was standing right in his headlights. The only thing he didn’t tell the cop, was that he felt like an idiot.
“Why would someone want to shoot you, Mr. Caruso?” the sheriff asked.
“I don’t know. I’m basically a nice guy.”
He smiled. “These things are normally domestic,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone in town?”