A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5)

by Scott William Carter

  Stepping close to the door, he heard sounds from within—grunting and heavy breathing, along with distinctive flesh-smacking noises, that, when combined, could usually only mean one thing. Gage didn't want to open the door, he really didn't, but it might be an opportunity to get a bit of leverage.

  Sure enough, when he gently pushed open the door, the nature of the spectacle that greeted him was about as he expected, though even less pleasant to look at than he'd prepared himself to see, and he'd prepared himself to see something fairly unpleasant. It wasn't just that the two people currently copulating on the floor were of the extra-large variety—a pair of walruses came to mind—or that the overhead fluorescent lights were particularly harsh. It was that the view he'd been afforded, of a hairy bottom and lots of quivering folds of flesh, was about the worst way to see two people in that position imaginable.

  The storeroom, filled with industrial shelving, all of it packed with boxes, bins, and totes, was a fairly good size, but the massive girth of the two occupants made the aisle between the shelves feel extremely narrow. Neither of them were completely naked. The man's baggy jeans and white briefs were pooled around his ankles. He still wore white socks and even whiter tennis shoes. The woman's dress, lavender with pink stripes, was hiked up over her mountain-sized breasts. One of her open-toed sandals had been kicked off. Both the man and the woman were flushed pink, and the room stank of their sweat.

  Gage wondered if this was what good old Ron had wanted him to see, a perverted joke, and then he saw the needles.

  Two syringes, both empty, sat on a pair of pastel-pink panties tucked partially under one of the shelves. Based on the frantic fornicating of the room's occupants, he guessed that the contents of the syringes had been methamphetamine in liquid form, or another stimulant, and not something with a more subduing effect.

  Why good old Ron was willing to reveal his managers' illegal activities was still unknown, but Gage could guess that these people violated some personal code the big man had. As a big believer in keeping true to a personal code himself, Gage was starting to like Ron quite a bit.

  Since the man and the woman still hadn't taken notice of him, and Gage had no desire to go on witnessing their rabbit-making ways, he decided to bring this show to a quick end.

  "Heavens to Betsy," he said.

  That did it. If he'd set off a flash grenade, it couldn't have had a more profound effect on the aspiring porn stars. They sprang off each other surprisingly fast for two people of such profound size, scrambling for their clothes.

  "Fuck!" the man cried.

  His face had all the round whiteness of a snowman with none of the cute appeal, what little blond hair he still possessed so fine and pale that it was almost indistinguishable from his scalp if not for how it glistened with sweat. He glared at Gage with beady, recessed eyes. The woman, who had a thin mustache about the same color as the man's hair, burst into tears. She didn't have a neck so much as a series of chins—at least four of them—that spread all the way around her neck in a way that made Gage think of those African tribal women with the metal hoops around their necks.

  "Sorry," Gage said. "The door happened to be unlocked."

  The woman, hurriedly covering herself as best she could with her dress, wailed at the man, "I thought you locked it, John!"

  "I did, I did!" he sputtered, hiking up his pants.

  "Well, obviously you didn't!"

  Gage, averting his eyes as much as possible, said, "I'll be waiting in the office. That'll give you two some time to … well, time."

  He shut the door. Though part of him had enjoyed the shock of surprising them, the tiny part of him that just couldn't help poking a nest of snakes with a stick even when he knew no good would come of it, he did not enjoy watching them fumble around in their nakedness. In fact, he would have very much preferred purging that image completely from his mind, though he didn't know if that was possible. It was there to stay, he feared, the price he'd paid for his insolent ways.

  A commercial for a fabric softener was playing on the television. He took refuge on a padded folding chair opposite the desk, listening to the ongoing commotion inside the storeroom: the rustle of clothes, whispered cursing, the bump and rattle of bodies banging into the shelving and the walls. This went on for some time, then there was a long period of near-silence, in which he could just barely make out a strained conversation between the man and the woman.

  Finally, the storeroom door flew open and the man emerged first, slicking back what little hair he had with a sweaty hand. He smiled furtively at Gage, rushing to his desk as if he expected it would protect him from incoming mortar fire. He may have been dressed, but the fly of his pants was unzipped and the collar of his green golf shift was flipped up on one side. He wore tiny, wire-rimmed glasses, but they did little to make his face seem less round.

  "Well, well," he said, nearly missing the chair as he dropped into it. "Yes, um, I assume—that is, are you hear to apply for one of the vacant units, Mister …"

  "Gage. Garrison Gage."

  "Right, Mr. Gage." Unlike his yard man, he showed no sign that the name meant anything to him. He rifled through the mounds of paper on his desk, producing a glossy full-color brochure, one that had been well used, a coffee stain on one corner. "Um, we have several to choose from, Mr. Gage. Let me—let me show you some floor plans …"

  "I'm here on another matter," Gage said.

  "Oh?"

  The man swallowed with an audible glump. By this time, his partner in crime had shuffled out of the storeroom. She appeared to be trying to slink her way past the desk without being seen, a comical effort considering not only her size but the vivid lavender color of her dress, and she stopped when Gage made his comment. He turned and looked at her. She'd made some attempt to put her platinum-blonde hair back in its bun, but loose strands stuck out in every direction. Judging by the depth of her brown highlights, she was due for another coloring any day now.

  "I'd like to talk to you both, really," Gage said. "Assuming you're both the managers of this complex, correct?"

  "Um," the woman said. That was it.

  "Well, certainly, certainly," the man said. "We are indeed. But what is this—"

  "And your names?" Gage asked.

  "Our names?"

  "No, the names of your superhero alter egos. Of course your names."

  "Oh," the man said, "yes, I'm John Krohn. This is—this is my wife, Mel. Mel Krohn." He put extra emphasis on the word wife, as if he wanted to be sure that Gage knew that the woman he'd been having sex with was his proper spouse. "We're the managers. But you already knew that. Heh, heh. How can we help you, sir?"

  "I'm here about Ed Boone," Gage said.

  John Krohn's face was actually quite hard to read, due to its roundness and heavy amounts of flesh, all of which functioned to mask the movement of any facial muscles, but Gage thought he detected a flash of fear in the man's eyes.

  "Who?" he asked.

  "Come on now, John. Let's not play games."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Ed Boone lived in 608. He died last week. I'm sure you heard about it."

  "Last week … Oh, right! The guy who jumped off Heceta Head. Right, right. Just took me a moment there to … to connect the dots. A lot of people live here, you know. Heh, heh." He fidgeted in his seat, the swivel chair squeaking from the strain of holding his weight. "So are you—are you representing his son?"

  The fear had returned, a blackening of the pupils already mostly black to begin with. Gage wasn't quite sure what to make of this new information, or John Krohn's reaction. A lawyer for the brother? He could have played along, pretended to be legal counsel just to see where this would lead, but with the leverage Gage already had, he didn't think that would be the most expedient way to get what he wanted.

  "His son was here?"

  John noticeably relaxed, his shoulders slumping. "So you're not a lawyer?"

  "Heavens no."

  "Oh, good."

 
"It's worse, though. I'm a private investigator."

  "A what?" The eyes flashed wider again, at least as wide as they would go. "You're a private—a private—"

  "Private investigator. Yep, I do private investigating. Detecting, sleuthing, you know, that sort of thing." Gage glanced at Mel, who still stood in the same place. "It's like being a lawyer in one way, I guess. Most people hate you."

  Gage smiled, but poor Mel looked like she wanted to throw up, so he returned his attention to John.

  "Well," John said, "I'm not sure—I'm not sure what you—"

  "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? We're all busy people—I mean, you two were definitely getting busy—and as much as I enjoy small talk, I think we'd all be better off if I moved things along. I'm guessing you're both nervous because you're afraid I noticed the needles in the storeroom, the needles that might lead someone to assume you regularly partake in a drug-related activity that's most definitely illegal. But I want to assure you that I didn't notice those needles."

  John stared, the incomprehension a beautiful thing to behold. It was so beautiful that Gage was tempted to let the moment stretch for a while longer, but he still had that awful image of John and Mel in the storeroom stuck in his mind, and the only hope of ridding himself of it was getting them out of his life as soon as possible.

  "I'm sorry," John said.

  "I'm sure you are."

  "No, I mean, I don't quite—"

  "Let me finish. See, I didn't notice those needles, but I did see them. Do you know what I'm saying? Not to get all Zen on you, but we all know there's a difference between seeing and noticing, right? So while I didn't notice them, I did see them, and it's still possible that if I were to focus on what I saw, I might remember something I didn't notice at first. Like those needles."

  Mel whimpered. She didn't seem to realize she'd made the sound until Gage looked at her, and she stopped.

  "So here's the deal, you two," Gage said. "If you keep me happy, it's highly unlikely that my mind would drift back to that image I now have imprinted firmly in my mind of you two doing your … business in the storeroom. If I did, I might notice those needles, and if I noticed those needles, I might feel obligated to inform the owner of this complex that there might be illegal drug activity taking place in this office. I might even feel compelled, as a sort of extension of the law myself, to inform the police."

  Gage had their full, rapt attention. He'd had their attention before, of course, but now he had their attention in the way a grizzly had the attention of a pair of hikers who'd had the misfortune of crossing its path.

  "What do you want?" John asked, his voice soft and pinched.

  "Answers, first," Gage said. "You said Ed's son was here. When was this?"

  "Yesterday," John said.

  "What was his name?"

  "I don't know."

  "John," Gage said.

  "Elliott!" Mel said. "His name was Elliott Boone! Or Elliott Younger, actually. He said his dad’s last name was Boone but his last name was Younger."

  "Very good. And why did you think I might be a lawyer? Did he want into the apartment, but you wouldn't let him?"

  "We can't," John said weakly. "If someone dies, or is missing, the company policy—the policy is that we need proof that the tenant wanted the person to have access. If they were listed as an emergency contact on their contact sheet, that would do it. Being a relative isn't enough. A search warrant, an order from a judge … There's other ways. I told him he needed to talk to the police, see what they could do. Our hands were tied."

  "I imagine Elliott Younger was not very pleased," Gage said.

  "No, he wasn't. He threatened to sue us. That's why I thought maybe you were a lawyer."

  Gage remembered the man he'd seen in the trees last night. Could it have been this Elliott Boone? He wondered how long this guy had been in town, and what he knew about his father's death.

  "Did he say where he was staying?"

  John shook his head. Gage glanced at Mel, who did the same.

  "Did he mention his brother being in town?"

  "No," John said.

  "Okay. How about why he wanted into the apartment?"

  "He just said he was Ed's son and he needed to get inside right away. I assumed he was probably looking for a will."

  "Probably so. Anything else about him you can tell me?"

  "No. Just, like, he was dressed in a suit, real polished sort of guy. He wasn't all that big, but … I don't know, there was something about him. The way he looked at me. It wasn't fun, him being mad at me."

  "Okay, let's move on to Ed himself. What can you tell me about him?"

  "Nothing."

  "Oh, come on now. You can certainly do better than that."

  "Really! All I can say is he must have paid his rent on time. If you pay your rent on time around here, you don't really get noticed."

  Gage rubbed his temples with a great theatrical flourish. "John, I'm starting to remember something. This thing I saw earlier, in the storeroom, it's coming back to me."

  "I'm telling the truth!" John protested.

  "He is, he is!" Mel chimed in, her voice high and shrill. "We didn't know him. We wouldn't even recognize him if you showed us his picture. We've only been here for three years, and he was here a lot longer than that. He paid with the drop box, not in person. He never complained about anything. When the son showed up telling us he was dead, we had to look him up just to see if he really lived here. The name didn't ring a bell."

  "How long has he lived here?"

  "A long time," John said.

  "How long, exactly?"

  "I don't know. You want me to look it up? Let me get the file; it will just take a second. I got it out when his son showed up." He dug through the papers on his desk. In his haste, a couple manila folders and a blue binder clattered to the floor. He found a folder, discarded it, found another and opened it. "Yes, I've got it all right here. Looks like … Wow, he moved in only a year after it opened. There was just one other tenant in the apartment before him. Twenty-two years. Twenty-two years and two months, to be exact."

  "Can I see the file?"

  When he hesitated, Gage gestured to his temple again and John quickly handed it over. There were three documents inside, all yellowed with age. The first was a one-page "tenant information" document detailing all the basic information: Ed Boone's name, phone number, unit number, and the like. It listed his lease as "month to month with first, last, deposit." The notes area was blank. So was the place for emergency contact information. The second document was a handwritten application, front and back, which listed Ed's place of employment as Ed's Diner, which fit the time period. Twenty-two years ago, he still owned the place. The last document was a multi-page rental agreement, which spelled out all the terms in tiny print. Ed's signature was at the end of it.

  Gage thought about asking John to make a copy of everything, but he didn't see any useful information that he didn't already know or couldn't get easily. He handed the folder back to John.

  "That's it?" he said. "That's all you have?"

  "I'm sorry," John said.

  "All right, next step. I want to see his place."

  John swallowed.

  "I promise not to take anything," Gage said.

  "Um, well, it's highly irregular."

  "Hmm. Do you really want to start a discussion about what's highly irregular?"

  John swallowed again, chewed at his lip for a second, then picked up the phone on his desk. He hit one number on the keypad. It rang a long time until someone answered, during which John smiled at Gage nervously and Mel bit at her fingernails. The exchange was brief, and mostly involved John yelling at Ron to turn off the leaf blower so they could talk, but he finally managed to communicate that he wanted Ron to meet Gage at unit 608 in five minutes and let him in. There was something in John's tone that Gage didn't like, a way he spoke to Ron that sounded a bit too much like a plantation owner barking orders to a slave.

>   "Ron will let you in," John said, putting the receiver back in the cradle.

  "Good. This Ron, he's your yard guy?"

  "Yes. Among other things. General maintenance supervisor is his title. He's all right. Just got to keep him in line, you know. It's hard to get good help."

  "Seems like a nice guy. Talkative fellow."

  John laughed, a sharp snort, but then his eyes changed. They hardened, like the surface of a pond freezing right before Gage's eyes. He put two and two together, just as Gage hoped he would—the unlocked door, the sound of the mower right outside.

  "You met him," John said.

  "I did. He was helpful."

  "I see."

  John drummed his fingers on the desk. Nobody said anything for a moment, though Gage felt their expectation weighing on him. They were waiting for him to leave.

  "How much do you pay Ron?" Gage asked.

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's a simple enough question."

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Humor me."

  "I don't know. I think it's twenty bucks an hour."

  "If I ask Ron, that's what he'll say?"

  "Well, maybe it's fifteen."

  "Maybe?"

  Mel joined in with her high-pitched squeak: "It's thirteen seventy-five an hour. I know, because I just processed his paycheck."

  "Wow," Gage said, "that's not much for a man of Ron's abilities. How about we give him a raise?"

  They both stared at him as if he'd just spoken in tongues.

  "Excuse me?" John said.

  "Excuse you for what?"

  "Huh?"

  "You really need to stop saying that. Excuse you for what? What did you do that you want me to excuse you for?"

  John, whose face was reddening by the second, must have realized that the collar of his golf shirt was folded up on one side, because he reached back and folded it down then tugged at it. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I—"

  "Don't say 'I'm sorry' either. I don't like empty apologies. The next thing you should say is, 'How much?'"

  "How much?"

  "Good. You said it as if it was a question about the question, not the question itself, but it was good enough. Let's go with twenty dollars an hour."