She cocked her head to the side in that distinctive way of hers. Gage was in no mood for escorting a dog on her bathroom break, but he also was in no mood to clean up an accident in his van. He fished around in the box Ron had given him and found a leash; the brown leather still retained its original rich hue, seemingly confirming that Ed hadn't owned the dog for long. He snapped the hook on Lady's collar, who took the opportunity to lick his hand. Nice. Now he remembered why he never liked dogs much.
"Now, listen," Gage said to her. "This is going to be a short-term arrangement. But we'll get along much better if you act a little less … doglike."
Lady, peering at him with those big eyes, gave him nothing but the silent treatment. He led her to the grass, feeling like a complete idiot with this tiny ball of fur pulling him eagerly along. He wasn't a big guy, though he wasn't little either—about six feet tall, medium build—but he towered over Lady like a giant. She didn't have much of a tail, a tiny stub that curled in the shape of a question mark, but she more than made up for its size with plenty of wagging gusto. She took her time sniffing around, pulling him this way and that, until finally he castigated her to get busy or he was putting her back in the van.
And wouldn't you know it, that was the moment when an unmarked black Crown Victoria pulled into the parking lot and two of his least favorite people in the world got out.
"New job, Gage?" Trenton said, laughing. "You so hard up for cash you're walking dogs now?"
Except for their identical gray trench coats, which they wore as dutifully as a uniform, Trenton and his partner Brisbane had almost nothing in common. Maybe their weight was actually the same, though Trenton, looming over his more rotund companion, stretched his two-hundred-plus pounds over a lanky six-foot-six frame, where Brisbane, almost a foot shorter, packed his bulk into much less surface area. Trenton, a bright redhead, wore his clothes with a sharp attention to detail, the shirt starched to a brilliant whiteness, the blue tie puckered to perfection, every crease just right. Brisbane, he of the scattered gray hair, liver-spotted cheeks, and deep bags under the eyes, always looked like he dressed in the dark while nursing a bottle of scotch.
"I'm watching it for a friend," Gage explained.
"You have friends?" Trenton said.
"Is there something I can help you with, detective?"
"Nope, just enjoying the show."
"Maybe you could watch it somewhere else." This, Gage realized, wasn't the wittiest comeback in the world, but then he wasn't feeling particularly witty. Lady, as if mocking him, was taking her own sweet time. "We'll be done in a minute."
"You can't leave that there," Brisbane growled. A man of few words, he always sounded like he was battling indigestion.
"Excuse me?"
"Your dog's … offering. You can't leave it on the grass."
"Right. And what do you propose I do?"
"Pick it up."
"Pick it up?"
"That's what I just said."
"With my hands?"
Brisbane sighed. He marched over to Gage, reached deep into his pocket, and pulled out a blue plastic roll. He tore off a bag and handed it to Gage.
"Oh, those things," Gage said. "You just keep those in your pocket in case you run into people with dogs?"
"I have a lab."
"A meth lab?"
"A Labrador, you idiot!"
"Oh right, right."
"How can you be so smart and yet be such a jackass?"
"I don't know. How can you be so charming and yet fail to get all the ladies? Except for Trenton, of course, and he only barely qualifies."
Brisbane, shaking his head and muttering to himself, walked past Gage to the police station. Trenton started to offer a retort, but Brisbane held up his hand without turning, and Trenton, glaring at Gage, loped after his partner. They disappeared inside. Gage felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if maybe he'd been too hard on Brisbane—the man had given him a free doggy bag, after all—but the ledger of slights and insults was still so heavily tilted on their side that he wouldn't beat himself up too much over it. Besides, they were cops. It wasn't like they were real people.
Lady finished her business, looking up at him as if she was proud of it, wagging that non-tail of hers. Gage cleaned up the mess and dumped it in the can at the edge of the parking lot. He was heading to the van to put Lady back inside when a late eighties F-150 pulled into the lot, ostensibly white, but so covered in dirt and grime that the paint was more like bleach spots on a gray cloth. He knew the truck even before he saw the man behind the wheel. Percy Quinn.
The police chief parked next to Gage's van. He sat there with the truck idling for a long time, staring at Gage as if debating whether it would be better to turn around and leave. He was dressed casually, in a red flannel shirt and a Mariners cap. His face, always gaunt and sober, even though his eyes exuded a grandfatherly kindness, appeared even more drawn out than usual.
With a shrug, he got out of the truck, a manila envelope under his arm. He was dressed in wrinkled jeans and cowboy boots. Gage ushered Lady into the van and shut the door, turning to face Quinn.
"It seems I don't even have to go inside," Gage said. "I just stand here with a dog and everybody walks by eventually."
"What trouble have you got yourself into this time?" Quinn asked.
"Now why would you say a thing like that?"
"You steal that dog?"
"Yes. Are you going to arrest me?"
"Where'd you get it?"
"A friend gave it to me."
"You have friends?"
"Why does everyone keep saying that? Am I not a good person? If you prick me, do I not bleed?"
"You know," Quinn said, "in this town I can probably have you arrested for quoting Shakespeare. What do you want?"
"What makes you think I want something? Maybe I just take great satisfaction from having my new canine pal take a dump on your front lawn. And what's with the getup? You getting ready for the rodeo?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but Ginger is sick today. I'm home taking care of her. Just needed to drop something off. Now, are you going to tell me what you want so I can tell you no, and save us both some time, or do we have to have a long, drawn-out conversation before I eventually give you the same answer?"
Gage knew that Ginger, Quinn's wife, occasionally suffered debilitating migraines. It was hard to tell, but Gage thought he saw quite a bit more gray in Quinn's bushy black eyebrows. The lines in his face were deeper, the grooves more pronounced. He'd aged. Gage may not like Quinn all that much, but he did have a grudging respect for him, and that respect made him reluctant to take his teasing too far.
"You have any information about the suicide at Heceta Head?" he asked.
"Huh. Now that's not something I'd expect you'd be involved in."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Your answer is in the question. It was a suicide. No reason for the police to be deeply involved. Besides, it was in Florence. What's your angle, Gage? Who are you working for?"
"Can't say right now."
"Ah. Of course."
"I'd tell you if I could."
"Sure, sure. You expect me to just willy-nilly hand over whatever information I have, but if I ask questions, mum's the word."
"Did you just say willy-nilly?"
Quinn frowned and started for the door. "Goodbye, Gage."
"Hold on. I can't tell you who it is yet, but I can tell you this much. I have a client who might be related to Ed Boone."
Quinn had only taken a few steps before he stopped and turned around. "And what makes him think that?"
"It's a she, actually, and she received a letter from Ed Boone dated the day before he died. He wanted her to know who her real father was, and she has reason to think he might be telling the truth."
"Okay, that's somewhat interesting. Still not sure how the police fit into this, though."
"A couple ways. First, one of Ed's biological sons is in town, and he's
lining up a lawyer to get access to Ed's apartment. I happen to know that Ed doesn't want his kids to get squat."
"And how, pray tell, do you know this?"
"Because there's a will in Ed's apartment saying so."
"Mmm. And you know this will exists how, exactly?"
"That's not important. What's important is that we need that will to be preserved before Ed's son accidentally misplaces it. I have a hunch you'll find it on his bookshelf, filed under Boone."
"Gage, you know I can't do anything about that. Not without a court order."
"What if there was foul play involved?"
Quinn's dark eyebrows arched. "In Ed's death?"
"Exactly."
"You're saying it wasn't a suicide?"
Gage didn't know where he was going with this until he'd said the words aloud, but now that he had, the idea bloomed in his mind. He didn't quite believe it yet, but something didn't add up about Ed Boone's death. "I don't have anything solid yet. I'm just saying there might have been foul play. Maybe it was a suicide, but he was coerced. Who knows. Things just might be more complicated than they seem."
"Complicated doesn't mean illegal," Quinn said. "You've got to get me some proof before I can get a search warrant."
"What if I told you I had reason to believe there was a dead body in there?"
"Is there?"
"Could be."
"Gage—"
"I'm just saying, the only way to know for sure is to search the premises."
"You're really stretching on this one, pal. What's got you so desperate? He was just a lonely old man who decided to end things in his own way before the choice was taken from him."
"Ah hah. So you do know something about him. Did you read his suicide note?"
Quinn pursed his lips. "I may have."
"Did they send you a copy?"
"Where are you going with this, Gage?"
"I'd like to see it."
"Not unless you're family."
"I told you—" Gage began.
"Yeah, you've told me a lot of things, some pretty creative, even for you. But Chief Leonard only sent me a scan because Ed Boone lived up here, and he wanted our help tracking down next of kin."
"What did the note say?"
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"But Leonard must have thought there was something in the note that could help. Otherwise why send it to you?"
Quinn shook his head. "Are we done here?"
"Come on, chief. I'll be honest with you. Maybe you're right. Maybe he was just a lonely old man. Maybe this is nothing but a suicide. But I still want to help my client get some closure."
"What am I, a psychiatrist?"
"Can you just tell me what the note said?"
Quinn shook his head, adjusted his cap, looked away, and sighed, making quite a show of mild anguish, until finally he looked back at Gage with something akin to exhausted resignation. "I don't know why I ever help you. It's not like you've ever been anything but a thorn in my side."
"It's my sunny disposition. What did it say?"
"Pretty much what I just said. He wrote that he was jumping before the disease made him forget who he was. And he wrote that he hoped everybody who knew him and everybody who might have known him if he'd been a better man could find it in their hearts to forgive him for all the wrong he'd done."
"That was it?"
"That was it. A couple sentences on the lighthouse stationery from the gift shop. Real messy handwriting, lots of spelling errors. Signed his name, and except for the signature being pretty big, it matches what we have on file for his driver's license."
"And that was how he wrote it? Those were the exact words?"
"I don't have a photographic memory," Quinn snapped. "That was the gist of it. Are we done?"
"But don't you see? He said, 'everybody who might have known him.' He was thinking about my client even then. That's why you told me, isn't it?"
"All I know is I've got to get back to my wife," Quinn said, "and instead I'm standing here in the parking lot wasting my time with you. I don't have more I can tell you, and it's not just because you're not related to Boone. There isn't anything. The guy killed himself. It's sad, but that's the way it is. If you want to make sure that will is preserved, you're going to have to find another way. Are we done?"
"Just one last question," Gage said.
Quinn sighed. "Yes?"
"How does Ginger feel about dogs?"
"Nice try."
"She's real sweet. Be a nice companion for her when you're working all those late hours."
"Goodbye, Gage."
"I hear owning a dog helps with migraines."
Quinn, who already had his back turned, laughed. Gage watched him go. It wasn't just that the chief had more gray in his hair. He also looked thinner, more stooped, not quite as much bounce in his step. He was definitely getting older. They all were. One day they'd all end up like Boone, alone in shabby little apartments, a couple revolutions of the planet all it took for everything they'd done and everyone they'd known to be a distant memory to anyone but themselves.
It was a bleak thought, but when Gage turned to the van and saw Lady perking her ears at him, he suddenly understood why a lonely old man might get a dog even when he knew he didn't have much time left.
"Hey," Quinn called to him. He had his hand on the front door to the station and was looking over his shoulder at Gage. "I just remembered. Somebody told me you're writing a book. Is that true?"
"Boy, news travels fast in this town."
"That surprises you?"
"Not really. Who needs the Internet when everybody around here seems to have ESP?"
"What's your book about?"
"It's a joke book for cops," Gage said. "I'm keeping it very short, and all the jokes are written at a first-grade level."
Quinn shook his head and disappeared into the building.
Chapter 11
Knowing he couldn't very well drive around with Lady all day, Gage took the dog back to his house.
He didn't expect to stay for more than a few minutes, just long enough to get the dog settled someplace where she couldn't do much damage—the spare bedroom, maybe—and his mind was so preoccupied that when he rounded the gravel drive up to his house, he didn't see the man in the dark suit blocking his way until the last second.
He managed to slam on the brakes just in time, skidding to a halt. The man, a big guy, a real hulk with wide shoulders and a blocky face, didn't even move. It wasn't until a cloud of gravel dust drifted over him that he reacted at all, and it was only to blink a few times.
They stared at each other through the glass, Gage feeling his irritation rise even as his heart slowed. He didn't like visitors. He especially didn't like unexpected visitors. A white Ford Mustang, a newer model, was parked exactly where Gage usually parked, not on the side, where there was ample space, but right in front of the garage. The man's hair was cut so short, a military-style buzzcut, and the color was so fair, nearly the same shade as his pink scalp, that at first Gage thought he was bald. His skull appeared slightly uneven, dented, as if someone had pressed their thumb into a piece of clay.
Gage got out of the van. He hadn't wanted Lady to get out yet, but she jumped out before he could stop her. Even worse, she bounded over to the stranger, sniffing at his shiny black Rockports. Despite telling himself that he didn't care about the stupid dog, Gage still felt a sharp stab of possessiveness. Jealousy, even. He felt even more irritated at his own emotions.
The man, frowning, kicked at her—not hard, just a slight movement to shoe her away, but Gage still didn't like it.
"Don't do that," he said.
The man looked at him, eyes pale blue, a thousand-yard stare that made Gage want to turn and see if there was something behind him. The man had seemed tall and broad even from within the van, but now, standing across from him, Gage felt particularly dwarfed. He must have been nearly seven feet tall. Big, apelike hands. Gage hoped the
tailor who'd made the suit had been paid double, because it certainly would have taken double the material of a normal-sized man. Even Ron, his new friend, would have been small next to this guy.
"This your dog?" the man asked. His voice was high-pitched and whiney, childlike, not at all what Gage expected.
"No," Gage said, "I stole her from an old lady at the bookstore."
"You did?"
Gage chuckled, but the man didn't. He just went on staring blankly. Gage hit the reset button in his mind. It was obvious he was going to have to operate at a much lower level with this guy.
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.
The man blinked.
"Who are you?" Gage said.
The man swallowed hard and gazed over his shoulder at the house. It was at that moment that a slender man in a similar dark suit rounded the corner from the back of the house, saw them, and moved to join them. The wet ivy he'd walked through had darkened the hem of his pants and made his Rockports—the same shoes as the big guy—gleam with moisture.
"What the hell are you doing?" Gage said.
The man, approaching them, smiled. He was small, with sharp, finely honed features, and when he smiled, he looked askance, as if he was amused by some private joke. He bore a striking resemblance to the larger man, not just in their clothes, which were identical, but with the same pale pink skin and fair hair. Beyond their size, there were other differences: his hair was slightly longer and spiked. His eyes were dark and dull, sitting solidly in their sockets like walnut shells. A faint diagonal birthmark over his right eyebrow made it seem as if he was perpetually arching one brow. Both of them were in their late thirties or early forties, Gage guessed.
"Just taking a look at your beautiful property," the smaller man said. His voice, although a bit deeper than his companion's, came off as the more feminine of the two, imbued with a soft, almost intimate whisper.
"Some would call that trespassing."
The man shrugged. "I'm sorry if I offended. I'm just drawn to beautiful things, and your place has a certain … quaint beauty about it, unkempt as it is. The view over the hedge of the ocean is spectacular. I assume you're Garrison Gage?"
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 11