The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1)

by Brent Kroetch

  “The tapes?”

  “The tapes,” he affirmed.

  Ham regarded him with open curiosity as he claimed the seat opposite. “Tell me a little about yourself. What’s your first name, where you’re from, what you’re doing, like that.” As he lifted his own glass, he added, “I’m sorry. I’m not being much of a host. Would you like something? A beer, maybe?”

  “No need to be so formal,” he smiled. Over his shoulder he yelled, “Bring me a beer, Kaila. This guy will be buying.”

  The oversized barkeep laughed, more so than Ham thought warranted. “My buying is so funny?”

  Carson regarded Ham as he might a small, non-comprehending child. “No. His name is George, I just call him Kaila. It amuses him.” Before Ham could ask, he answered, “Kaila means “slender” in Hawaiian.”

  “Right. Like sumo Hawaiian wrestler.” At Carson’s confused look of inquiry, Ham replied, “Never mind.”

  As the kaila sumo produced his beer, Carson provided some answers. “Actually, Carson is my first name.”

  “Carson. That’s an unusual name.”

  “I was born in Carson City, Nevada. What my parents lacked in imagination they more than made up for in heart.” He took a tentative sip of beer before continuing. “Last name is King. King Carson. If you don’t think I’ve heard that all my life you’re about as imaginative as my folks. So how is it you were anointed ‘Ham’?”

  “That’s not my real name, it’s Kyle. Kyle McCalister. I grew a lot faster, both in height and weight, as measured against my peers. They started calling me Big Mac, which, kids being kids, naturally turned to Hamburger, then finally just to Ham. I’ve responded to Ham for most of my life, so long that it’s sometimes hard to remember to write Kyle on official forms, like tax returns and stuff.” Ham took a quick swig and announced, “You’re turn. Ex-Marine, sniper, you must have opportunities. Why a security guard? It can’t pay much.”

  Carson shrugged. “What can I say? Being a sniper is a bit of a mental bummer. I needed wind-down time. What could be more wind-down than sitting at a desk, reading a book, occasionally go for a walk, glance at a few monitors. Easy, right? Then, too late, I learned that wind-down time turns into a rut, a waste of time. The rest of the world moves on, you wake up one day and all you’ve got to show for your life is a tin badge, a cramped apartment and no hopes. So maybe you’re my wake up call, my boat to Hope Island. Gimme what you got in mind.”

  Ignoring what was implied, Ham responded, “How is it you can duck out for a beer in the middle of the day? Don’t they miss you?”

  “I cover the four to noon shift. I’m off the clock.”

  “So you were there from four o’clock this morning? What about breaks? You must use the bathroom, maybe sneak out for a smoke or a cup of coffee. People might come and go without you knowing, is that possible?”

  “I don’t smoke, I do use the bathroom, I’ve been known to dash across the street for a cup to go. So yeah, it’s not impossible. But they’d have to be pretty quick and I can’t see as how they’d get in and back out in that time, not if they had a purpose for being there.”

  Ham nodded. “Fair enough. So tell me, what’s the building used for? Who’s occupies it?”

  “The bottom five floors are offices, various firms. The top two floors are penthouse suites, all private residences.”

  “In between breaks, do you recognize the people that come and go?”

  “Very funny. During those rare moments I stay on the job, I don’t spend all my time with my nose buried in a book. Sometimes I look around.”

  “Meaning’?”

  “Meaning, I’ve been there for a few years now. Of course I recognize the players.” With a touch of a scowl and a grimace, presumably not at the beer he sipped but at Ham, he added, “Now you. Why are you asking, and what’s in it for me? Where’s my boat?”

  Ham studied him with a cop’s accusing eyes, an old trick used to induce tense and sweaty anticipation in even the worst evil-doers soul. Carson merely stared back, either unconcerned or a man ready for the stage. His instinct told him the former. But since he’d never encountered a self-confessed Marine sniper before, he might also rightly assume a preternatural calmness cloaked Carson with indifference. In which case his acting would be so natural, so believable, that Johnny Depp would look inept by comparison.

  “Patience, my friend. We’re just getting to know each other. Deal the cards first, then place the bets, know what I mean?”

  “Sure. You mean you’ve lived in Vegas for far too many years. Otherwise, you’d use a better analogy than a reference to Texas Hold’em.”

  Ham laughed, shaking his head in wonder. “Marine sniper security guard. Where’d you go to school?”

  “University of Hawaii,” he grinned back. “Master of Arts in Philosophy.”

  Ham’s jaw slacked. “Well I’ll be damned. A philosopher killer King.”

  Still shaking his head, amusement dancing with his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Drew over at the bar, studiously observing the little Erin Go Bragh sign as if trying to decipher its meaning. It didn’t take a detective to note that her ear was strategically placed toward them and that her concentration was on the low patter of conversation coming from their table rather than the ratty little nod to the homeland.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Ham announced. He stepped to the juke box, found a rendition by, to him, an unknown singer and with a wicked smile popped in enough money to replay the selection a half a dozen times. It was, he rejoiced, a particularly objectionable song to his dear old eavesdropping friend.

  Carson regarded him with quizzical eyebrows when he returned to the table. “Nothing, just a whim,” Ham informed him. “I mean, it is an Irish Pub and all.” Tipping his drink toward Carson, Ham, eyes twinkling, proclaimed, “Slainte! That’s Irish for—”

  “Yeah, I know. To your health, too,” he returned, taking a sip of his own.

  “I gotta remember you’re a philosopher King,” Ham mumbled. “Anyway, back to it. You were a sniper.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Right, well what I mean is, what type of weapon did you use?”

  Suspicion clouded Carson’s narrowed eyes. “If you’re looking for me to off somebody, I should tell you I’m retired. And not interested at any price.”

  Ham reached into his pocket, extended his arm half way across the table, let drop the three shells he’d picked up on the rooftop and waited as they tinkled and bounced their way toward Carson.

  “Recognize these?”

  “Fifty caliber. Big dudes.”

  “Big dudes, right. Sniper ammo. On your roof.”

  Carson shrugged indifferently. “How about that?”

  “Exactly, King Sniper. How about that?”

  Carson picked up his beer and examined the minute bubbles as if pondering some mystery therein before turning his eyes back to Ham. “I don’t know what to tell you, I really don’t. Except that I didn’t put them there. And before you ask, I haven’t a clue who might have done so. Nobody who passed through would pop up on my radar as a would-be killer. But you’ve got the tapes. You decide.” He glanced at his watch and announced, “Meanwhile, if this is all you got, you’re keeping me from my appointed rounds.”

  “I thought you said you were through for today.”

  “My rounds are on the North Shore. There are some mondo waves out there today, and I intend to catch me some.”

  “ ‘Mondo’ waves,” Ham laughed. “What, is this where you call me ‘bro’?”

  “Absolutely,” Carson grinned. “Let’s do a fist bump.”

  Ham nodded, letting his amusement show. “You got it. And I’ll tell you what. You’re hired. I’ll take these tapes and have a look. I’ll get back to you. How much do you want for these?”

  “It’s less important how much—at least right now—than that I get a little excitement out of it. I still think this must have to do with Blake Garrett. Though you haven’t confirmed that.”
/>
  Ham decided not to lie. Just to not tell the truth. “I neither confirm nor deny anything at this point. For fun, let’s say it doesn’t. Does that change anything for you?”

  Carson finished the last slug of beer and stood up. Clearly, the waves beckoned, taking precedence over any more of Ham’s dithering. “Probably not.” He pulled a card from his wallet and tossed it over. “Here’s my number. Call whenever. Later I’ll provide you my bank routing numbers so you can dump a pile of cash on me.”

  Ham stood in turn and shook the proffered hand. “I’ll do that,” he grinned. “On both counts. And Carson…thanks a lot. I really mean that.”

  “No problem…‘bro’.” With that he was gone.

  When he finally turned back to the bar he found that so, too, was Drew. Without warning, without explanation, she’d simply vanished.

  “Where’d the lady go?” Ham demanded of Mr. Sumo Bartender.

  “Didn’t say,” the big guy shrugged. “When Carson left, she tossed some money on the counter and fled out after him.” With a wry smiled, he added, “ I’m guessing there’s a connection there. But then, what do I know? I’m just a barkeep. Not a detective like you all.”

  Ham regarded him narrowly. “Detective? What makes you think that?”

  The man snatched up a rag and yet another permanently soiled glass. As he performed his hopeless task, he grinned, “Your aura.”

  “My aura,” Ham sighed.

  “Yep. You guys all carry the same black aura, heavy, dark, suspicious. It literally pulls energy to it, captures light and consumes it. It’s the nature of your job, you see, the seething unforgiving anger you feel for the system. The lady even more than you. To your credit, yours is a little cleaner.”

  Ham’s eyes rolled but he asked anyway. “Sure. Okay. What about Carson’s?”

  “What about—” The bartender’s eyes revealed a tell-tale glint. “Carson’s is white. Clear, pure, clean. It’s a pure state of light, spiritual, transcendent, higher dimensions. Purity and truth with angelic qualities.” Still rubbing futilely at the glass, he asked, “Anything else you need to know?”

  “No,” Ham snorted. “No, not at all. I mean, auras, chakras, clairvoyance, those are any good detective’s main concerns. Nothing left to learn after that.”

  The big Hawaiian grinned. “You think you’re kidding. But you’re only kidding yourself.”

  As Ham pulled money out of his wallet, he asked, “Well that’s enigmatic. What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “All things in their own time.”

  Ham counted out the bills, blew out a breath of frustration and nodded as if that made any sense to him whatever. “Sure, naturally. Of course. In their own time. Mystical, revealing, little tinkling bells, heavenly music and omens. Thanks for the advice and for the drinks.” He turned on his heels and was half way to the door when the sumo’s words stopped him short.

  “You are most welcome, Mr. McCalister. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ham turned slowly back to face him. “You know who I am? The lady tell you?”

  “Oh,” he shrugged, as if expressing the obvious, “the lady didn’t have to tell me. We all know who you are.”

  Ham briefly considered jumping over the bar, grabbing the big man by the throat and demand some answers. He instantly rejected such a display as of little use and greater danger—to himself. The guy would kill him. Beyond that, beating answers out of suspects, even if he could, was a passé technique and he prided himself on his hipness. He suppressed a sigh of melancholy at his own sarcasm. In truth, his hipness was retro, and irreversible at that, but such was not the point. Here he was, the would-be super dick, rushed to the rescue, charged with thwarting the unknown, and he was the only one dwelling in the unknown. Everybody else, from security guards to bartenders, knew mountains more than he, anticipated his every move, saw through him like water.

  Well this was going to change. And by damn, it would change right this freaking now. Blake would either give him some answers or…

  Or he wouldn’t. And then what? Catch the next plane back to Las Vegas? Slap Blake around since he could probably survive that? Take the money and not worry about it?

  Screw it, he thought. “All things in their own time,” as the Hawaiian said. First, go see Blake, the puppet master, the one pulling all the strings. Find out what this farce of a play was all about, maybe inquire about his aura.

  Then make decisions.

  6

  FIXING A HOLE

  A surreal day worsened still when Ham literally bumped head on into Drew as he stormed out the door. He managed to catch both her and himself before the indignity and harm of a fall down the stairs became inevitable. The fact that he succeeded in that task only served to stoke his already uncontrolled anger.

  “Where the crap did you go?” he snapped, “And why? You’d best give me some answers here, Drew, or I swear to God I’ll beat them out of you, martial artist or not. Come along with me,” he demanded as he swept her roughly down the stairs to the street below. “You can talk as I head out. I got another appointment, so make it snappy. But complete.”

  “Wow,” she laughed, “I’ve seen you go off the deep end before, but you’re really on a tear today, aren’t you?”

  He hustled them down the alley, the stench of garbage stinging his eyes as well as nose. Funny, he thought, how just one block and world away Waikiki Beach thronged with humanity and beauty, while this little stretch of misery sat tucked so near and yet so far from opulence.

  Ham finally pulled up, just before they reached the teeming boulevard. Simultaneously, he reigned in his temper, at least for the moment.

  “I guess you’re right,” he conceded. “I don’t mean to take it out on you of all people, but you have to admit, you’re part of the problem.”

  “Part of the surprise, you mean. But listen to me, we’ve known each other for how long?”

  “Forever,” he smiled.

  “And we’ve been friends for how long?”

  His smile became more tender. “Even longer.”

  “Right,” she affirmed as she grabbed his hand. “So how about giving your little sis a great big hug of forgiveness?”

  Ham chortled as he bear hugged her off her feet. He set her back down, smiling, shaking his head in agreement. “It does do me well to see you, Drew.”

  And indeed it did now that he took the time to let it. She’d been not just his partner for the best part of a career, but his friend since they were kids. It was actually Drew that recruited him to the force after she had joined, regaled him with tales of stakeouts and chases, sexy stings and all the perks. She’d failed miserably in describing department politics and the mind-numbing tedium of paperwork, of course, a lapse he’d never let her forget.

  Though they’d grown up together as classmates, playmates and inseparable friends, there had never been the suspicion of romance, not on either side. Despite being the same age, born within days of each other, he’d always regarded her as the little sister he’d never had, had served as her protector and confidante during her teen years of exploration and later during her messy divorce. She in turn had been there for him whenever, wherever, without question. Her loyalty to Ham matched or perhaps exceeded any other fidelity she had pledged over the years, a trait that remained still.

  Their partnership had reflected that faith. With the absolute certainty of dependability, they, each of them, had no need to watch their own back, either in the field or in the office. Their partner accomplished that task for them.

  As if reading his thoughts, she asked, “Ham, do you trust me?”

  “With my life,” he averred, “as I have many more times than once.”

  “Yeah, well, right back at cha, big guy. So how about if you give me the benefit of the doubt this time. I meant what I said. I’m not the enemy here.”

  Ham sighed wearily. “Yeah, I know that, Drew. Of course I know that. It’s just that I feel like I’ve fallen through the Looking-Glass an
d haven’t a clue how I got here or how to climb back out. It’s all a little weird for me. I’m just trying to keep my feet firmly on the ground as everybody else tries to sweep them out from under me, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” And she did, he realized. She’d been through hell and a half herself over the past few years. But Drew being Drew, she’d survived. More than that, she’d thrived. Her $1,000 suit attested to that.

  “Shall we talk over lunch?”

  “Can’t,” he apologized. “I really do have to be somewhere. Maybe over dinner. I’ll call as soon as I know for sure. Meantime, I’ll keep walking, you keep talking.”

  “Okay. But first, when do I get to meet him?”

  “Who, Carson? The guy at the bar?”

  “No, silly. Blake Garrett. That’s who you’re working for, isn’t it?”

  Ham halted again, leaned against a cement wall fronting another hole in the wall souvenir shop and folded his arms against his chest. “Right, then, let’s do it. Why would you ask that? What’s going on?”

  “I’m on the case, too. Or at least on a case. I’d have to be an idiot to think your case doesn’t overlap with mine since my client, who shall remain unnamed, has a connection to Blake Garrett. And, since my unnamed client asked me about you, it just naturally occurred to me that we ought to compare notes.”

  “You’re client must have a lot of bucks,” Ham replied dryly. Drew’s firm—Allen, Samuels and Thornton—was by far the largest and most expensive detective agency in Vegas. As expensive as they may be, they were equally egalitarian, though. Anybody with an obscene amount of money could hire them to do anything that loosely fell on the right side of the law. It had been the only sore point between them in their long relationship, Drew selling out to greed and grind. Her repeated attempts to recruit him, to make it Allen, Samuels, Thornton and McCalister, always fell on willfully deaf ears. Not that he was a snob. Just snobbish. And too damn stubborn to work and play well with the likes of Allen and Samuels, scuzzball dropouts from the vice squad who made their arrestees look angelic. Or at least that was his opinion, one that Drew disagreed with but did find humorous enough to constantly repeat to the said scuzzballs.