Caruso 01 - Boom Town Page 2

  “Find out the truth about my son. I know he didn’t do this.

  Sure, he and Barb were having problems. But what young couple doesn’t have a few bumps in their marriage.”

  “His gun was found at his side. What if I find out he did it?”

  Humphrey let out a deep breath, as if that could be the last possible outcome. “Then I’ll have to start accepting that fact. But I know he didn’t. I understand you worked with the police as a consultant after retiring from the Navy. Maybe you could check over the scene, talk with the sheriff.” He hunched his shoulders.

  It was obvious the man was out of his element, and that bothered him. Control was everything to this man.

  “I’ll need some cash,” Tony finally said. “Make the whole thing professional. You’ve checked me out, so you know my fees.

  If the hours add up, I’ll also need a week in September on the Oregon coast.” For the last few jobs Tony had taken, he had gotten a week of timeshare at an Oregon resort for his services.

  Many people in the west had collected timeshares over the past two decades like stamps, and now found them as useless as internet stocks.

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  Humphrey nodded agreement and then pulled out his wallet and counted off ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. He handed them to Tony, who folded them into his back pocket.

  “If you need more just ask,” he said. “I want to know what’s going on. Call me at this number at least once a day.” He handed Tony his card with a business number and address for Bend and Portland. Below that he had scribbled another number. Probably a cell phone.

  “I’ll ask a few questions,” Tony said, shrugging. “But nine times out of ten these things are exactly as they appear.”

  “Not this time, Mr. Caruso.” He headed toward the door but stopped before leaving and turned back to face Tony. “And I want total anonymity. Tell no one who you’re working for.”

  “No problem.” Tony opened the door for him.

  Humphrey started out and stopped again. He retrieved an envelope from inside his suit and handed it to him. “That’s a pass card for Cascade Peaks Estates, and some things that will acquaint you with my son and his wife. Might come in handy. I have your e-mail address and cell phone number, and, of course, Joe’s number here.”

  After Humphrey left, Tony went over to the balcony and looked out onto the city lights, thinking a good portion of those were probably there because of Cliff Humphrey. He had a bad feeling about this case. It was stuck down in his gut fighting it out with the India Pale Ale. Maybe he should have listened to his Uncle Bruno and stayed in the hot tub.

  His dog came to his side and rubbed his head against Tony’s bare leg. Panzer was a good judge of character, and even he had growled. Great.

  Right now, at that moment, he wondered how it would be float-ing in the frigid waters of the Pacific.

  BOOM TOWN 13

  CHAPTER 3

  Tony got up the next morning bright and early. It was another clear, crisp December day on the high desert. According to the weather guru on the local morning radio show, the temps would reach the mid-fifties.

  Bend, as Tony had quickly learned in the past few days, was a town of two sides, split down the middle by the Deschutes River—a world-class trout fishery, kayak Mecca and star of John Wayne westerns. The east side was Bend’s past, with small bun-galows inhabited by the working class who built high-end Pozzi windows and RVs for the uber-rich. The west side was new Bend—million-dollar houses in gated golf communities—houses owned by displaced Californians and second home owners from Portland and Seattle. Equity movers and shakers.

  Drinking his second cup of coffee zapped in the microwave, Tony sat down at the kitchen table and opened the envelope Cliff Humphrey had given him the night before. There was the pass card to the gate at the Humphrey sub-division, copies of identifi-cation cards, credit cards, social security cards, and photos of Dan Humphrey and his wife, Barb. They had the looks of the college football quarterback and the star volleyball player. An inside hitter.

  Now he was almost ready to hit the road. But before he left, he checked his e-mail. He had a web page posted to links all over the place where he offered discreet investigations nationwide, with 14

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  Oregon his home base. He mentioned his Navy ordnance training and the work he had done as a consultant with the police, but gave little specific information. Strangely enough, he also had a link to a photo gallery—maybe some would see he had a softer side, and had not just worked with bombs most of his life.

  He had a couple of messages. The first one was from Melanie Chadwick, a woman he had dated a couple of times since coming to Bend. They had met his first day in town at a local gym where Tony was working out. Since then they had spent a lot of free time searching for bodily imperfections. He was no doctor, but he had found nothing physically wrong with her.

  The other message was from his Uncle Bruno in Duluth, Minnesota, wanting to know when he was coming home again.

  He left Melanie hanging for now and shot off a quick reply to his uncle, saying he had no intention of ever going back to Minnesota in the winter. Although he had grown up in Duluth’s west end, a place where Italian names were as common as hock-ey rinks, he had forced himself to return only infrequently during the summer. Since leaving Duluth after high school to serve in the Navy, traveling the Earth for more than 20 years, he hadn’t found much time to return to Minnesota. He had a feeling his Uncle Bruno wanted him to take over the family business, and Tony had only an inkling of what he had in mind for him. Bruno could have asked Tony’s brother, Johnny, but last he heard his younger brother was in China teaching English to the newly affluent. Or was he in Africa with the Peace Corps?

  “Let’s go, boy,” Tony said, snapping his fingers at his dog, who scurried toward the door after him. “Let’s put that nose to work.”

  He left and found his ten-year-old Ford F250 in the one-car garage that came with the condo. The 4x4 was his office. His cell phone hitched up to his laptop, and he had a bed in the back that he could use in emergencies. Next to his bed was a pad for Panzer.

  Leaving the resort, he headed south toward Cascade Peaks Estates.

  BOOM TOWN 15

  Since it was Saturday, there wasn’t much traffic at that time of day. The skiers were probably already on the slopes, and the diehard golfers were eating brunch, lying about their handicaps while they waited for the greens to warm.

  Most detectives would head directly to the local cops and ask to see the evidence. Have them explain their reasoning for calling it quits on a case that wasn’t a total slam dunk. But Tony figured that was a good way to piss people off. Sort of like asking an older man if he could still get it up.

  Besides, he wanted to take a look at what was left of Dan and Barb Humphrey’s house. He had heard that Dan had somehow rigged the gas fireplace in the living room to explode. Details on the local T.V. news and in the newspaper were sketchy at best.

  Cryptic at most. The Bend area being such a tourist Mecca, it was best to keep any negative news to a minimum, Tony guessed.

  He made it through the gate with Cliff’s card without the resort Gestapo jacking him up against his truck. The stern man in the gatehouse did burn his eyes right through him, though. He realized his dented and beat-up pickup didn’t fit in with the Beemers, Mercedes and Audis strolling around that gated community.

  Screw ‘em. Tony actually used his four-wheel-drive for something more than status.

  Finding the house was not a difficult task. It was the only place on the golf course that resembled a burnt marshmallow.

  He got out, followed closely by Panzer, and stood for a moment, surveying the scene, when he noticed the curtains pulled back from the closest neighbor’s side window on the second floor. He pulled his camera from the passenger seat, slung it over his right shoulder, and closed the door, ignoring the neighbor.

  He had been through more th
an a few fried dwellings. Luckily, this time, he wouldn’t trip over some crispy critter.

  Strange. There were no yellow police tapes saying not to be there. Yet, on the golf course side, a tall wooden fence had been hastily erected so those golfers with delicate sensibilities would-16

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  n’t have to look at the torched house and think about what had happened there.

  Stepping through the blackened mess, he took a few photos and made his way to what he guessed had been the living room. There had been a massive picture window that was gone now. The white Berber carpeting was crystallized black and crunched under his feet with each step. The odor of smoke drifted up, tweaking his nostrils. Smells linger in your mind longer than any other sense, he knew. For a slight moment he was in the Sumatran village trying to figure out how one of his Navy pilots had mistaken it for the real target a few miles to the south. Then even farther back, he was searching through his family house after his little brother had set the place ablaze, searching for a dog that would eventually look like a pig on a luau spit.

  Panzer made his way through the room and was now on his stomach, his broad head resting on his front paws and his eyes pointing directly at the fireplace.

  Moving across the large opening, Tony stopped next to the black stone fireplace. Rocks had fallen to the floor from the explosion. He took a few more shots at wide angle, not needing a flash, since the ceiling to the second floor had been blown half way to Boise and light streamed in from the opening in the roof that had burned through. He picked around for a moment, but he guessed the police had removed any evidence of importance.

  Shifting his eyes across the floor, he could see where the two bodies had fallen, their flesh having preserved a small swatch of carpet. He took close ups of those areas.

  “You got a good nose, Panzer,” he said, patting his dog on the head. “Sitzen.”

  The dog immediately rose up and sat next to him.

  Then Tony saw it. It wasn’t much. In fact, to the untrained eye, nothing at all would have registered. But tucked alongside the base of the bottom stone to the right of the fireplace opening was a tiny piece of wiring no more than an inch in length. He picked up the little yellow plastic coating, with a red stripe that ran BOOM TOWN 17

  lengthwise, and twirled it in his fingers, examining it more closely. It was melted and charred at the tip, but the bottom stones had sheltered the wire from the blaze. He shoved it into his front pocket. Considering the obvious explosion and resulting fire, it was amazing that anything had survived the intense heat.

  Glancing around the room one more time, he headed out.

  He didn’t expect to find much, and he didn’t disappoint himself.

  Next, he put Panzer in the back of the truck and then walked over to the neighbor’s place and knocked on the thick oak door.

  No answer.

  He stepped back and looked up to the second floor. A woman was there, but she darted back when she saw him.

  This time he rang the doorbell. Still nothing.

  Tony started to walk down the driveway, when a truck pulled up and two men jumped out. They were both bulky bouncer types, dressed in brown uniforms with silver badges sewn on the chest. On their thick biceps was a patch that read, “Cascade Peaks Security.”

  Adjusting the camera at his waist, Tony snapped off a shot of them at wide angle as they approached. Something for his website maybe.

  The two men got closer and stopped, widening their stance like sailors do on a ship in high seas. The one on the left had a blond flattop. He was at least six two, four or five inches taller than Tony, but his midsection was soft. The one on the right was five or six inches shorter, but had more bulk. His hair was stringy black in a floppy surfer cut. He had a scar from his upper lip to his nose, covered slightly by a goatee. Hell of a shaving accident.

  Tony started to say something, when the one with the goatee reached for him.

  Tony blocked away the man’s arm, and now Panzer started barking from inside the truck.

  Flattop pulled his nightstick. Tony caught his arm, twisted it around, and elbowed him in the jaw. The man fell to his knees.

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  Then Tony took the club from Flattop and jabbed it into the sternum of the advancing Goatee, sending him gasping backwards.

  “What the fuck?” Tony said, adjusting his camera on his shoulder. “Just hold it before someone gets hurt.”

  Flattop was on his knees, his mouth bleeding. He reached for his gun. Tony grabbed his arm and twisted it back, slamming him to the ground onto his shoulders.

  Tony was wrestling with him when Goatee started whacking him with his stick. He took three or four blows before rolling over and kicking the stick from the man’s hand.

  Now Tony was pissed. The guy could have hit his camera, and he had a feeling one of his ribs was broken, but he had no time to check it out.

  He hopped up and kicked Goatee with a roundhouse to his ribs.

  Then followed that with a side thrust kick to his stomach, sending him flailing backwards.

  When Tony turned for the other man, Flattop had his gun drawn and pointed right at Tony’s head.

  Tony froze.

  “Think hard before pulling the trigger,” Tony said. Looking at the guy more closely, he was probably just barely a legal drinker.

  “Put that gun away, Ricky.”

  All three of them turned to see a black man in his fifties approaching. His short hair was speckled with gray. He was tall with thick shoulders and had the start of a nice beer gut, like pro football offensive linemen carry to push defensive ends around.

  On the shoulders of his uniform were captain’s bars on each epaulet.

  The Flattop rent-a-cop did what his boss said.

  “Sir, we got a report of a suspicious character peeking into windows,” Flattop said, nodding his thick skull toward Tony.

  The captain laughed. “Look at him. Both of you.”

  They did as the captain said.

  “Clean shaven. Nice clothes. What in the hell made you think BOOM TOWN 19

  he was some kinda burglar?”

  They thought it over.

  “Sorry, sir,” Flattop said.

  “Not to me,” the captain said. “To him.”

  Flattop cast his reluctant eyes on Tony. “Sorry,” he said, the word painful and strained.

  Tony nodded. The captain was right, Tony didn’t look like much of a threat. That had always been his plan. Made it easier to surprise people.

  “Good thing I’m not litigious,” Tony said to the two young and over-zealous rent-a-cops. They stared at him with stupid expressions, and Tony imagined one of them would eventually look up the word in the dictionary and see how close they had come to being sued for assault.

  The captain swished his head, and the two men pulled their tails between their legs and went back to the truck.

  After the two junior park rangers took off, the captain pulled Tony aside and introduced himself as Beaver Jackson. Tony gave him his name, nothing else.

  “Did you play football for OSU?” Tony asked.

  The captain laughed. “Yeah. Centuries ago. Played a little pro ball up in Canada for a few years also. Until each knee had two operations.”

  The man had a slight twinkle in his eyes when he talked about football. The glory days.

  “How’d you get the name Beaver?” Tony asked, trying to light-en the moment.

  “Grew up in Portland. Real name is Balthasar. I paid a guy in high school to come up with a nickname. When I got a scholar-ship to OSU, he started calling me Beaver.”

  “Balthasar. One of the three wise men,” Tony said.

  “You know your bible,” he said. “My mother was a fanatic about it.”

  “I’m a recovering Catholic,” Tony said. “Twelve-step program.”

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  They stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the captain said, “What a
re you doing at Cascade Peaks, Mr. Caruso?”

  “I’m an insurance investigator,” Tony said, starting the lie.

  “Looking into the alleged murder suicide next door. Can you give me your take on the situation?”

  The man shifted his deep, dark eyes toward the nice house behind them, and then settled on Tony. “It was a tragic accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “Well. Some people should know when to call it quits before things like this happen.”

  “Did you know Dan and Barb Humphrey?” Tony asked.

  “I know everybody here. That’s my job. We’ve got a few movie stars living here. A couple of professional athletes. They want their privacy. Security. This is private property, or maybe you didn’t read the signs at the front gate.”

  He had read them. They were more elaborate than the Bill of Rights. “I understand privacy. But you didn’t really answer my question. I need to clear the books on this case. Determine if we’re going to pay off. You understand.”

  The captain laughed. “Yeah, I do. I understand you came through my gate with a pass card. If you’re an insurance investigator, how’d you get that?”

  Tony tried a smile and said, “Insurance companies have some pull.”

  Beaver Jackson let out a breath of air and then said, “I knew Dan and Barb. God has a way of making things right. They were a bit wild. Maybe that put a strain on their marriage.”

  “Wild? In what way?”

  The captain stared at Tony. “Leave it alone, Mr. Caruso. Their death was a tragedy. This is a good community.”

  Tony wasn’t going to get any more out of Captain Beaver Jackson. At least not now. “I do need to talk with the neighbors.

  It’s routine. You understand.”

  From the look on the man’s face he didn’t. But he said, “I guess. But maybe I should accompany you.”

  BOOM TOWN 21

  “People tend to talk more openly when there isn’t a uniform involved,” Tony said. Which is one reason every police depart-ment in America had detectives in plain clothes.

  Beaver Jackson pointed his thick finger at Tony. “Don’t go disturbing these people. Their property values have taken a hit.”