Caruso 01 - Boom Town (2 page)

“I’m not really qualified for that,” Tony said.

Joe hesitated and finally said, “Well, they say this guy’s kid shot his wife and then blew up his house.”

“The murder suicide I heard about in the news?”

“That’s what they’re calling it,” Joe said. “But there could be more to it. Tony, could you just go over there and look into it? It could be just what the police say. Then you do your gallery showing, sell a few photos, and make a few bucks off the investigation.”

Having heard about the incident on the Portland news in his condo, Tony wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with it. The father had been denying his son could have done it. And he was a powerful real estate developer in the state.

“You got room for me in that condo?” Tony finally said.

“I won’t be there. Ute wants to go to Switzerland for a couple of months. Her family owns a chalet in Grindelwald.”

“Must be nice.”

“They’ve already got a shitload of snow.” Joe’s eyes sunk toward the ground, and he added, “You can stay in my condo until I get back in late January.”

Tony thought about it. He didn’t currently have a home. Since a few months back when he became his version of the wandering
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private investigator, he had not figured out where his home base would be. Maybe he didn’t want anything permanent. He would never move back to Duluth or anywhere near Minnesota, that was a fact, but beyond that, only time would tell. Perhaps he needed to wander for a while longer. In the Navy for twenty years, he had perfected not staying in one place.

“You sure this is all right?” Tony asked him. “And what about Panzer?” He reached down and rubbed his dog under the chin.

“I own the place. The dog’s fine. Please. You’ll like Bend. It’s high desert. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

What he meant was that it would take his mind off the ocean and what had happened there years ago.

“What the hell.”

They shook hands, embraced, and then Tony watched his old friend trudge back through the grass to the parking lot.

Crouching down toward his dog, Tony wrapped his hands behind its cropped ears, which stood straight up, alert.

“What do you think, Panzer? You’ve never seen much snow.”

The schnauzer cocked its head to the side, its brows raised.

“That’s what I thought.”

The two of them headed off down the trail toward Yachets.

BOOM TOWN 9

The knock on the door came four days after Tony had gotten to Bend. It was late Friday night, and he was lounging in Joe Pellagreno’s condo hot tub, his eyes closed, drinking a local microbrew and trying his best to soak away the pain from a crash he had taken while snow shoeing near Mt. Bachelor earlier in the afternoon.

His Uncle Bruno had always told him to never answer the phone or the door after dark. No good news came at that time.

Now the door bell buzzed and his dog finally jumped from its bed and plodded across the hardwood floor toward the commo-tion, stopping a few feet from the door in a pose that would have won him a championship at a dog show.

Reluctantly, Tony got out, toweled off and made his way to the door, the towel protecting his nakedness.

Looking through the peephole, he saw Cliff Humphrey for the first time in person.

Tony opened the door.

Humphrey was a tall man in his early fifties, his gray Armani suit impeccable.

“Mr. Caruso?”

“Joe said you’d be here days ago,” Tony said.

“I’ve had some business in Portland,” he said, and then he half-smiled with his perfect, bleached teeth. “May I come in?”

Panzer growled and Humphrey took a step backward.

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“Panzer.
Schlafen da
!” The dog immediately followed Tony’s order, padding back and laying down on its bed near the warmth of the gas fireplace.

Tony assessed the man carefully. Humphrey’s only imperfections were bloodshot eyes and an odor of alcohol about him. But considering his son had died recently, those were probably only temporary afflictions.

“Come in,” Tony said. Having the man sit down, Tony went into his bedroom and slipped on a pair of shorts. When he returned, Humphrey was still sitting where he put him, his hands folded across his lap as if he were praying.

“Want a beer?”

Humphrey didn’t answer, so Tony took a seat across from him and waited. He had learned patience in the military, standing in line like Russians waiting for something that never came, or when it did come it was never what you expected or wanted.

“You know about my son’s death recently?” Humphrey finally said, his thin lips barely moving as he spoke.

Tony’s dark eyes sunk deep into the man across from him. “Joe told me about the murder suicide over at the Cascade Peaks Estates. From what they say, your son blew the shit outta some perfectly good real estate.” Too harsh? Maybe.

Seemingly unfazed, Humphrey got up and went to the balcony door, gazing across the dark thirteenth fairway at the lights of the city below. A cool breeze flowed through the sliding glass door, bringing the distinct smell of juniper with it.

“That’s the story the sheriff has spread to the media,”

Humphrey said over his shoulder.

Tony got up and went to the refrigerator. “You want a beer?” he asked Humphrey again.

When the man didn’t look his way, Tony shrugged and opened a local microbrew, taking a healthy swig of India Pale Ale as he walked over to the man, the chill of night air bringing goose bumps to Tony’s exposed skin.

“What do you want from me?” Tony asked him.

BOOM TOWN 11

Turning swiftly, Humphrey looked confused and possibly vul-nerable. Two things completely unfamiliar to the man, Tony guessed.

“Joe told me your son wouldn’t kill a fly. And he sure as hell wouldn’t kill himself. You think someone killed him. The whole thing made to look like a murder suicide.”

Humphrey’s eyes brightened. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”

“Great. How do you think I can prove that?”

Humphrey glanced about the room. “This will be my first Christmas alone,” he said, his thoughts off subject.

Tony had done a quick background check on Humphrey, and knew about his wife dying last January when she was thrown from her horse east of Prineville. That was a double dose of bad luck for one year. First the wife; now the son.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tony said. He took a drink of beer and said, “What do you want me to do?”

“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

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
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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.