File 3297: The Shanghai Tunnels

By Gregory Paul Wilhelm

Strange cases always seem to find her. Not surprising, considering the favorite bumper sticker of the locals is "Keep Portland Weird". But no matter what "Weird" Portland dishes up, private investigator Lydia Pendleton always seems to come out on top.

Inspired by the Stephanie Plum series, The Pendleton Files isn't quite the same. This west coast PI gets to keep her Mysterious Black Pontiac Solstice. It never goes boom. And her bank account? ... P'lease. Being an heiress makes it a little easier to take down the bad guys. And it doesn't hurt to have a private investigator whose an ex-KGB agent watching your back either. The Pendleton Files series is like no other. New, Bold, Fresh, with cases so unusual they belong in the "X-files".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Paul Wilhelm
• Release date: May 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476081465

Gregory Paul Wilhelm

Greg lives in Maine with his wife Lisa and their cat Ranger. He is currently busy working on a new fictional series titled "Tregothagan Quay", a side project about a fictitious village in Cornwall England. Its due date is to be announced soon. The second book of his new series "What it's Really Like to Travel Through Time" will be on hold 'til further notice.

Book preview

Prologue

The Victim

Kristyan Dementyev wasn't happy. He was standing at an entrance to an alley he was told would be on his left, but the description he read wasn't exactly matching up to the real thing as much as he hoped. What he saw differed so much that he almost believed it was the wrong alley.

He checked the directions once again. He looked at what might be the brownstone it was referring to one more time, and then he looked at where the two-story shop should've been. He'd imagined an old mom and pop store, still struggling after all this time, but instead saw a tall, glossy marble building standing in its place. Shit!

He looked further down the alley, searching for the door that was supposed to be near the end, hoping it hadn't been touched, but he couldn't find it. All he saw was a brick wall, covered with dark stains and layers of faded graffiti.

Sonofabitch! he thought. I knew this seemed too easy! He folded the papers, shoved them into his back pocket, rubbed a hand over his face and raked his fingers through his hair. He put his hands on his hips and took a moment to take in his surroundings to clear his head before he did something stupid. He wondered what he was supposed to do now.

How can the door not be there? Why would someone remove access to something? Could it have been renovated? He turned around and faced the brownstone once again.

It was a lifeless building. There weren't any lights on anywhere inside it. There were four windows on the fourth and third floors, but the ones on the fourth floor had been completely removed. The second floor had two at opposite ends of the building, and the two on first were both near the front. He could see inside a little through the holes where the windows had been on the fourth floor and what he could see showed signs that it might've been gutted.

An extension of the brownstone at the end of the alley took the brunt of the demolition that must've been halted by the Recession. It had originally closed off the alley, but its outer wall was torn down to make room for the marble building and like the fourth floor the small little windows it had for each floor were removed.

That was when he saw it. His eyes came across it by accident. He focused on it after catching a flaw on the side of the building out of the corner of his eye. The entire surface was a cracked, broken mass of dry rot. The rot had acted like a camouflage, closely mimicking the weather worn bricks on the side of old brownstone building. Its handle, a mere flat strip of rusted metal, bowed outward like a capital D.

He shrugged off his backpack, set it down on the ground and touched the door to see if it was real. This has to be it. It's near the end of the alley, just like the letter said. Damn! I could swear this wasn't here before. This might turn out to be true after all. It could actually be in there!

But the door wasn't the only thing he hadn't seen before. Above its handle, just about eye level, was an old hasp. It straddled the threshold with an ancient, brass padlock shaped like a small apple, hanging from one end of it. Both the hasp and the lock hadn't been immune to the wall's fate and were partially hidden by its grime. Damn it! The letter didn't say anything about a lock! Shit! Frustrated by facing yet another unexpected delay, he slapped the padlock and walked back to the alley's entrance.

Sonofabitch! I wonder what else he forgot to mention. Damn it! Now I'll have to wait to be sure no one will be around when I'm trying to get that damn lock off! Shit! He'd reluctantly returned to the mouth of the alley, let his body fall back against the corner of brownstone, lit a cigarette and waited.

Waiting obviously wasn't part of the original plan, but unfortunately it was now something he had to do before he could even attempt to get the hasp off the door. There can't be any witnesses. If anyone saw him, then they would know what he did. He was supposed to be pulling the door open now. That's what the directions said to do next. Shit! His patience had worn away days ago. He was looking forward to finally getting this over with and was beyond done with being tired of always having to wait for everything.

It better be there, he thought. I'd hate to have gone through all of this just to find out someone beat me to it. Damn it! I wonder what else this asshole forgot to mention. It figures I'd have sit around and wait … again! I sick of waiting. He took another drag of his cigarette. He blew smoke out his nose when he shook his head and laughed at them. You'd think they were about explore some abandoned mine the way they go on about it. Idiots. It's probably just like the other 'tunnels', nothing but basements.

It was just two weeks ago that they started finding bits of information, proving some of what the message with the archaic writing said might be true. That was when he decided to get it for himself. He was going to hide it and make it look like someone had already taken it. Then, when the enough time had passed, he was going take his family far away and live off the riches from … he froze.

He could've sworn he heard something. He listened. Except for the sound of a MAX light-rail's horn coming from somewhere downtown, it was quiet. He could hear the traffic starting to pick up on the 405 and the Fremont Bridge not far from here, but nothing else. It was nothing, he thought, and continued to watch for any signs of life. A breeze blew past him, carrying with it the aroma of someone's breakfast. Damn, maybe I should've eaten something first.

The time was 6:06. It was Saturday morning and his surroundings were being bathed in a pastel glow from a pink-orange sky, lit by the first rays of a rising sun. The autumn air was cool and damp, but the day was forecasted to be warm and dry this afternoon. He felt comfortable in his black, hooded sweatshirt with the zippered front. A black T-shirt, worn out jeans and white Nikes was the rest of his outfit. He had the sweatshirt halfway zipped and a hand buried in one of its pockets. His hood was up over his head to help hide his face in case anyone ever happened to walk by. But the whole time he'd been standing there he hadn't seen or heard anyone. The streets remained deserted.

Fuck this! He said, flicked his cigarette to the street and walked back to the door where he left his backpack. Everything he bought and kept hidden from everyone were inside it. He unzipped it and pulled out a tool belt. The tools already sorted and inside the pockets and holsters, done the night before. He put the belt around his waist and his eyes focused on the street as he buckled it, but he still didn't see or hear any one. Except for having to switch his mallet to the opposite side to help tweak the balance on his hips, the belt wasn't quite as problematic as he thought. It wasn't as heavy or cumbersome as he'd imagined.

He watched the street one last time as he removed the short handled bolt cutters from his belt. Still no one around. He placed its jaws around the strangely flat shackle and worked the cutter's handles three times before it went all the way through. Then he moved on to the left side where only two squeezes of the handles were all that was needed. The metallic sounding smack from lock hitting hard pavement reverberated off the alley walls. He checked to see if anyone would come to investigate. He waited two beats, but no one came. He holstered the bolt cutters, pulled the lock's shackle out of the hasp's staple and just tossed it over his shoulder. It banged off the marble wall behind him and clinked as it danced on parts of the ground not covered by trash or debris. I don't think anyone's ever going to come walking by, he thought. Maybe I should stop worrying about that. He attempted to pull the hasp away from the door, but, as expected, there was some resistance from ancient rusted hardware. He was only able to move it a quarter of the way before it became stuck. He grabbed his rubber mallet without hesitation or checking the street for witnesses and started pounding on the hasp.

After fourteen hits it finally started moving. Three more and it started bending slightly, but moved a little more. After the final two, it banged free against the brick wall.

He was sweating and out of breath. His hood had fallen away from his head while he was hammering, but didn't bother fixing it. Damn, that took forever. He checked the street again, but only out of curiosity. I can't believe no one's come by to find out what's happening. He wiped some sweat from his forehead with a sleeve and returned the mallet to its loop on his belt. He shoved the lock out of the way with the toe of his shoe and gave the door's handle a hard yank.

It didn't budge. The door remained shut.

What the hell? Now what? He tried using both hands and yanked again. The top corner popped free, twisting against the stubborn bottom half. Shit! Am I going to have to break it in half to get it open? Come on, he cursed under his breath. Open, damn it. He pulled again and again. The top corner continued to pop open with each tug, as if the door were mocking him, laughing at his attempts, until it finally had its last laugh.

He was pulling the door so hard that when he lost his grip, he stumbled backwards, off balance, tripping on his own feet, his arms flailing. His back hit the marble wall at an angle and the slick surface sent him flying to the ground. His left hip took the full impact and his shoulder took the rest. Fuck! He heard a noise and listened. It was a rolling sound. He looked to where it was coming from and saw his flashlight rolling toward the street. Shit. He quickly got to his feet and ran for it, grabbing it just before it rolled out of the alley. He switched it on, checking to see if it still worked. Bright as ever. Then he turned and was surprised to find the door open. It swayed and silently drifted on its hinges as if there'd been nothing wrong.

Kristyan rolled his eyes and shook his head. Unbelievable. He grabbed his backpack, zipped it shut and slipped it onto his back. All that remained inside it now were his personal first aid kit, a bottle of water and a packet of Oreos. He pointed his flashlight at the dark, rectangular void.

Tiny streamers from ancient cobwebs floated out to him along the doorway on a phantom breeze. Beyond the threshold was a wooden landing, crudely constructed, a dirty gray silver color and covered with a thin layer dust and dirt. Off to his right were steps going down. The third one was broken, but its remains were held in place by a board running up the middle underneath it. There were five steps in all and they ended at a dirt floor.

He cautiously tested the landing with his right foot. It creaked and groaned, but seemed sound and sturdy. Then he brought his other foot over. The boards bowed slightly, but held his weight. He took the papers out of his back pocket, shook them open with one hand and read the next line of instructions while he still had the daylight at his back.

After telling him to stand at the tunnel entrance, it said, Take ten paces into the tunnel. From where he stood, he could see where it was taking him. He pointed his flashlight at it and could hardly believe what he was seeing. It seemed to him as though his flashlight had become magical and made anything written on paper appear before him. He was awestruck. Holy shit, he said. It really is a tunnel. Shit! It's real! He shook the papers in his hand as he held them high and yelled a triumphant, Yes!

Beyond the last step, just three feet away, was a dusty, but somewhat well preserved, five-foot high by five-foot wide, square tunnel entrance. It was supported by beams measuring one foot by two feet thick. There was one on each side with another across the top. It was not a basement.

Kristyan ran down the steps like a child who'd woken early on Christmas day. He couldn't help laughing as he trampled down the stairs. He kicked up a cloud of dust when he hit the ground and stood before the tunnel entrance with a wide grin on his face. Having a better vantage point, he checked out the tunnel's interior with his flashlight.

Dust was slowly sifting through the ceiling from the vacant building above into the tiny room that served as the tunnel's vestibule, filling the air with so many dust motes it was almost it hard to see. Just inside the tunnel, against the left wall, was a small wooden bed frame that collapsed sometime in the past. Its rotting remains rested on top of another frame below. On the right were four more with the same dimensions as the other two across from them. There were two above and two below, each one butted against its paired partner. Like the beds on the other side, they had supports underneath them running diagonally to the wall. But unlike the one laying broken on top of the other, they were better constructed and were still in place.

He double checked what the letter said, … ten paces. But before he could take one, the floor suddenly flickered and dimmed. No! He thought it was his flashlight. He hit it and gave it a quick shake, but its bright steady beam was still glowing. Then he remembered daylight had been coming in from above through the open door. He looked up.

Standing in the doorway was someone's dark silhouette. Whoever it was had an average build, but that was all Kristyan could see. He couldn't tell anything else. He pointed his flashlight at the intruder, but it was useless. The contrast between the pitch black darkness and the bright morning daylight was too great. Who are you? he called out. What do want?

The silhouette gave no reaction.

I said, what do want? Kristyan repeated.

Whoever it was finally responded suddenly by shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Then a long slender thing with a hooked prong at the end of it started to slowly slip down between the fingers of their left hand. A crowbar!

Kristyan started to worry. This was one scenario he had not prepared for. He didn't know what to do. He had to remain where he was to get the steps right. No! Wait! That's not right! I don't have to stand here! His thoughts were starting running into each other. He was getting confused. Wait a minute!

The silhouette with a crowbar in its hand was coming down the steps.

Now wait! Damn it, wait a minute! He yelled, holding up both hands, still holding his flashlight and the papers. Then it was clear to him. This is what this is about.

But before Kristyan could say or think another thing, the intruder swung. He hit Kristyan with a swift single blow, imbedding the crowbar directly into the crown of his head. His body went limp and dropped to the ground. Blood poured and sprayed, soaking the dirt floor beneath him.

Kristyan … was dead.

His assailant jerked the crowbar from Kristyan's head and dropped it on the ground beside the body. Then he got down on one knee, picked up the papers, brushed away some dirt that had fallen onto them and started read the instructions.

Chapter One

My Confession

I killed a man and it haunts me.

I guess I'm supposed to say more than that.

Let me think …

Maybe this would make more sense if I told you about myself first.

Well first of all. Hello. My name is Lydia. Tsk, that's dumb. Forget you heard that. (Sigh) I still have to say my name.

Okay. My name is Lydia. Lydia Lillian Pendleton-Addison. Though I should probably to go back to being Lydia Pendleton III.

I'm the third because my Great Aunt Lydia is the second and we were both named after Great, Great Grandma Lydia. In case whoever's listening to this isn't from around here, Great, Great Grandma was a famous historical figure in Oregon. She's often described as a strong woman who always held her own against the odds and was also an extraordinary influential pioneer among the great men of the Oregon Territory. Great Aunt Lydia and I like to believe some of her spirit comes with the name.

Everyone's heard of my family, The Pendletons, since before Portland Oregon even existed, back when it was just called The Clearing. Which was just a small patch of land on the river bend where the city center sits today. Our family name has always been in the city records since they first started keeping city records. There's stories suggesting we actually played a large part in most of Portland's creation and development from the start.

Local lore says my ancestors came from Philadelphia, which of course is accurate. They left relatives behind and their descendants, my relatives, still live there today. The story goes that my Great, Great Grandma's father worked for fur trading magnate John Astor not long before Mr. Astor retired and visited the tycoon's financial interest in the Northwest on more than one occasion. Having liked what he saw, he decided to move the family and, like everyone else who settled the Northwest Territories back then, they had to survive the Oregon Trail to get here. But … that's a different story.

Anyway, as you've probably guessed by now, I'm a member of a wealthy family. In other words, I come from a long line of old money with a lot of history. I did live somewhat of a privileged life through most of my childhood, up until I was nine. That was when my Mother died of leukemia. I didn't feel so privileged after that. Fortunately for my Father, there were a few aunts and uncles around to help raise me until my late teens.

I say it was fortunate because I've been told that there were times when I acted like a little brat. Ever since I heard about this, I've always thought the problem stemmed from a spoiled little notion that's been in my head ever since I can remember. Well, to put a nice spin on it as much reality will allow, the thing was that I kind of always felt that everyone in the world should be waiting on me. I never really grew out of it, and as I got older, I did my best to keep it to myself because it seemed like I was the only one in the family who felt this way.

Then when I graduated from Oregon State in the late eighties, a little young and naïve about properly meshing with society in general, I felt like testing the limits of that little notion of mine. I thought the perfect opportunity to do so would be while I was backpacking through Asia. It was something I'd been wanting to do and it coincidentally paid homage to my Mother and her surfing days. The stories she told me about her former life in San Diego stuck with me. I always thought it was so cool that she used to be a surfer.

So … after I made sure my passport was up to date, I packed my bags and flew off to Australia where I started my trip around the Pacific Rim, dragging my surfboard around with me everywhere I went. I had to skip Hawaii because knowing me I'd end up never going any further. But the problem was, some countries in that part the world were nowhere near as advanced in satellite communication as us back then and my Father lost track of me.

Yeah. Uh, here's the thing. For some reason, back when I was a teenager, my Dad thought it was a good idea to plant a locater-bug inside my portable phone. (That's what they called those huge field-army looking cell-phones back then, plus GPS didn't even exist yet. If it did, it certainly wasn't available to the public.) I was told the bug lost contact somewhere near Java. I never knew it was there. after I came back from my trip, I still didn't know. It wasn't until my first year as a licensed private investigator that I finally find out about it. I discovered it while Tom was showing me a few tricks he knew about electronic bugs.

It was funny. When I found it, I turned to him and said, What the hell is this?, thinking he was trying something, but he was just as surprised as I was. Then it all made sense. That's when put it all together and realized what had happened. Up until then, I actually believed my Dad had complete trust for his Little Lyddy Bitty. That sneaky bastard.

But … I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.

So anyway, my Father still wanted to keep track of my whereabouts, so he hired a private investigator, Thomas Franklin Addison. Ever since Tom found me he hasn't … hadn't left me.

We've been inseparable since the day we met. So of course, since I couldn't get rid of him, I had to marry him.

After around three months into our relationship he confessed that he developed an attraction to me before we met. He said he was starting to realize how he felt about me just before he caught up to me. It was at a seaside village on one of the small islands north of Singapore. I was there to relax and take a break from searching for the perfect wave. He told me the more he learned about me, where I'd been and what I'd done, the more he was impressed. He said what he liked most of all while tracking me down was listening to tales of my famous boldness and charm from the people he talked to. Apparently, they were ready to tell him anything he wanted to know, and more. He also said he was a little nervous when he finally walked into a lobby of the hotel where I was still staying and it was starting to seem to him like he was stalking me. He said it was the first time in his life that he felt a little embarrassed for knowing a lot about someone before he found them. So he thought it might be better for both of us if he was talking to me instead of just keeping an eye on me. He also thought I'd tell him to get lost if he didn't wait before acting on other things he wanted to say, or do, which I thought explained a few things.

When Tom told me what he was doing there, we both thought the reason my Dad hired him was because he was worried about me being alone halfway around the world. I guess we were half right.

So … that's how we met. That's where this all began. I still believe meeting Tom was the best damn thing that ever happened to me. The time we spent together in Southeast Asia opened my eyes. He helped me realize how misguided I'd been about a few things in the world and what it was really like. That damn selfish notion of mine finally evaporated and I starting seeing everything around me for what it truly was. That's how Little Lyddy finally grew up, became just Lydia, and started … meshing.

As the girlfriend of a private investigator I got to help out with a few of his cases from time to time. That's how we came to realize how much I had a natural talent for the job. After I got my license and officially became Tom's partner, our lives got a lot more interesting.

But … that was a long time ago.

We had over twenty-two years of happiness and made joyful memories since that day we met … But that's all over now.

When it happened … it actually felt like I was hit with something. Like some kind of deafening thunder of silence. After twenty-two years, that really, really happy part of my life came to a tragic stop.

Even though it's been fourteen months, three weeks, and two days since Tom was shot by that fucking bastard, it still hurts. It still feels like a piece of me was stolen, like it was literally ripped out of my heart.

Okay … um, this … t-this is what happ- … I'm sorry. It's still a little tough for me to talk about.

You see. Uh-h … T-Tom …

It all happened because Tom got a break in this missing person case he was working which unfortunately as per usual turned out to be a murder. This lead took him to an address in Milwaukie. (A suburb of Portland.) But, uh-h … neither of us knew how good this information was. We both thought this ... person he found was just an old friend of our missing person that nobody knew about. So Tom went to talk to him while I just had to go find out what that damn M.E. had to say about this guy's fucking autopsy!

Shit … damn it! Sorry … give me a minute here.

Apparently … when Tom started questioning this person, this shithole… this cowardlittlechickenshitsonofabitch … must have realized we were too close to catching him and caught Tom off guard. This chicken-shit never gave him a chance. He wasn't given any time to get his gun. I know because …… because later that afternoon .. when the police found Tom's car on a deserted, dead-end street … his body was in the passenger seat …… and-uh-h … there was a bullet hole in the back of his head.

They said his gun was still fastened inside his holster at the small of his back.

The forensics guys said that the car was wiped clean of any usable fingerprints and … they couldn't find any evidence of Tom being shot at this person's house.

About a month later … I finally had some satisfaction. I guess, depending on your point of view, you could also say I handed down some proper justice in the world.

The official story on file says that I shot the guy who killed Tom in self-defense. But I'm pretty certain there might be a few cops, especially the ones who Tom and I are more familiar with, who think they know better, but haven't said anything. I'm not certain if it's because there's not enough evidence to prove it, or if it's because they understand why I did it. Whenever I cross paths with any of them they always seem to have trouble making eye contact with me.

You know, I just realized I should probably explain the reason why I'm recording this.

It's because my therapist said if there's something I don't feel comfortable talking about, something that's been bothering me or making me feel the way I do, that I should either write it down or record it. She said it might be just as therapeutic.

The reason I'm mentioning this now because the next thing I'm about to say explains why I said I killed a man and it haunts me. I think it's one of the reasons why losing Tom was too difficult for me to deal with. And it definitely falls under the category of something I don't feel comfortable talking about to anyone. Least not face to face.

Okay. I can do this.

Stop stalling, Lydia.

Take deep breaths.

Okay this is what happened.

(Sigh) Of course … it wasn't self-defense. I kept a constant surveillance on this asshole. I