Decease and Desist: McCall / Malone Mystery, #2

By Glenn Harris

Clint McCall and rival PI Devon Malone are together again, this time on a case that grows from the embarrassing but minor theft of a friend’s key ring to a series of killings and kidnappings that could include one or both of them before they’re done.

If that’s not enough, life throws in a landlord who thinks his mother-in-law may be trying to kill him, an old enemy coming back around to ask for help, and Clint's daughter worried about a possible stalker.

Will McCall and Malone be able to sort it all out and uncover the twisted fantasies of a powerful madman in time to prevent more deaths, including their own?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Harris
• Release date: Sep 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781502272256

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It had been an exhausting day. Students with questions. Students with problems. Students who just wanted to suck up for a better grade. He hated them all.

Tom Bintliff hated teaching, which was unfortunate since he was an assistant professor on the downtown campus of Portland State University.

He particularly hated Mondays because on that day he had both a senior seminar entitled Crime as a Social Fact packed with intense, ambitious, demanding participants and an introductory sociology course that most of the lazy-ass attendees enjoyed no more than he did.

This was a Monday, but at least he was home now and could enjoy the evening—with the bonus that tomorrow was a day free of teaching and office hours, so he could keep his office door closed and focus on research. The Internet was something he loved, an entire world of people with their wild variety of interests and opinions and dreams—all documented and accessible with no requirement that he deal with any of them face to face. Heaven.

He took another sip of Scotch and savored his collection, which took up an entire room of its own in his sprawling ranch-style home. Another, even more blissful paradise.

Tom smiled to himself as he gently brushed a hand over the vinyl albums. Every record ever recorded by The King. He chuckled aloud. How many of his students would dream that Professor Bintliff was a devout fan of Elvis Presley? The chuckle died away and even the smile faded. How many of the little shits even knew who Elvis was? How great his influence was—even to this day—in the music they listened to?

Ah well. He took another, stiffer drink as he inspected some of the displays. Movie posters, books, clothing, a cigarette lighter, numerous other items, each with its own frame or case, properly labeled and fully documented.... He would have to dust in here again soon.

He turned away toward the kitchen, realizing that his stomach was rumbling. Time for some food to soak up a little of the booze. It was good to be home, with Elvis. It would be good to have quiet time in the office, with his research into cyberspace communities. He knew he wouldn't survive without these refuges.

He was a half-step inside his spacious, modern kitchen and reaching for the light switch before it registered that he'd heard something besides his stomach rumbling. A chair squeaking on the floor as if something had bumped into it? That was exactly what it sounded like. Couldn't be. He had no pets. He hated pets. He switched on the light and froze with his foot raised to take another step.

It wasn't something that had bumped into a chair. It was somebody. Two men stood on the other side of his highly polished oak kitchen table. Beyond them he could see his back door, a door that he was certain had been locked, standing ajar.

Tom wanted to say something, to challenge these men, at least ask them what the hell they were doing in his kitchen, but his vocal cords seemed to be as paralyzed as the rest of his body. He had never felt terror like he was feeling at this moment.

It didn't help that the men were both huge and fierce-looking in uniformly dark clothing with watch caps pulled low on their foreheads. Both maybe mid-thirties, the one on the left sported a flattened nose and a chin covered by blond stubble; the one on the right a vicious scar on his cheek setting off sharp, Slavic features.

They were staring at Tom Bintliff the way wolves might stare at a cornered rabbit.

As adrenaline flooded Tom's system and he dropped his forward foot to the floor, time literally slowed down and his senses sharpened. He could clearly see that neither man was carrying a weapon; they each stood with arms hanging at their sides, hands empty. They were on the other side of his very substantial kitchen table. He could get away.

He spun around, every molecule of his body already pointing toward the front door on the other end of the house—and took one big, urgent step into the extended fist of the man who'd come up behind him. This man was smaller and darker than the other two, a definite Middle Eastern aura about him, his eyes wide with what looked like both anger and surprise.

Tom grunted, surprised that the man had punched him so hard in the stomach with so little distance between them. He looked down at the man's still-extended arm and realized that it wasn't a fist against his stomach; it was a hand grasping a handle. It looked like a knife handle, but Tom couldn't be sure because there was no knife blade in sight.

Nothing about this was right. This was his home, his kitchen, his Monday evening with tomorrow free.... He couldn't have three thugs in his house and a knife in his gut! It had to be some kind of nightmare. It couldn't be....

He lost the thought as his legs went away and his body began to sink to the floor. The dark little man didn't even move, except to lower his arm slightly so that the knife blade would pull out smoothly. It felt to Tom as if his insides went with it and his vision began to dim as he vaguely felt the floor impact the back of his head.

He could still hear, for a little while, as he lay there and found himself cataloguing the three different accents of the men as they finally spoke.

Fuck. Sorry. Didn't mean to do that. Definitely Middle Eastern.

So what do we do now? It was supposed to look like an accident. German.

After a long pause: Tear the fucking place up and then burn it down. Make it look like—what do the Americans call it?—a home invasion. Yeah, that's it. A fucking home invasion. Russian.

Tom Bintliff wanted to think about why his home had been invaded by the goddamned United Nations, but he couldn't focus. His brain was slowing down, his thoughts becoming lost in the same darkness as his vision. His hearing, too, faded as he began to hear crashes from what might have been the other room.

His last thought was for his collection.

CHAPTER TWO

What were you thinking? I asked Portland State professor Arnold Kaufman.

"An attractive young woman had her hand down my pants. Would it surprise you to learn I wasn't thinking?" He shifted uncomfortably in my office visitor's chair, as if imagining once more the touch of that hand.

Arnie Kaufman fit the stereotype of his profession nicely: angular body, bespectacled serious face with thin features and receding hairline. He was dressed in classic campus casual, khaki pants and corduroy sport coat with an open-necked plaid shirt. He didn’t look that different from me, actually. I’m a little stockier, in much better shape, but we were of an age and hairline. He'd answered my question with some asperity, but the attempt to distance himself with sarcasm hadn't worked; his neck and cheeks were already turning pink.

I'd been Arnie's colleague for nine years back when I was also on the faculty of Portland State's Department of Communications; I'd heard the defensive sarcasm many times before, but was sure I'd never seen him blush.

So you gave her the money for the motel room and let her just walk away, around the corner, out of sight—and you expected her to come back with a room key?

His face reddened even more and his shoulders moved in a small defiant shrug. It could have happened.

This building could be struck by a meteor in the next sixty seconds. About the same odds.

He slumped. Okay, okay, I'm an idiot. God, he said to the desktop, I can't tell you how embarrassing this is. He looked up. But I need your help.

Arnie, I might be able to find the woman but I'm sure it would cost you a lot more than you gave her for a motel room. Why don't you just chalk it up to youthful indiscretion?

He smiled lopsidedly. I wish.

I grinned back. That you could chalk it up or that we could be youthful again?

I was keeping it light, but I had to admit that I hated to see how much older my old friend looked—and hated even more that he was probably thinking the same thing about me. I hadn't seen Arnie Kaufman since I left the university to start my own detective agency, more than a decade ago. He'd had more hair and I was carrying less weight back then, when we were in our mid-forties.

His smile collapsed into a grimace. I wish both. He leaned forward. Clint, she didn't just take the money. She lifted my key ring as well. My house. Buildings on campus, my office....

Your key ring? She got that far into your pocket while she was in your pants and you didn't notice?

The keys weren't in my pocket. They were on a thing clipped to my belt. Too many of them to be comfortable in my pocket.

Bummer. I'm sure it's inconvenient that she took them, but she can't guess what they're for.

He practically threw himself back into the chair, then slumped even lower than before. She doesn't need to. They're all labeled. Very clearly and neatly.

You labeled your keys?

There were a lot of them, like I said. I couldn't remember which was which without the labels.

Well, still, even if a key says house or office, she can't....

She can. He shook his head woefully. I put a very specific address and other details on each key.

What do you mean? Your street address? The campus building location? Office number? That kind of thing?

Yes.

Good grief. How did you get all that on a key?

Very small lettering. I have mild OCD; I can't help it. He was getting red and shifty again. There are people who can write the Declaration of Independence on the head of a pin, you know.

And here I had no idea you were one of them. I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. Aside from that, I'm still missing something. Why do you need a private detective? People lose their keys all the time. If you're worried, change the locks at home and tell campus security.

I can't. I don't want to.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at him inquiringly, waiting for him to make some sense.

After a moment, he swallowed hard and went on. I had an unusual number of keys on the ring because I'm a member of...God, this is even more embarrassing...of the campus security committee. The university services building, the campus security building, a number of individual offices.... If they replaced all those locks, they'd have to re-issue literally thousands of keys. And they'd want to investigate how my keys went missing. He swallowed again. It would not look good.

That's the truth, I thought to myself.

Okay, I said out loud, I'll look into it. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a form which I handed over to him. My hourly fee is on this form; that's plus expenses. I get two days in advance. You can specify a monetary cap if you want to; if the investigation is still going on at that point, I simply stop."

He winced and let out a groan. How long do you think it will take?

Finding a particular prostitute who was working Burnside late yesterday afternoon and left one of her johns parked outside the Portland Arms Motel? Tell me: What did she look like?

Uh, she was young, early twenties probably. Slim, not very tall. Short dark hair. Kind of attractive.

White?

Yes.

That's it?

I...yes.

No other details at all? Clothes, jewelry, distinguishing marks?

She was wearing jeans and some kind of top. I really didn't look at her too closely.

I think the investigation might take a while. I handed him a pen. Like I say, you can specify a maximum amount of money you're willing to spend.

It was more like a moan this time, but he waved off my suggestion. No, no maximum. I need to get those keys back.

All right. I started to fill out the contract.

Arnie settled back in his chair and, after watching me for a minute, began looking curiously around the office. It wasn't much to see, consisting as it did of a single big room dominated by a large wooden desk in front of a pair of slightly dirty windows. A second visitors chair next to his. A couple of beige metal file cabinets along one wall with a police scanner muttering softly on top of the nearest one. A small, slightly tattered couch opposite the file cabinets. On a corner table nearest the door, next to the small refrigerator, was a coffee maker and a tiny microwave I'd just added on impulse. No plants and no decorations on the wall except my license from the Oregon Board of Investigators and my degree in journalism, both in black plastic frames from Wal-Mart.

Finally he gave me a quizzical look: "You were nominated for a Pulitzer, weren't you, back when you worked for The Oregonian? A series you did on government corruption?"

That's right, I said as I finished my part of the document and slid it across to him. I didn't win but that's why I got offered the teaching position.

He had his hand on the contract but hadn't picked it up yet. You were a good teacher, Clint.

Thanks.

With his free hand, he indicated the office around us. Then why.... He left the question hanging.

It was a question that most of my old acquaintances from campus got around to asking. I missed being out on the street, doing that investigative work, I said. I started assisting a couple of local detectives in my spare time and it turned into a formal apprenticeship. By the time they retired, I had my own license and I decided to try it full-time. That was twelve years ago. I spread my hands to take in our surroundings. And I'm still at it.

Well, I'm glad, he said in a slightly dubious tone. It was much easier to bring this to someone I know.

He filled out his part of the contract, gave me a check for my retainer, and awkwardly took his leave after I promised to keep him informed of my progress.

CHAPTER THREE

Arnie Kaufman left me in a momentarily nostalgic mood. I swiveled my desk chair around so I could look down at the late Wednesday afternoon traffic on Stark Street. The vehicles were all windows up and the pedestrians all bundled up. The day so far had been typically grim for late October in the Pacific Northwest, but at least it hadn't rained. Yet.

My office is at the corner of Third and Stark, on the top floor of an old two-story commercial building on the northeast edge of downtown Portland, Oregon. Downstairs is Previously Owned Books, a locally popular used book store. The single stairwell, dimly lit with fading and chipped white paint over plaster, leads from Stark up to the second floor where the Clint McCall Detective Agency (which is me) is the first door on your right. Across from me is my attorney Sam Bitterly. Down the hall on the right is my insurance broker Raymond Witkowsky with my accountant Eleanor Ivory across from him. A small telephone survey operation has the final two offices across from each other. Restrooms at the end of the hall. It was a pretty damned convenient location, though I'd yet to need a telephone survey.

It wasn't where I'd expected to end up when I set out to be a world-famous reporter, but I had few regrets. Locally infamous PI wasn't a bad alternative, all things considered.

My nostalgia fled as I idly watched one particular pedestrian stride along the opposite sidewalk. She was slender, clad in leather jacket, jeans and boots. Shoulder-length brunette hair swung as she walked. It wasn't Devon Malone but it brought me firmly back to the here and now.

So...shit. Was I going to see the woman everywhere I looked now? It could be a problem.

I'd just finished working a case with Devon, the second time we'd worked together. This one started with each of us being hired by one-half of the same married couple to catch the other half being unfaithful—and ended with her nearly being tortured to death by a serial killer.

I killed the killer, rescued the girl, and she'd hardly spoken to me since. The last time I'd seen her was in the hospital when she was still recovering from her ordeal. That was three days ago, on Sunday. I called her at home yesterday, after she was released, but all she'd say was that she had already begun to feel better and expected to be back in her office by Friday. She thanked me again for saving her life, a somewhat formal thank you if I do say so myself, and then hung up.

Devon Malone was a former street cop and missing persons detective who'd recently set up her own private agency here in Portland. Her departure from the Portland Police was, unfortunately, associated with the first time we'd worked together. Which might have something to do with why she didn't treat me with great affection.

Or it might not. All in all, she was just about the strangest woman I'd ever tried to get to know.

And sitting here staring out my window thinking about her wasn't the most productive use of my time. Her doppelganger had long since disappeared down the sidewalk and I had a couple of short reports to draft before the end of the day. I'd already picked up—and resolved—several minor cases since the serial killer. Coincidentally enough, they included one cheating husband and one cheating wife—but not married to each other this time.

I glanced at my watch. A few minutes after three. Usually I could be confident that Arnie would be my last client of the day, but my name was still being featured in follow up stories on the recent escapades and that always meant an influx of people knocking on my door. Sometimes they even turned out to be legitimate clients rather than curiosity-seekers.

I'd finished both reports and had them ready to drop in the mail by four-fifteen. No one, in fact, had appeared at my door and there'd been only one call: a curiosity-seeker who wanted to know what Devon Malone looked like when I found her. It was a very short conversation. My end of it consisted of two words and they weren't good bye.

CHAPTER FOUR

I heard the sirens as I was turning off my computer monitor for the day at four-thirty. You hear sirens frequently in downtown Portland, but this was lots of sirens—sounding close and getting closer.

I thought about turning on my scanner to check what was happening but then swiveled around and looked out the window just in time to see a paramedic van pulling up on Stark next to my building, along with several police cars. I could also see the front end of a fire truck parked around the corner on Third, in front of the bookstore entrance. No need for the scanner, obviously.

There was no detectable smoke, but somebody nearby was in trouble. Maybe somebody I knew. I quickly retrieved my Smith and Wesson from the top right-hand desk drawer, hooked the holster to my belt, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the door. I got to the bottom of the steps in time to follow the paramedics around the corner onto Third.

All the commotion was in Previously Owned Books, owned by Gary and Gabby Lysander who also owned the entire building and were thus my landlords. I didn't know them well but Gary and Gabby appeared to be as similar as their names, both of them highly intellectual and overweight with longish brunette hair and thick, dark-framed glasses.

I didn't know about Gabby, but Gary had what seemed to me an unreasonable aversion to lowlifes and gunfire in the vicinity of his building. It had unfortunately come to his attention that I frequently attract both and he'd hinted several times that eviction was a possibility. So far I had paid little overt attention to his hints. Never let the landlord see you sweat.

The patrolman who'd stationed himself by the bookstore's entrance recognized me and, after a brief hesitation, let me pass. Probably thought it was one of my clients who needed the medical aid; they so often do, unfortunately.

The interior of Previously Owned Books looks like your grandmother's attic with bookshelves. Upon entering, you are immediately surrounded by the tall dark-stained bookcases and stacks of every kind of reading material from old magazines to out-of-date encyclopedias. The check-out counter is on your left, partially obscured by racks of dog-eared comic books. The whole place seems dimly-lit even though it's not.

Looking to the rear of the shop where the paramedics and firefighters were gathered, I could see that one of the bookcases had toppled over into an open area set aside for a few reading chairs. From the focus and intensity of the rescuers, my guess was it had landed on someone.

Gabby Lysander was standing near the counter, watching all the activity with a somewhat bemused expression. I stepped over to her. Somebody under there? I asked.

Umm, yes, I think so, she replied in a remarkably detached tone. She was stuffed into jeans and a light blue sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes unreadable behind the thick lenses.

I looked at the size of the bookcase the rescuers had now righted and the pile of books they were digging in. I hope it wasn't a kid.

No, Gabby said thoughtfully. I'm pretty sure it's Gary.

I looked at Gabby Lysander in surprise. Your husband?

Her eyes moved from the rescue operation to me, the expression on her round face neutral, still seemingly unconcerned. Yes. She went back to watching the firemen and paramedics.

By then I could hear Gary's voice coming from that general vicinity, near the floor. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but his tone was definitely querulous. I looked again at his wife, wondering if she might be in shock. Maybe you should sit down, I said to her.

She waved me off, never taking her eyes from the scene at the rear of the shop. No need. I'm fine.

I had to admit, she didn't look like she was in shock. She looked like she was watching a rather boring TV show—and thinking about changing the channel.

Okay, I said.

I didn't go any closer to the action, but it appeared to be sorting itself out. The firemen were pulling back, the paramedics were packing up, and now I could see Gary Lysander on his feet talking to a couple of patrolmen. Their discussion seemed kind of intense, I thought, for tipped-over bookshelves and no serious injuries.

The paramedics finished putting away their gear and started for the front door along with the last fireman. Gary and the two cops followed slowly, talking all the while. There was barely room for the three of them to walk together down the aisle, with Gary taking up most of the space. He was wearing dark blue dress slacks, a white dress shirt open at the collar, and a gray vest, unbuttoned by necessity it appeared to me. He was at least twice as obese as his wife.

One of the cops was saying, We got a witness outside....

Gary interrupted him. I'm telling you it was an accident! I don't care what that man says. The bookcase just fell over. Old bookcases do that sometimes.

The guy says he was in here and saw....

It's my store, my bookcase, and I'm the one it fell on! I know what happened. It was an accident. He's wrong.

Okay, chimed in the other cop, shooting his partner a give-it-up glare. Okay, fella, whatever you say. We don't have to take on the case of the falling bookshelf if you don't want.

Gary stopped and let the two cops go on to the front door. Thank you, he said. They left without a further word.

Even as I watched all this happening, I could see in my peripheral vision that Gabby had not moved. However, after a fairly long pause while her husband stood looking at the door that had closed behind the cops, she finally spoke:

Are you all right, Gary?

He looked at her, the expression on his face a battlefield of distress with neutrality. Oh yes, he said with what was clearly a forced casualness, I'm fine. Just a bruise or two. Nothing to worry about.

I'm glad, she replied, her expression never having changed from that this-is-a-lousy-TV-show look.

Gabby finally moved out from behind the counter, but toward the rear of the store rather than to her recently book-battered husband. I'd better start re-shelving, she announced. It's quite a mess.

Yes, her husband said as he watched her pass, it is. His eyes flicked at me and then down at his shoes.

I stepped closer to him. Gary, what the hell is going on?

There was a man, he said to his shoes, an ugly, disreputable looking man. He looked up at me. He pushed the bookcase over onto me. I'm sure of it. He was very ugly. I'd never seen him before.

It took me a moment to sort that out. But you saw him push the bookcase?

I saw him come in. I saw him go down the aisle on the other side of the bookcase from me. I saw him running as the bookcase began to fall. I know he did it.

My first thought was that he assumed it was one of my disreputable clients; if so, this incident dotted another i in my ever-more-likely eviction notice.

Gary leaned closer. You have to help me, he whispered urgently.

What do you mean? I asked. How can I help?

He raised a pudgy hand to push lank hair up from his broad forehead and glanced furtively back to where Gabby was working. He nudged me over to the counter, not quite actually taking my arm. It had been my experience that the man was crestfallen at the best of times; now he seemed as prostrate metaphorically as he had just been literally.

I don't want Gabby to hear us, he said softly. I think her stepmother is trying to kill me.

What?

"Wilma—her name is Wilma Wolfowitz—thinks I've been unfaithful to Gabby. Wilma never liked me anyway. Hated me, actually. But now she wants me dead. You have to do something!"

I was momentarily distracted trying to decide whether it was more unlikely that the seriously rotund Gary Lysander could be running around on his wife or that his wife's stepmother would be named Wilma Wolfowitz. Then I decided to pursue a more immediate question first: Are you sure it isn't Gabby herself? She didn't seem too concerned about your being buried under a mountain of books.

His chin trembled. I don't know. She's not very close to Wilma. I don't know if Wilma's said anything to her. He glanced back at his wife yet again. I'm sure Gabby would have cared if I'd been really hurt. I think so. We're...we're having a rough patch in our marriage right now.

I couldn't completely suppress a quick grin. Maybe it just seems that way because you're accused of being unfaithful and your mother-in-law is trying to kill you.

This is not the time for sarcasm! he whispered fiercely. "I'm serious. What I need you to do is convince Wilma that I haven't been unfaithful. I don't want to involve the police, but this has got to stop!"

It's almost impossible to prove a negative like that, Gary.

Well, persuade her then. Something. I'll forget about the eviction. Which was my first confirmation he'd been thinking about it. "You can have your office for life, for all I care. Please, just help