Turnabout Is Fatal Play: McCall / Malone Mystery, #1

By Glenn Harris

In this combination old-fashioned detective novel and modern romantic thriller, Portland (Oregon) private detectives Clint McCall and Devon Malone each have a client who wants to catch a cheating spouse—and the clients are married to each other!

That should be complication enough, but pretty soon there are dead bodies, a local crime boss, out-of-town gangsters, and nasty young punks all thrown into the mix. The punks are out to get McCall, the gangsters are threatening his daughter, and the crime boss is after everybody.

On top of all that, and much worse, the dead bodies mean that there may be a new serial killer in town.

McCall and Malone have to work together, bickering all the way, to help their clients, protect themselves and stop whoever is killing young women in downtown Portland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Harris
• Release date: Oct 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781502225023

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The man sat quietly, unobtrusively, on the park bench watching a young woman and her dog play together. He watched her with veiled intensity, feeling his own muscles twitch as she moved. The grassy field in which she and the dog moved spread out before him like an endless movie set. A good horror movie, he thought, with a little smile.

It was a ratty dog of some kind, one of those incredibly energetic and yippy canines. The woman had a stick that she was throwing. The dog would scamper after it and come running back to drop it, covered with drool, at her feet. It didn't look like a natural stick. Probably it was made especially for playing fetch.

Yes, he thought, the dumb bitch probably paid good money for a fucking plastic stick to throw for the yippy little rat.

She looked to be in her early twenties. Medium size. Short curly blond hair and pale complexion. Dressed in cut-off jeans, t-shirt and light jacket. Out enjoying her Sunday afternoon on what would probably be one of the last really warm days in the Pacific Northwest this season. It was early October, after all. She seemed to the man to have a slight limp, which made him wonder if she'd been born a cripple or had a recent injury. And whether it hurt.

He hoped it did. He could almost feel it himself.

The dog was blond, too, and really quite small—smaller than the average cat. It gave the man a pleasurable pang to watch the dog running and bouncing around, reminding him of all the dogs he'd had great fun with in his life so far. And cats. And other small animals. All very enjoyable.

But he had learned by the age of twelve that careful planning and great subtlety were required to enjoy his particular variety of pleasures. That a youngster like he had been, clever but insufficiently wise to the ways of the world, could not avoid paying a great price for going beyond simple voyeurism.

So he had had to take a very long break until he could establish his own life and what was now his very own space and thus—hopefully—recapture the pleasures of youth. Or, better yet, go beyond them.

He was grown now, after all, a man in all his glory, and the sharing of experience with animals would perhaps no longer be sufficient.

He found that his attention was much more taken by the young woman than by the dog.

CHAPTER TWO

I saw him right away because I always sit facing the door.

And, as I watched him plant himself just inside the door and fiercely survey the customers, I had a hunch that I might have to hurt him.

The Home Run Sports Bar is my home away from home nowadays, conveniently located just a half-block down Second and across the street from my office. The dining area is large, as befits a major lunch spot in downtown Portland, Oregon. The ambience is casual. The color scheme is warm golden yellow rather than fast-food orange. Booths along three walls and bar along the fourth, tables spread across the open floor space, and at least one big flat-screen high-def TV visible from every seat. All of the TVs tuned to one sports channel or another. The menu is heavy on burgers with sporty nicknames; the fries are fat but light on the grease.

The young man who'd just barged through the front door was a bit under six feet and built like a tank. Very broad chest, wide shoulders under a dirty white tee shirt; trunk-like legs and raggedy brown shorts. Close-cropped dark brown hair, round face and jug ears. None of which was a problem.

The problem was that his eyes were jittering, his face was flushed, and the tendons in his thick neck stood out as if he were already in the middle of the violence he so obviously sought.

I took a quick look around and saw no one else paying attention to him. I started to prepare myself, just in case, because that meant there was probably no one in the place but me likely to provide it for him.

Most of the booths and two-thirds of the tables were occupied, probably close to a hundred diners. Not unusual for a Monday lunch-time downtown crowd: business people, shoppers, government workers, a few tourists, almost all casually dressed—even the business and government folks. I was in a booth about halfway down one side, maybe forty feet from where our new arrival had stopped to glare around.

It took him just a few moments to focus on a table near the center of the room with three young women and a single young guy seated around it. They all wore standard Pacific Northwest office attire, slacks and open-collar shirts for the men, slacks or skirts and blouses for the women. Could have been four paralegals or maybe insurance company clerks. Whatever they were, it looked to me like our visitor had sized them up as prime picking-a-fight material. They appeared to be absorbed in some funny story and didn't notice him.

As he started toward them I could see that the bartender on the other side of the room from me had also registered trouble and picked up the phone. That was nice, but it would probably take longer than we had for the cops to get here. I slid out of the booth and went to meet my new lunch date.

I took my time because I didn't want to intercept him early and look like the one who started the trouble. Besides, there was a remote chance that he was a drugged-out friend of these young people. I seriously doubted it, not given his fierce demeanor, but I had lived long enough to know I could be wrong even when certain. He and I reached the table at the same time; I stopped just far enough from him to avoid an obvious invasion of his personal space.

The four occupants of the table fell silent after a moment and looked up at us. Well, they looked at us for a couple of seconds but then had eyes only for the other guy. I didn't look threatening. He did. Especially to the young man, whom he had fixed with a stare so hot it's a wonder it didn't blister.

Maybe drugged-out, but definitely not a friend.

No telling why our intruder picked this table. He didn't seem to know any of them. Possibly he disapproved of this slim, freckled guy being with three pretty girls. Perhaps with some justification: I wouldn't be surprised if it was three more girls than he'd ever had without paying.

Anyway, Tank Guy stood there and skewered Innocent Guy with a death stare until I spoke up. Is there a problem here?

One of the young women, a brunette wearing fashionable glasses, glanced at me. She looked perplexed, like she knew something was going awry but didn't understand exactly what or how. Who is this man? she asked in a slightly panicky voice. Do you know this man? She immediately re-focused on him without even waiting for an answer.

Meanwhile Tank Guy looked over and gave me the evil eye. He didn't appear too worried by my presence and I didn't blame him. To the extent he was able to focus and actually process, he saw an average-size man in his early fifties with slightly thinning hair—I like to think of it as slightly—wearing comfortable khaki pants and polo shirt. No big deal.

He had probably two inches and fifty pounds on me. My muscles weren't bulked up like his because martial arts training develops muscles that are long and sinewy rather than short and bulgy. He couldn't know it by looking at me, but even at my age I would be almost as strong as him and a hell of a lot faster.

He turned his attention, such as it was, back to his intended victim. He opened his mouth and something like You think you fucking wise-ass came out. It was hard to tell for sure, the words seriously slurred and the voice little more than a low rumble.

The young man's face underwent an abrupt transition from flushed to pale. What? he squeaked. He knew he was in trouble and was just as bewildered as his female companions.

I moved into Tank Guy's personal space.

Why don't we go talk about this outside? I inquired politely.

Fuck you, grandpa, he said. I think. Which pissed me off. So I'm fifty-two years old and have a little gray in my slightly thinning hair. So my daughter is twenty-four and could have a kid. She doesn't, so I'm not a grandpa. The devil-driven corner of my psyche began to hope that I was right in the first place, that I couldn't talk this asshole down.

I edged closer to him, such that he couldn't go back to ignoring my presence.

Hey! he said and tried to shove me away.

If you know how to stand solidly, it's amazing how much pressure it takes to move you. Instead of pushing me away from him, he pushed himself back from me. He frowned and looked at the meaty hand he'd just had against my chest as if it might have somehow malfunctioned.

There's no reason to make any trouble here, I told him quietly and calmly. Why not find a seat and order yourself some lunch? The burgers are great.

His move had given him back some of his space and he glared at the young man again. I want his fuckin' seat. At that point he bellied right up to the table and leaned over it, probably to grab the guy by the shirt and drag him out of the desired chair. He never quite made the grab.

I stepped in, placed my hand on the back of his head, and helped his momentum right on down into the table top.

This made a very loud thump and sent dishes, food, and drinks flying in various directions. All four occupants of the table hopped up and away with cries of surprise or distress.

It also plunged Tank Guy's nose right into a side order of ketchup.

I had hoped that he might be confused enough to stay there, this being a totally unexpected predicament after all. No such luck. He pushed himself upright with a roar, turned and swung a haymaker at my head. The move was so amateurish and slow that I didn't even bother to duck before I hit him.

People casually mention the solar plexus all the time, but very few know exactly where it's located or exactly what happens if you hit it solidly and hard. The person who's hit is unable to move or even breathe for up to a minute. I've been hit that way in the solar plexus, both with fists and feet, and it is a scary experience.

The haymaker got to my head but had no strength behind it and barely brushed my cheek. Otherwise my momentary opponent was simply standing in front of me, eyes wide and face smeared with ketchup, swaying and making that really horrible noise you make when you're trying to take a breath and can't. Probably just as well since he would have been inhaling tomato-flavored food product.

He fell to his knees as the first cop entered the restaurant.

CHAPTER THREE

That was the damnedest thing I ever saw!

My one-thirty appointment was perched on the front of his chair, face flushed with excitement.

Glad I could provide you some lunch-time entertainment, I responded.

The first thing Martin Snyder had said when he entered my office, even before hello, was that he'd been in the Home Run and witnessed my brief encounter. I did in fact recognize him; he'd been sitting with an attractive blond woman in a booth near the bar. Of course I didn't know then that he'd turn out to be my one-thirty appointment.

That punk must have been twice your size and half your age, Mr. McCall, and you put him right down. I couldn't believe it!

Just a matter of knowing how and where to hit somebody.

He sat even further forward; I expected him to slide off onto the floor any second. He was an average-size fellow, early forties I guessed, who wore a brown medium-price suit, white shirt with a button-down collar and conservative dark red tie. Face a little narrow, hair a little short, and eyes a little bright for this time of day. I had a hunch it wasn't Pepsi he'd been drinking with his hamburger.

So, he said, are you like Chuck Norris or somebody?

More like somebody. Chuck's a fourth degree black belt and so am I, but he's sixty-eight years old.

That set him back. Jeez. He's that old? He doesn't look that old.

I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear that. I looked at my watch, a not-so-subtle hint that maybe it was time to get down to business.

But you've got a black belt. I knew it.

So much for not-so-subtle hints. Yes. In taekwondo. What can I do for you, Mr. Snyder?

Oh. Oh, right. He paused as if to gather his thoughts. I think my wife is cheating on me.

The blond lady you were with at lunch?

His eyebrows went up. You saw us? You remember us from all that crowd in the middle of your fight?

I noticed you, yes. And it wasn't a fight. It's not a fight if the other guy never hits you.

Okay. Another pause. Anyway, that was her. My wife Beverly. And that's why I'm here.

You want me to find out whether she's cheating or not.

Fidelity is extremely important in a marriage, don't you think? He looked like it was more than a rhetorical question.

Doesn't hurt. What was I supposed to say? No?

I need to know that Bev is faithful.

Or not, I said.

Not?

You have to consider the possibility that I would find out she's cheating. I used the conditional tense because I still hadn't decided if Martin Snyder was somebody I wanted as a client.

Oh. Oh, that wouldn't be good.

It never is. But it does happen.

Yes. I suppose it does. He seemed to give that a moment's thought. Will you take my case? Is that how you say it, ‘take my case'?

I didn't even bother with that one. Your wife's name is Beverly?

Yes, Beverly Snyder. We don't approve of women who keep their maiden names.

We. I'll bet.

He reached into his jacket pocket. Here's a picture of her. He handed across a 5 x 7 glossy print. Headshot of a thin-faced blonde with heavy make-up around close-set eyes, very pale complexion, and pillowed lips curved in a slight smile. Her hair was shoulder-length and looked like it might be stiff with hairspray. She appeared to be maybe ten years younger than her husband. It was indeed the woman he'd been having lunch with.

Why do you think she might be cheating?

She spends too much time with her accounts.

Accounts?

He settled back in his chair finally. I own Premiere Stationers. You've heard of it?

Afraid not.

He looked mildly insulted. We provide high-quality paper and other fine office supplies to many of the better businesses here in downtown Portland—and throughout the Northwest.

Okay. I guessed that Clint McCall Private Investigations was not one of the better businesses.

Beverly is vice president and the senior account executive. She handles our largest and most prominent customers.

He stopped there. We looked at each other across my desktop. You're worried because she spends time with these people? I inquired finally. Isn't that her job?

He shifted uncomfortably. I just know something is going on.

She's behaving differently? Her schedule has changed?

He sat forward again. "Yes. That's it exactly. Both those things. I can't describe it very well, but she's just not there the way she used to be."

Which happens in most marriages. I mulled it over while he sat with a mildly miserable expression on his face. None of my current cases were time-intensive. No stake-outs or surveillance required. I could fit Martin Snyder in. On the other hand, I didn't like the fact that he'd had lunch with his wife right across the street from my office just an hour before he planned to hire me to follow her around. That sounded like he was playing with her. It sounded like he wanted to catch her cheating.

But...so what? He had a right to know. And his money was good even if he was an asshole.

I took out one of my client forms and passed it across the desk to him. You understand that this will probably involve a lot of surveillance time. My hourly fee is on the form there. Any expenses are in addition. I'll want two days upfront. Since you do appear to be an asshole.

He read over the form and took out a pen, then a checkbook. Just find out what she's doing, he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

I finished creating Martin Snyder's file after he left, which nowadays of course meant computer file rather than physical folder—though there was one of the latter, as well, for his filled-out form and any relevant pieces of paper that might show up during the investigation.

I then sorted through my mail, setting aside the bills to be paid by Eleanor Ivory Accountancy. Eleanor was a long-time friend and fellow black belt whose office was conveniently located right down the hall. She was also the sexiest newly-turned-40 woman of my acquaintance.

Our two offices, along with three others—a small telephone survey operation, the legal firm of Bitterly and Barclay, and the Witkowsky Insurance Agency—were located above the Previously Owned Books Store at the corner of Third and Stark.

Eleanor served as my bookkeeper as well as accountant, not to mention lending her considerable computer skills upon occasion. Sam Bitterly was my attorney. Ray Witkowsky was my insurance agent. If only I had had the need to do an occasional telephone survey, I could have claimed the entire floor as part of my operation.

Our two-story building was a remnant of the old Portland downtown but was kept in good shape by the bookstore owners who were our landlords. Across Third was the parking lot where I had my own space, the Home Run where I often ate, and various offices of which I knew nothing. Across Stark was a former parking lot full of food booths offering everything from Greek gyros through Korean barbecue to Alaskan reindeer sausage. And, no, I'd never had the nerve to try the latter.

Running west down my block of Third was, in order, a nice little combo grocery and deli, then a not-so-nice strip joint (hadn't tried that, either), a big jewelry store with more bars on the windows and doors than your average prison, and finally a store selling men's clothing and camping equipment.

My office was the first at the top of the stairway that opened onto Stark, a single 500-square-foot space that provided plenty of room for my big old desk and fairly new PC stand, a couple of visitor chairs, couch for naps, small fridge, utility table with coffeemaker and associated supplies, file cabinets with an old police scanner sitting on top of the nearest one, and an antique hall tree where I would typically hang my jacket or coat. Worn coffee-colored rug on the floor and nothing on the off-white walls but my master's degree in journalism and my framed detective's license. A big double window looked over Stark Street and downtown traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. The three-story office building across the street took up most of its block, giving me ample opportunities for watching other people sitting at their desks if I so chose.

My watch said 2:45. Sometime this afternoon I would have to go over to the Justice Center and give my statement about the contretemps at the Home Run earlier.

I'd been fortunate in that I knew both the cops who showed up and they accepted my word that I'd be in later to finish the paperwork. I didn't want to miss my one-thirty appointment, after all. The one that unbeknownst to me was watching from across the restaurant even as I explained to the cops.

On the other hand the cops refused to take the word of Carl Gunther—the proper name of Tank Guy—that he'd only stopped by the table to say hello and never intended to make any trouble. His problem was that the bartender, all four of the table's occupants, and a variety of other diners all supported my contention that he definitely appeared to be out to make trouble and I was defending myself.

Carl would be a guest of the city for at least a little while. If the booking for public disturbance didn't hold up, the booking for drug intoxication would.

Meanwhile, I'd begin my surveillance of Beverly Snyder tomorrow morning. There were two more reports to write before I headed over to the Justice Center and this evening I had plans to dine with my daughter Colleen and her new boyfriend whom I would meet for the first time. I could only hope he'd be an improvement over the zoned-out drummer she'd brought to dinner last time.

My daughter may be twenty-four and more than four years sober, but you never stop being a dad.

CHAPTER FIVE

So you two met while doing a play?

No, Dad, Colleen corrected me, "while doing a scene. In drama class."

It was a love scene, the young man across the table from me announced smugly. He was an improvement on the zoned-out drummer, but not by much.

He flipped longish shiny black hair back from his handsome face with its high cheekbones and sharply-defined planes and leered theatrically at my daughter. Colleen is quite good.

Oh, give me a break, I didn't say.

Yes, I did say, I've seen her act.

He caught my incredulity anyway and gave me a hooded look. Indeed, he said just as dryly.

Indeed? A kid in his early twenties giving me indeed like we were in a British drawing-room farce? Oh, for the drummer to return.

You should see William act, said Colleen.

I am. I can imagine.

Colleen sat to my left, on the front half of her chair as always; all five-two of her slim body radiated intensity as always on this Monday evening. Her granny glasses glinted even in the muted light of the River City Grill and her long blond hair swayed as she looked from one of us to the other.

The River City Grill is downtown on Fifth, just a four-block walk from my office, and is well-suited to intimate dining with small round tables that theoretically seat four on well-padded stools and along one side, next to the windows, booths that could seat six at a squeeze. Lots of natural, highly-polished wood and fresh flowers. Lots of red, for some reason. We were among the few dining this early.

He's really extraordinary, Colleen continued. She grinned as if she'd been the mentor responsible. William smiled as if her assessment might actually fall a little short.

His name was every bit as pretentious as his manner: William Van Damme. A fellow drama student of Colleen's at Portland State University, my own alma mater. About my height, a little under six feet, with that shaggy cap of black hair, a rangy body, expressive hands, and a face made for headshots. And apparently ready to spend some substantial cash to impress Dad. The River City Grill, despite its name, is not inexpensive and he'd already announced that this was his treat.

Any relation to Jean-Claude Van Damme? I asked, hoping it wouldn't be lost on him that Jean-Claude was an unusually short fellow who typically starred—acted would be a gross overstatement—in B martial arts movies.

I have no idea who that is, he responded with a slight frown.

Maybe a good actor, but not a good liar.

Just wondered, I said. It's a fairly unusual name.

Not in my family.

This stew is really very good, interjected Colleen. Are your meals good too?

Certainly, William agreed.

I looked down at my steak and potatoes. Not much you can do to hurt steak and potatoes. Sure, I said. It's very good.

You're a private detective? William was at least making an effort to ease the tension. His tone even managed to avoid disdain—by a hair.

Yes.

And you used to teach at Portland State?

"I was on the faculty of the Department of Communications. Before that I was an investigative reporter for The Oregonian."

From college professor to private eye. That must have been quite a transition.

Yes and no. Academicians and private investigators both seek the truth in their own ways.

Ah, he said, apparently not certain what to do with that. We enjoyed our meals in silence for a while. He and Colleen exchanged frequent smiles and flirtatious glances. Which eventually began to get on my nerves.

So, where are you from originally? I asked William

He stopped eating. Stopped chewing, in fact. Put down his fork and sat back. I grew up in Albuquerque. My father was a pharmacist and my mother a housewife.

Albuquerque's a nice area, I said.

Yes. He sat forward and went back to his meal.

Definitely not a good liar. I decided to do a little background check on William Van Damme.

CHAPTER SIX

It was the morning of the second day and so far I might as well have been hired by Martin Snyder to do surveillance on him.

He and Beverly had left home together yesterday morning, precisely at 7:30, worked in the offices of Premiere Stationers all morning, lunched together—this time at a Chinese restaurant nearby—and gone back to the office for the afternoon. They arrived home together precisely at 5:30 and remained in for the evening. I was beginning to wonder when Beverly made those sales calls that Martin had talked about.

Now on this second morning my dark gray Subaru Outback was parked about a half-block down from their sprawling ranch-style residence on the opposite side of the street, just as it had been yesterday. An Outback is the perfect surveillance vehicle for the Pacific Northwest. At least fifty percent of the other vehicles on the road are of the same general appearance, yet it's a little smaller and more maneuverable than the average SUV. You don't exactly stand out.

The Snyders exited their front door precisely at 7:30 again. I had already begun to think that I might add boredom pay to my fee.

At least the weather was still good. September in the Pacific Northwest is often the hottest month of the summer and temperatures had only begun to cool significantly now that we were into the first week of October. We had also begun to get rain again, though not yesterday or today. People in the rest of the U.S. think of the Northwest as perpetually rainy when the truth is that perpetually cloudy would be more accurate—pretty much from late fall to early spring. During the