The Clint McCall – Devon Malone Mysteries Omnibus Volume One

By Glenn Harris

The Clint McCall - Devon Malone Mysteries Omnibus collects the first three novels of the series:

TURNABOUT IS FATAL PLAY: 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.

DECEASE AND DESIST: 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?

ONE DEADLY GAME: Private investigators Clint McCall and Devon Malone are just getting comfortable with their new agency when McCall suddenly finds himself on the run from the police, accused of sexual assault, kidnapping, and possibly murder. A new player is in town and he’s decided McCall and Malone will make the perfect pawns in his game–a game with millions of dollars and many lives at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Harris
• Release date: Sep 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502219510

Book preview

The Clint McCall – Devon Malone Mysteries Omnibus Volume One, including the novels Turnabout is Fatal Play, Decease and Desist, and One Deadly Game is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental. Portland, Oregon, of course actually exists. Major landmarks like Pioneer Courthouse Square and the Justice Center are where they belong, as are the streets and neighborhoods, but I have moved a few buildings around, put restaurants where none exist, erased houses that do exist, and generally wreaked minor havoc with reality.

Copyright © 2012, 2013, 2014 by Glenn Harris

First Edition 20114

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

www.glennharris.us

Cover design: Cathleen Rehfeld

The Clint McCall – Devon Malone Mysteries Omnibus Volume One

Turnabout Is Fatal Play

by

Glenn Harris

DEDICATION

With many thanks to Jennie, Janelle, and Lynne

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 summer it's usually sunny and almost never rains.

The Snyders climbed into the Mercury Grand Marquis that sat in the driveway, backed out, and headed west on McCleay Boulevard toward downtown.

Then I got a little tingle that told me the boredom pay might not be necessary.

Just before I pulled out to follow, an older-model black Jeep Cherokee pulled away from the curb behind the Snyders' Mercury—as it had yesterday morning. At which point I realized that I'd seen the same vehicle several times yesterday.

I was not the only person following the Snyders.

So obviously my new top priority was to follow—and identify—the follower. I waited a few extra moments and put myself about a block-and-a-half behind the Cherokee.

This was much more interesting than sitting outside Premiere Stationers all day.

We maintained our little convoy all the way downtown. The Grand Marquee pulled into what apparently was the Snyders' regular parking garage on Sixth halfway between the Hilton Hotel and the small office building that housed Premiere Stationers. The Jeep Cherokee pulled into a parking lot a half-block beyond parking garage. With exquisite parking karma, I found a spot on the other side of the street almost exactly in front of the office building. Even this early on a work day you'd normally have to roam for half-an-hour before finding a curbside parking place in downtown Portland—if then.

I watched Martin and Beverly Snyder exit their parking garage and walk together to the building entrance. Meanwhile I noted that the Jeep Cherokee had managed to snag a spot in the parking lot that would give the driver a view of Premiere Stationers.

The Snyders were oblivious to the surveillance, of course, though Martin must have assumed I was out here somewhere. They didn't pay any attention to each other, for that matter, as they entered their building.

I looked back at the Cherokee. You don't often see Jeeps with tinted windows all around but this one had them, so I had no clue who was inside. I settled down and waited to see if someone in there might get bored and step out onto the street.

No such luck, during the first hour anyway, and that exhausted my patience. Time for a little experiment. I got out, crossed the street, and started toward the Cherokee. Whoever it was had to see me cross the street and turn in their direction. Had they had the same realization I did? Did they know I was a fellow follower? If so, they knew I was coming to visit.

Would they rabbit or stick around to chat?

The vehicle didn't move nor could I see any motion inside. As I walked onto the lot I kept my hand near the Smith and Wesson I always carry clipped to my belt. I had no particular reason to consider the third alternative—that instead of simply running or standing, they would opt to attack—but it's never a good idea to neglect it.

I stopped right next to the passenger side of Cherokee. Still no response. I walked around to the driver side and knuckle-tapped the window. After a moment it rolled down. The mutter of a police scanner emanated from inside the vehicle.

There was a single occupant, an attractive brunette who glared up at me and literally growled, What the fuck are you doing tailing my client, McCall?

CHAPTER SEVEN

I first met Devon Malone when she was Detective Sergeant Malone with the Portland PD missing persons squad. We'd worked a case together that ended up way outside the parameters of normal police procedure and she'd been given a short suspension as a result. Whereupon, for reasons she never explained to me, she resigned from the force.

All that was eight months ago. I knew she'd since set herself up as a private investigator because I'd seen her ad in the newest phone book. She'd told me she probably would do that when we briefly worked together on another case. And now here she was back in my life.

Perhaps I'd get to hear it now. At least she was speaking to me again.

Well? she growled again. I didn't know you could actually do that: talk and growl at the same time.

I managed to get my mouth closed, which then allowed me to form words. Who's your client?

Beverly Snyder. You go around following people without even knowing their names?

You're working for Mrs. Snyder? I knew I sounded a little dense but I couldn't seem to help it.

I'll ask again. Why the fuck are you following her?

Meanwhile my synapses finally started to fire again. Why do you assume I'm following her instead of her husband?

Because I'm following her husband and I doubt she'd hire you to do the same thing.

She didn't. Her husband hired me.

To follow Beverly?

Yep.

You're kidding. When?

Monday. When did Beverly hire you?

The Friday before that.

Interesting.

That seemed to be everything I could think of to say on the subject. I was both mystified by the client situation and—suddenly—mortified by the current situation. Devon Malone sat there looking up at me while I was paralyzed by the need to say too much. She, on the other hand, apparently felt no need to say a word. She just sat there with a carefully neutral expression on her face. It was a very nice face, framed by the shiny brunette hair that was almost but not quite curly.

Beginning to get a little desperate, I forced some words past my lips. So...how are you?

She actually laughed, though there was little humor in the sound of it. Actually I'm pretty busy right now, she said. On a surveillance job.

Oops. Me too. I glanced over toward the Snyders' building. Wouldn't I look like an idiot if one of them came out right now and saw me standing in the middle of the street? And didn't I feel like an idiot standing here trying to make conversation anyway?

I guess we should get back to it, I said. I started to step away from the Jeep, then paused. Good to see you.

Her mouth twisted in a slight grimace. Yeah, it's going to be great fucking fun stepping on each other's toes for the next little while.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I watched Eleanor Ivory duck under a spinning heel kick, her long blond hair flying, and lunge forward with a straight punch to Roger Arbuckle's stomach. At least that's where I'm sure she intended to land the punch; he blocked it easily and tapped her right temple with a crescent strike before dancing out of reach.

Well, maybe it was a bit more than a tap. She staggered sideways a couple of steps as he danced.

I ordered an end to this round of sparring to give her a chance to recover. It was about time to call it an evening, anyway.

All seven of us were in the dojang at the moment. (Dojo is the more familiar term to Americans, but that's Japanese and taekwondo is a Korean martial art. Thus dojang.)

We'd pooled our resources to rent this space after the teacher of our original dojang had decided to retire. We were his six most advanced black belts, plus Eleanor, and we decided to continue training together rather than take over all his classes. Our dojang is one large room with attached office that comprises the second floor of an old warehouse at the corner of Second and Pine. We'd sanded and polished the wood floor, hung some heavy canvas bags along one side, brought the plumbing in the single bathroom up to code, and installed lockers in the office space to create a dressing room.

Portland Homicide Detective Mike Whitehall and I were fourth-degree black belts. Daisy Mansfield, Carmen Gonzales, Roger Arbuckle, and Bobby Brewster were third degree black belts. By my special request, second-degree black belt Eleanor Ivory had been included in our group; I'd been her teacher even before she became my accountant and resident hacker and she was very skilled for her belt level.

We didn't advertise, we didn't take students, we didn't even have a name for the dojang. The space was strictly for our own training and workouts.

So far there had never been an evening without at least two of us in attendance and usually there were four or more. Whoever was senior each evening led the workout. Which would be me if I was there because I'd been promoted to fourth degree six months ahead of Mike.

With a group like this it wasn't so much a matter of teaching as simply establishing the routine for the evening.

Eleanor shifted over to spar Carmen Gonzales next. Carmen is a petite but compactly muscled 38-year-old veterinarian in contrast to the bulky 53-year-old retired Army Colonel Roger Arbuckle. Except for their experience level, Eleanor and exotic, dark-haired Carmen were evenly matched—both very tough for their size.

Daisy Mansfield is 21, beautiful, independently wealthy and one of the quickest fighters I know; she was now paired with Bobby Brewster—35, corporate lawyer, as meticulous in his physical attacks as he is in the boardroom. Bobby would not need to be careful with her, nor she with him.

I was set to spar my old friend and frequent colleague Mike Whitehall. Mike is extremely fit, six three of solid muscle with short-cropped brown hair, way smarter than the average cop, and openly gay. We'd sparred for so many years now that it was more like a chess match than a fight.

Roger was odd man out this round, the one disadvantage of our being seven.

After two more rounds of sparring, about three minutes each, I called for the warming-down exercises, stretching, and ten minutes of sitting meditation to conclude the evening's workout.

I was one of the first dressed, but I had to wait for everyone else to leave so I could lock up. Another responsibility of the senior belt each evening.

Mike and Bobby left together, Mike with one arm draped over his partner's shoulders. When I say Mike is openly gay, I mean openly. Not his mannerisms. His mannerisms are all cop. On the other hand, Bobby's been his date for the last two annual Policemen's Balls. This brought him little grief from fellow officers only because he was reputed to close more cases than any other three Portland detectives combined. You could bring a sheep to the Ball as your date as long as you took that many bad guys off the street.

Since we only had the one dressing room, the tradition had developed that the women would wait for the guys to get dressed before going in. That was more efficient, since the guys usually took less time. Tonight Eleanor was the last one out.

We walked together to the top of the stairs and I turned out the dojang lights. On our way down the dimly-lit staircase to Second, she said, I did that search you wanted on William Van Damme.

Anything of interest?

Not on him.

What do you mean? Who then? I held the front entrance door open for her and flipped off the stairwell lights.

The record on William is detailed and clean.

I locked the door and turned to look at her. So? That's all I wanted to know.

Nevertheless, I exercised a little initiative and went back on his family as well. Or tried to.

Tried to?

As far as any records I can find, his parents came into existence at just about the same time he did. He may not be hinky but he definitely has hinky in his background.

We stood there for a moment, contemplating the hinkiness of William Van Damme's family.

Witness protection, I said.

Looks like it.

That calls for a little more digging.

Looks like it, she agreed as we headed for our cars.

CHAPTER NINE

I awoke as usual: a paw rested against my right cheek and a weight held down my legs. The paw belonged to my cat Stella who clearly believes that the pillow really should be hers. The weight was her sister Maxine who seems to prefer me to the bed itself.

My two cats are five years old. Stella is a sleek and multi-toned tawny troublemaker while Maxine is a gentle gray and white fat ball of fluff. Both tortoise-shell, Stella is basically a calico and Maxine clearly a Maine Coon. I knew for sure they came from the same mother; I wouldn't bet on the same father.

Fortunately, we all three get along extremely well.

After my morning meditation I came up with breakfast for all of us—frozen sausage and eggs meal for me and chicken meaty bits for them—while I continued to contemplate my day.

The fourth day of following Beverly Snyder and trying not to step on the toes of Devon Malone.

So far the latter had been more of a challenge than the former. Mrs. Snyder had kept to the same routine every day with no evidence that she was stepping out on hubby. She had yet to leave the office, in fact, for any purpose other than to eat lunch or go home with her husband. From what I'd seen of Mr. Snyder along the way, I'd guess that Malone was having no better luck.

Today was a Friday. Maybe they both awaited the weekend to kick up their adulterous heels. We'd see.

Malone and I had not spoken again since that one brief conversation downtown, though she'd had several occasions since then to glare at me as we passed one another in transit.

It didn't appear that my prospects were improving.

And, said I to myself, why the hell was I even thinking about prospects where Devon Malone was concerned?

I certainly had enjoyed working with her on that murder-kidnapping case, at least after I got used to her more or less constant irascibility. She was a remarkably attractive young woman, in my opinion. Ah, but there was a key word: young. She would not be interested in a (relatively) old codger such as myself. She was mid-to-late thirties, I'd guess, to my early fifties. Plus, the last thing I needed was a new girlfriend so soon after a breakup of my own.

It would be good to just put it out of my mind.

Maybe not possible, but good.

Then there was the dilemma of when to tell Martin Snyder he had a tail of his own. On the one hand, the information would guarantee that Malone saw nothing amiss. On the other hand, the fact that his wife didn't trust him any more than he trusted her was relevant relationship information. Undermine a friend (well, I could wish) or betray a client?

Not really a question in the long run. My loyalty had to be to my client. But I'd give it the weekend. If some heels got kicked up, the problem would become moot.

With that thought in mind, I headed out to pick up Beverly Snyder for the day.

No surprises on the Snyders' block. Malone's Jeep Cherokee was a few cars down from me as usual and we formed our routine convoy when the Grand Marquee headed downtown. I wasn't sure, but I thought maybe Malone had given me the finger as I pulled up.

As we got into the downtown area and turned the corner toward the parking garage, things suddenly got much more interesting. There was a paramedics van, along with at least five Portland PD patrol cars, in front of the parking structure. Yellow crime scene tape was being stretched across the entrance by a couple of patrolmen. One lane of traffic was allowed past, directed by another patrolman. As we got closer, I could see that plainclothes detectives and the medical examiner were also in attendance. One of the detectives was Mike Whitehall, which meant homicide. It didn't look good for somebody.

The Snyders found a spot in a different garage a block down. Malone and I pulled into an open-air parking lot nearby, the same one she had used before. They glanced over at their usual garage as they hurried to the entrance of their own office building, but apparently weren't that tempted to gawk.

Meanwhile, I got out and walked over to the Cherokee. Malone rolled down her window as I approached.

Looks like trouble, I said.

Civilian called in a body ten minutes ago, she said, looking a little smug.

Ah. From the number of cops, I assume it wasn't a heart attack.

Attacked by a bullet, maybe. That's what I hear. Adult male, multiple gunshot wounds. She gave me a sly grin and gestured at her scanner. You really should get yourself one of these, McCall.

Humph, I said, sagely, and then wandered off toward the scene to find someone less irritating to talk to. While I wondered how much it would cost to get a police scanner installed in my Outback.

CHAPTER TEN

All four local TV stations had equipment and reporters in the street by the time I'd walked the block.

I was stopped at the crime scene tape by a young patrolman I didn't know, but then I managed to catch Mike Whitehall's eye. As soon as he'd finished comparing notes with one of the older cops, he motioned me to meet him further down the tape where we'd be a good distance from the nearest television cameras.

What are you doing here so quick? he asked with a grin as he came up and stuck out his hand to shake. Don't tell me you're reduced to trolling downtown for mysteries to solve.

I grinned back. Not quite that bad yet. I've got a surveillance job and my target usually parks in that garage. Not this morning, obviously.

Tell me that neither your client nor your target work for Transit Technologies.

I can do that.

This grin was even bigger. Excellent.

I assume the victim did work for them.

Larry Peterson, by name. Headed up their security. Looks like a lying-in-wait. He stepped out of his car and got popped a full six times.

Ouch. Rings no bells, though, so I'll leave you to it. Since it's too late to wish you a good day, I'll wish you good luck.

Thanks. Luck never hurts. See you.

He walked back toward the garage entrance and I started looking around for a comfortable vantage point on the front entrance of the Snyders' building. I wouldn't be able to see it from my car in the parking lot a block away.

There was a coffee shop with a nice glass front just down and across the street from their office building. That would be perfect if I could snag a table near the window.

I guess I'd just given all my luck to Whitehall. The only empty tables were near the back. And Devon Malone was sitting at a table in exactly the spot I'd been hoping for.

I stopped. I stepped back toward the entrance. She hadn't seen me yet. I stopped again. There was an empty chair at her table.

What the hell.

My big phony smile as I approached her table was met with an apparently genuine frown.

I pulled the available chair back from the table. Mind if I sit down?

You bet.

Such a kidder. I sat down.

Malone said not a further word, simply giving me the gimlet eye as the young, harried waitress approached and I ordered a cup of black coffee. Still nothing as I idly inspected the entrance to the Premiere Stationers building—though I couldn't help noticing in my peripheral vision that she looked particularly good, however irritated, this morning. She wore a snug white tank top and soft knee-length leather jacket, her brunette hair cut shoulder-length and looking pleasantly tousled. I'd noticed the form-fitting jeans and black boots before I sat down. I also noticed the bulge of a holstered weapon on her right side. She could have been a female private eye from Central Casting. Young, sleek, sexy....

Made me feel like Grandpa P.I.

My coffee arrived, I took a long sip, and decided it was time to at least attempt a civilized conversation. Quite a couple, the Snyders, huh.

For a several seconds it appeared that Malone couldn't decide whether to reply or settle into terminal rudeness. Finally she shrugged and went with civility. Not the most trusting pair I've ever seen, no.

This could be a first. I've never heard of a couple simultaneously hiring detectives to tail one another.

Me neither—but then I haven't been a private eye for very long.

Ah, an opening. So.... How are you liking your new profession?

So far it looks like I've traded too many hours of paperwork for too many hours of watching spouses cheat.

Not that thrilled, I gather.

Well, of course I don't have media groupies featuring me on TV all the time like the infamous Clint McCall.

I did have the dubious honor of headlining the local news rather frequently, primarily thanks to an indomitable young TV reporter named Alison Roberts who seemed to think that every time I had a case more interesting than petty theft she should feature it on her local afternoon show. Malone actually sounded jealous. I eyed the leather jacket and tousled hair again. Just give it time.

Yeah, right.

What are you carrying? I asked, putting off what I really wanted to ask.

She glanced down at her side. A Glock 19. Nine mil, fifteen rounds. You?

Smith and Wesson Viking Tactics. Nine mil, eighteen rounds.

She shrugged and took a good swallow of coffee. Okay. You win. Your gun is bigger than my gun.

And now it was time to ask what I'd long wanted to ask. You know, I said after a beat, it strikes me as odd that you'd want to be a private detective given some of the opinions you expressed when we were working together.

She set her coffee cup down so hard that a little coffee jumped out onto the table. Maybe I hadn't chosen the best time after all.

That strikes you as fucking odd, does it?

Well, I was committed now. Why did you leave the force?

She leaned in toward me, eyes glaring. Because I was too fucking humiliated to stay.

I didn't sit back away from her anger. And I take it you consider that to be my fault.

She was the one who sat back—and actually laughed. Your fault? That's an insult. I made my own choices and I deal with my own consequences. The laughter was gone. I went rogue, betrayed the badge, paid the price. End of story.

We got the bad guys. Saved the good guys.

She shrugged. Yeah, there's that.

I'm sorry, I said.

Me too, she said. Then, after a pause: I'm still doing what I'm good at. Just without the uniform. Or the backup. Or the pension.

Yeah, I said as I sipped my coffee and focused back on the building across the street, it does have those advantages.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I took a break from typing to stretch some seriously sore muscles. Carmen Gonzales had caught me with a sidekick square in the middle of my chest during last evening's training session and it hurt enough this morning to make even typing a chore.

After a couple of minutes I went back to and finished my first formal report for Martin Snyder, then saved it to my hard drive. It was very short. His wife had gone four solid days without leaving the office alone, as he had to have noticed without the benefit of my surveillance.

On the other hand, I had included the information that Beverly had hired Devon Malone to follow him. There was no excuse to leave it out of a written report that the man had paid for.

As soon as he received it, probably Malone and I would both be out of a job because neither Martin nor Beverly would be catting around once they realized they had private eyes out the kazoo.

Hell, this was a Saturday morning. I'd e-mail it on Monday. Maybe something of interest would happen tomorrow. I'd already gotten a message from Martin that they were having a big party this evening and would be together preparing for it all day today. On the voicemail he had sounded both disappointed and hopeful.

At least the whole business held some interest for him. Except for happening upon a crime scene yesterday and, of course, encountering Malone again, this had to be one of the most boring surveillance jobs I'd ever undertaken.

Devon Malone. Sharing a table had not improved my relationship with Portland's newest private investigator. Well, we were still speaking—barely—when the Snyders left the office for lunch and we tailed them separately to their restaurant. I returned to the coffee shop when they returned to the office, but I didn't see Malone for the rest of the day. Perhaps she'd moved her vehicle to a better spot. Or maybe she just preferred standing on the sidewalk somewhere.

I'd had Eleanor perform a due diligence check on possible relationships between the shooting victim and the Snyders. Nothing popped on any of her databases. It was probably happenstance. Happenstance happens.

I was left with a vague uneasiness, nevertheless. I don't like coincidence even when I call it happenstance.

It was around ten in the morning and I was starting on another interim report for another client when my door suddenly burst open.

I had my top right-hand drawer open and my hand on the Smith and Wesson before the very large gentleman in my doorway could finish his first step into the office. I was uncomfortably aware that my chest injury might slow down my reaction time a bit.

He obviously realized that I didn't have my hand in there to pick up a stapler. He stopped and directed a mighty frown in my direction.

Are you McCall?

I am. And you are?

My name's Carl Gunther. Senior.

It rang a bell but I couldn't immediately retrieve the memory. My intruder—couldn't really call him a visitor with that entrance—was expensively dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with dark blue tie and shiny black shoes. Early fifties probably, a full head of dark brown hair and craggy features. A little over six feet tall with a broad chest and thick legs. Much more muscle than fat. He looked like a man who was used to getting his way. A man capable of hurting people who didn't cooperate. I kept my hand on the gun.

What can I do for you?

He took a single step forward. He maintained eye contact but I could tell his attention was really on my right arm.

You should recognize my name.

Apparently you're not as memorable as you think you are. Though he did in fact look slightly familiar. And that name....

Oh, believe me I am. You won't be forgettin' me any time soon. Nobody hurts my kid and gets away with it.

His kid? I hurt his kid? Dark brown hair, built like a tank.... Ah ha.

Your son walked into a restaurant and accosted a table full of people. Then he attacked me. Not the other way around. Talk to the police.

I got no interest in the police. My son's free now and I guarantee he'll stay free.

You guarantee it?

He's got the best lawyers money can buy. They'll have no problem at all with penny ante charges like his.

My right hand still had not moved. Good for you and your son. If you don't want to keep those lawyers on retainer, you might have a talk with him about the consequences of drug use.

He stepped closer. I caught a whiff of musky cologne. His movements were economical, almost graceful for such a big man, and he maintained full eye contact now, no division of attention. I could tell he was accustomed to intimidating people with that glower.

I already keep the lawyers on retainer—and it's you I'm talkin' to.

Time to ease up here. Whatever this asshole had in mind, it appeared that he was not planning any immediate violence. I withdrew my hand from the drawer and gently pushed it shut. With my left hand, I gestured to the two visitor's chairs in front of my desk.

Have a seat, if you want to talk.

He didn't budge. I'm not here to have a conversation. I'm here to tell you that you're gonna pay a high price for hurting my son.

You're threatening to sue me?

That brought a grim smile to his face. No. I'm threatening you.

I was still reading it as talk rather than action—at least for now. I sat back, easing the tension on the sore chest muscles. Oh gee. I've never had that happen before. How distressing.

You might think it's funny now, but you won't later.

This was beginning to be irksome. I carefully sat forward again. "Look, Mr. Gunther. You're a big guy and probably pretty tough and apparently you have a lot of money and I'm sorry your kid is an asshole—though I can certainly see where he got it from. I've heard what you have to say. If at some point you feel the need to actually do something, I'll be interested to see how that goes. Meanwhile, I have more pressing matters to tend to—like trimming my nails, for instance."

Neither his smile nor his intense gaze wavered a whit. I'm gonna enjoy this, he said finally.

Well, it's always nice to have something to look forward to, I replied.

He turned and left the office without another word.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It had been so long since he'd felt a true thrill, a new thrill. So very long. It was wonderful that he'd finally found a reason, a necessity greater than the fear of consequences, to move beyond the pleasures of youth, to rekindle the joy of those long ago days, the joy of discovery. This one had been so much better than anything ever before.

The blood splatter, for instance, was really quite nice. Marvelous, really. He had never achieved anything like it with any of the dogs or cats. Of course, they didn't have nearly so much blood to start with.

The biggest thrill had been watching his subject's expressions. From surprise to mild irritation to fear to terror to pain to anguish to...what? Resignation? Whatever. The animals never had expressions nearly so good as these.

The only problem had been that it was too fast. That had been necessary, as well, this time. He hadn't been ready to exercise the care and attention he'd once lavished on the dogs and cats. And this was a subject that had to be quickly eliminated.

He smiled to himself, not only in the pleasure of recollection but in the pleasure of anticipation. There would be no going back to dogs or cats or gerbils or whatever the fuck. He was moving on!