The Philanthropic Murders and One Other.

By G. E. Finkenbinder

Someone is knocking off child molesters in Portland, Oregon and private eye John Peralta thinks he knows who's doing it. The problem is the police and the district attorney seem to be turning a blind eye to the crimes and no one will listen to him. .

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483540344

Book preview

9781483540344

John Peralta parked his Cadillac in front of the old frame building and stepped out, looking around. It wasn’t much of a town, he thought, as he surveyed the main street and one or two rather seedy looking side streets. All of the buildings, he noticed, looked like they were at least one hundred years old and most of them were made of wood. It might have been a ghost town, from the looks of it. But it was not. Aurora was a relic from Oregon’s pioneer days that had been turned into a mecca for antique lovers. Nearly every store in town was an antique shop.

He double-checked the name on the two story shop he had parked in front of, then looked around until he found a sidewalk that led to the back of the building. It was a pleasant little walkway, festooned with trumpet vines clinging to lattices, made even more pleasant by the warmth of the spring sunshine. A sign indicated that there was a café in the rear.

Sure enough, he found a quaint little coffee house in a separate building behind the antique shop, with an inviting patio between the two. Sitting all alone beneath an umbrella at one of the tables was a young woman wearing sunglasses. No one else was around.

Mrs. Lockhart, I presume? Peralta asked, walking up to the table and extending his hand.

The young woman removed her sunglasses and smiled nervously as she took Peralta’s hand. Yes, and you are John Peralta? Sit down, please.

It was nice to talk to you on the phone, Peralta said. But I don’t quite understand why you couldn’t come in to my office?

The young woman smiled again and averted her eyes in embarrassment. It’s just that my husband may have a detective watching me, and I wouldn’t want him to know that I was trying to hire someone to watch him. Understand?

Peralta smiled, without answering. He was wondering what made her think that a detective couldn’t have followed her here? He glanced around the patio between the buildings – at least there was no one in sight.

I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Peralta. I suspect my husband of having an affair, and I want to hire you to find out if my suspicions are correct. She smiled uncomfortably. You do that sort of thing, don’t you? I mean, isn’t that a staple of a detective’s job?

I’m afraid it is, he replied, with a hint of distaste in his words. What makes you think he’s involved with another woman? he asked. Other than just a feeling, I mean? You got anything to go on? Any evidence, for instance?

Mrs. Lockhart opened her purse and dug around in it for a minute. Then she rather reluctantly handed Peralta some bank statements. Notice the substantial withdrawals my husband has made over the past four months? See here: $25,000 in February; $25,000 in March; another $25,000 in April and now $25,000 in this month. When I asked him about it, he just said it was for expenses.

Expenses? Peralta asked. What sort of expenses? Didn’t he say? He perused the documents again. Does he have a business? Does he gamble or play the market?

Well, that’s what makes me so suspicious, the young woman said, wrinkling her brow. Keith has always hated gambling, and he doesn’t trust the stock market or investment brokers. And he doesn’t have a business. So what else could it be? He must have a mistress, and be giving her money.

He doesn’t have a business? What does he do?

Mrs. Lockhart hesitated, as though she were reluctant to discuss her husband’s sources of income.

Well? Peralta asked, impatiently.

He doesn’t do anything, she said at last, somewhat sheepishly. Six months ago, my husband won the New Hampshire Powerball lottery.

Peralta looked at her incredulously.

Thirty two million dollars, the young woman said.

Just then, an ear-shattering, mind blowing wave of sound slammed into them, and they both jumped out of their chairs, startled, as the Amtrak train to Portland rushed by like some kind of a jet plane – Peralta just caught a glimpse of the top of it, beyond the near-by bushes, as it shot past.

Wow! Peralta gasped. I didn’t see either of those coming!

Both of them laughed as they regained their seats, thoroughly disheveled, and looked at one another in embarrassment.

So, anyway, Mrs. Lockhart continued, after a couple of moments, you’d think that winning the lottery would be a dream come true, wouldn’t you? And that we’d naturally live happily ever after, without a care in the world? But this only happens in fairy tales, I guess. So what do you think, Mr. Peralta?

I’ll tell you what I think. I think someone is blackmailing your huband.

Blackmailing! Mrs. Lockhart exclaimed. Now what could he ever have done that anyone could blackmail him for?

I don’t know, Peralta answered. But I’ll find out. He folded the bank statements Mrs. Lockhart had given him, and put them in his pocket. I’ll need to keep these for awhile, he told her.

So you’ll take the case?

You bet, he assured her. I’ve got bills I have to worry about, just like everybody else, he said, then added, well, except you, that is.

Oh, good! she cried, and reached across the table to squeeze Peralta’s hand. Then call me Surya, please.

He looked at the young woman reflectively for a moment. Surya, he repeated. Isn’t that Sanskrit for ‘Shining’?

Why yes, I believe it is, she replied, staring at him with a new appreciation. And you are John, right?

Right, he said, getting to his feet and shaking her hand. There’s some other things I’ll need: a photograph of your husband...Oh, and I’ll need to know where I can find him. You know, where he hangs out or might likely be, since he doesn’t have a job or a business? And...

Whatever you need, Mrs. Lockhart cut in, getting to her feet also.

And don’t be afraid to come to my office. I doubt very much that your husband is having you followed, he told her.

Okay, she said.

For the first time since meeting her, it occurred to Peralta what a truly beautiful woman she was. He raised his hand awkwardly to escort her down the walkway to the street, out front.

Oh, thank you, she said, allowing him to guide her. I actually feel so much better already, now that I know you don’t think Keith has a mistress.

He’d be very foolish if he did, Peralta said, smiling at her.

But on the other hand, the idea of his maybe being blackmailed kind of worries me.

That’s silly. Now that you’ve hired me, you can just kick back and let me do the worrying, he said, with a wink. By the way, you haven’t asked me about my rates. Don’t you want to know what I charge?

The look she gave him made him realize just what a dumb question he had asked.

That’s my car, right there, she told him, as they came out on the sidewalk next to the street. Peralta could hardly believe it was a ’98 Toyota Camry.

One more thing, he asked. What kind of work did your husband do, before he won the lottery?

He was a carpenter. Why?

Let’s sit down over here for a moment, Peralta said, as if he had had a sudden thought. He steered the young woman over to one of the benches which pretty much decorate the front of every one of the antique shops, and spoke to the old fellow occupying one end of the bench. Mind if we sit down, sir?

The old man was slightly slumped over, and appeared to be asleep.

I said, do you mind if we sit down here, sir? Peralta repeated, loudly.

It was then that he noticed the bottle fly come crawling out of the old man’s nose.

Call the police on your cell phone, will you please, Surya? he said, quickly feeling the old man’s wrist for a pulse. This man is dead!

How horrible, Surya Lockhart gasped.

The police arrived and took charge of the scene, holding back the onlookers while the EMT’s loaded the lifeless body into their ambulance.

Peralta walked over and put his arms around Mrs. Lockhart’s shoulders. Yes. The police say it was probably a heart attack, or something.

Mrs. Lockhart nodded, and looked away.

Yep. That was probably it, all right. But the thing that bothers me is, where is his wife?

His...wife?

Yeah. I mean, he must have been sitting out here waiting for his wife to do her shopping. Do you think these old geezers would come here to sit on a bench in Aurora, if their wives didn’t drag them along? So where’s his wife, or whatever friends he might have came with? This guy didn’t just croak – he’s been dead awhile. So how come no one has shown up to check on him?

Surya Lockhart looked around at the crowd questioningly.

Look! Look there, as they lift him into the ambulance! That’s a bracelet he’s wearing on his ankle. Did you see?

The young woman looked puzzled.

That’s one of those electronic monitoring devices that they put on some parolees or sex offenders, to try and keep track of them. I wonder which he was?

The ambulance started up, and the crowd of onlookers began to disperse. An unexpected wind kicked up, bringing a spatter of raindrops.

You wanted to talk to me about one more thing? Mrs. Lockhart asked.

Peralta was staring at the departing ambulance with a distracted expression on his face. What? he asked, absently.

One more thing you wanted to discuss, before this...tragedy ... occurred?

I can’t recall, Peralta answered, good naturedly. It’s going to rain. You’d better run along now. Call my office when you get home, if your husband’s not around.

Okay. And here, you’ll probably need this to get started, Mrs. Lockhart said, handing him a wad of bills from her purse. Peralta noticed that they were all hundreds. She got into her car and drove away, looking in her rear-view mirror to see if he was watching her, but Peralta was still gazing after the rapidly departing ambulance.

2.

That evening, the phone rang in the Peralta Detective Agency and Lila, the secretary, picked it up. Yes. Yes, I see, she said. He’s still here... Yes, hang on. She turned in her chair and saw that John Peralta was listening with interest. It’s a Mrs. Lockhart, she said, and she seems to be quite excited.

Peralta pushed the lit-up button on his desk phone and picked up the receiver. Peralta, he said.

Mrs. Lockhart informed him that her husband had just made another withdrawal from the bank, and told her that he had to go away on business for a couple of days. From the tone of her voice, Peralta could tell that she was quite upset and unsure of what to do.

Business? he asked sharply. I thought you said he didn’t have a business?

He doesn’t, she replied. At least, not that I know of.

You’ll excuse me for saying so, Peralta said, but your husband doesn’t seem to be the type of man who confides in anyone, not even his wife.

You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Lockhart agreed. In our marriage, he runs the finances and I run the house. That’s the way it’s always been. He insists on it.

Rather an old-fashioned idea, isn’t it? He wanted to ask her if she had ever heard of Women’s Lib?

I guess it is, she said. But what can I do?

That’s up to you, I expect, he replied. Did he tell you where he is going?

Yes, he did. He said he’s going to New Mexico, of all places. His plane leaves in the morning.

What was the size of the withdrawal?

Well, that’s the thing. The bank gave him a cashier’s check for five million dollars.

Good God! Peralta blurted out, rocking back in his swivel chair. What the hell?

Exactly. Mrs. Lockhart’s voice was tremulous. What am I going to do?

Peralta paused, while his mind raced. Don’t do anything, he said. I’ll be on that plane with him, to see what’s going on. But right now, you’d better beat it over here with his picture and his itinerary, if you can get it, and anything else that you think might be helpful.

All right, John, she said, trying to calm herself down. See you in a few minutes.

He put the receiver back on the hook and folded his hands together, thinking. Lila brought him a cup of coffee.

Thanks, honey, he said. Call PDX and find out what time there’s a flight to New Mexico in the morning, and get me on it. Then you might as well go home – it’s getting late.

New Mexico? Lila repeated, raising her eyebrows.

Yeah. Be gone a couple of days, I expect.

So...You gonna wait here for Mrs. Lockhart?

Of course. She’s bringing me a photo of her husband.

Sure you don’t want me to stick around?

What for? Peralta asked. I’ll be going home, too, right after she brings me his picture.

Uh-huh, she said.

An hour later, Peralta watched Mrs. Lockhart park at the curb from the door of his building, and walked out to escort her in; his office was in a pretty run-down former warehouse, and the neighborhood wasn’t considered very safe, especially after dark. They rode the freight elevator up to his office on the third (and top) floor, and Mrs. Lockhart remarked on the view of OMSI – the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry – which was available from the big window at the end of the hall.

Yeah, Peralta commented, shaking his head. Never could figure out how come they moved it from its old location by the zoo to this crummy neighborhood. To be on the river, I guess – they’ve got a submarine tied up to a dock, you know.

They entered the office and Mrs. Lockhart handed him a manila envelope. Here’s Keith’s photograph; also his itinerary. Sorry I took so long to get here, but darned if he didn’t come home right after I talked to you on the phone. He wanted to pack a few things and clean up, before going over to his club, which is close to the airport, to spend the night. That’s what gave me the opportunity to make a copy of his plane schedule.

Good work, he said, pulling the itinerary and the photo out of the envelope. Nice lookin’ guy, he said, holding up his picture. Tall, I’ll bet.

Yes. About six-two, Mrs. Lockhart answered.

Sit down, Mrs. Lockhart, he said, motioning towards a comfortable looking armchair.

Surya, she said.

Peralta smiled. Surya, he said. You wouldn’t have a Hindu background as well as a Sanskrit name, would you? he asked her, making himself comfortable in his swivel chair and putting his feet up on his desk while he studied Keith Lockhart’s itinerary.

As a matter of fact, my grandmother on my mother’s side was Indian. And you, Mr. Peralta?

It was his turn to correct her. John, he said.

John, she replied.

Peralta cleared his throat self-consciously, and picked up Keith’s photograph again. Me, I’m just a half-breed Cuban from New York, he said, pretending not to notice her shapely, crossed legs. When next he risked a glance in her direction, he saw that she was staring out the window into the darkness, while wringing her hands nervously in her lap. The dress that she wore was short, and complemented her complexion perfectly, so that it was only with difficulty that he was able to pry his eyes away from her.

She looked at him directly now, and spoke confidentially. You might not think so, John, she said, but I’m a very lonely person.

Peralta actually gulped, and could think of nothing to reply.

Are you married, John?

Uh, no. I’m not married, he answered, lamely.

I didn’t think so, she said. That is, you seem too...un-bothered, to be married.

Peralta just looked at her, and tried to keep his eyes off her legs. At last he ventured a response. Un-bothered? he asked.

For want of a better word, yes, she said, and looked down at her hands as she wrung them. You see, the thing with marriage is that sometimes your partner doesn’t live up to your expectations of them – they let you down in the most fundamental things...things that make all the difference in a marriage, like being there for one another, and standing up for your family and keeping promises. Can you understand what I’m saying, I wonder?

Peralta could not understand. In fact, he was totally confused, and still trying to figure out whether she was trying to come on to him or not, when she lowered her head and began to weep.

He half arose from his seat, and leaned towards her over his desk. There, there, now, he said, as soothingly as he could manage. Don’t do that. Tears from a woman always crushed him.

So you see, that’s what I mean when I say ‘bothered’, she said, looking up at him suddenly. I’m married and bothered, and you’re not.

How does one reply to a statement like that, Peralta wondered? Slowly, awkwardly, he got to his feet and walked around to lay a hand sympathetically on Mrs. Lockhart’s back. Please don’t, he whispered.

Surya leaned her head against his body and touched his arm tenderly. You are such a kind man, John, she said softly. And I’m so lonely; sometimes it’s almost unbearable. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve got to have some affection, even if I have to steal it.

That’s only natural, he replied, surprised to find his voice grown husky. And you’re a very desirable woman.

Am I? Am I, John? she asked, almost desperately. I think I could love you, John. I really do.

Peralta could feel his testosterone kicking in, and his rationality deserting him.

But that wouldn’t be right, would it? Surya was saying now. No. Making love with you would be completely unfair. It would be me using you, that’s all. And it wouldn’t solve a thing.

Peralta wanted to urge her to use him all she wanted – that he wouldn’t mind. But before he could figure out what to say to her, she had recovered herself and was getting to her feet.

I understand, he told her, all the while wondering what would prompt him to make such an absurd remark.

Mrs. Lockhart looked into Peralta’s eyes, then turned to go. Goodnight, she said, then turned back and kissed him briefly on the lips. Thanks for being so nice to me, John, she said.

3.

The first person John Peralta saw when he walked into the restaurant at the Portland International Airport early the next morning was Vanessa Van Scyoc, sitting alone at a table. "Well, if it isn’t the Oregonian’s ace reporter herself!" he called out over the racket of the breakfast crowd.

The wild-haired young woman looked up, saw who had hailed her, and clapped her hands gleefully. Johnny! she called back. Come and join me.

Peralta walked up to her table and dropped into one of the chairs. Lawdy Miss Claudie! he gasped. What in the world are you shoving into your mouth at this hour of the night?

The young lady crammed another piece of bagel and Philadelphia cream cheese in her mouth, and offered one to Peralta. Try it, you’ll love it! she exclaimed. Anyway, it’s not night time, it’s morning! She got out of her chair, ran around to where Peralta was sitting, and plopped into his lap. Here we go, she said in a coaxing voice, as she pushed a bite of the bagel through his tightly closed lips. There now, isn’t that good?

Peralta