Coastside Detectives: Distant Islands

By Matthew F. O'Malley

In Coastside Detectives, Distant Islands, the world-weary detective Mike Mason becomes embroiled in the local politics of coastal preservation when he is called upon to explain his involvement with an environmental activist found murdered; the body of which was recovered from a local garbage dump. Joined by his partner, Joe Ballard, the two private investigators embark on a quest to find the activists murderer and in doing so realize things are not always what they seem; that someone who had once taken only a keen interest in Mike Masons life story is now becoming an active player.

From prowling the waters just off the California coast, to running up against a vengeful developer, to following a fresh trail of body parts, Mike Mason uncovers answers, is left with questions, and learns that he has become a target.

Full of fast-paced action and darkly comedic, Coastside Detectives: Distant Islands is sure to thrill fans of old-school detective novels in the vein of Hammett and Chandler.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481732833

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2013 by Matthew F. O’Malley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/25/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3284-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3283-3 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Coastside Detectives Distant Islands is a work of fiction. All characters and situations describe in the book are fictional. Any similarities to actual persons, events or situations are clearly coincidental.

CONTENTS

WEEK I

1

2

3

4

WEEK II

5

6

7

8

9

10

WEEK III

11

12

13

14

WEEK IV

15

16

BOOK IV

1

WEEK I

1

It was early on a Monday morning when my ringing cell phone woke me up from a deep sleep. On the line was Tony Chin of the Pacifica Police Department, directing me to meet him out at the Mussel Rock Transfer Station Disposal Site over on Westline Drive.

You know what time it is? I asked.

Have something I want you to see, Tony replied.

Can’t see over the phone, I replied. What time is it?

Six-thirty.

Jeez! I groaned. Call me back in a couple of hours.

I need you to come out here, now! Tony commanded. Over at the transfer station. I have something I want you to see.

Let me guess, I said. Trash.

Listen. I’m in no mood for jokes. I need you out here now.

I’m in no mood for jokes, either. You just woke me up from a beautiful dream about a young, healthy blonde.

You want me to send some of the boys over to get you?

All right, all right, I said. I can meet you over there in a bit.

Half an hour? Tony asked.

Half an hour, I replied.

Tony’s a good guy but he’s very by the book and is constantly rubbing my nose in the line that separates what people in my line of work can do and what requires law enforcement. Over the years, he has made it crystal clear that if he ever catches me crossing that boundary, he will not give me any slack.

Well, Poseidon, time to get up, I said. Poseidon, my orange tabby, had made his way into my bedroom during the night by jumping up and pulling down on the bedroom lever handle. He now stretched and yawned and looked up at me from his pillow on my bed.

I took a long hot shower to shake my hangover and while I was dressing, my phone rang. It was Tony. I didn’t pick up. After dressing, I went downstairs, fed Poseidon and then drove down Oddstad Boulevard, where I gassed up at the station at the corner of Oddstad and Terra Nova. I then headed over the hill to catch a scenic view of the Pacific Ocean as I drove down Fassler Avenue. My phone rang a few more times. Each time it was Tony. I was beginning to think our meeting might actually be important.

I slowly made my way out toward the Manor District of Pacifica, stopping first at the P-Town café for a cup of java. I then moseyed down Highway One, passing Sharp Park Golf Course; it looked green, The Little Brown Church; it looked brown, and then Sam’s Castle; it looked gray. I really wasn’t in a rush; too early on a Monday morning, I had a hangover, and especially when it was a request by a police officer, which meant I was about to get hassled.

I took the Manor exit off of Highway One and drove up Palmetto Ave to Westline Drive. The roads of Palmetto and Westline are absolutely stunning, with views of the Pacific. If I were headed south, in the opposite direction I was driving, I’d get dramatic views of the Pacific and would see the entire length of Pacifica. The north end of Westline Drive, just beyond the transfer station and the direction I was heading, ends at a nice little parking lot above the Pacific. On a clear day, I can look north and see all the way up to the Marin Headlands north of San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge, or I can spend my time watching the hang gliders soar and eventually land nearby, weather permitting. People walk their dogs along the trails from the lot down to the beach or spend their time just pondering the nice-sized, coastal cliffs, and the homes perched above them that are doomed due to erosion.

I wanted to head over to that parking lot, finish my coffee, and watch the ocean waves, but the phone calls from Tony kept coming. Eventually, I needed to keep the appointment, so I turned off Westline Drive and headed in.

Mussel Rock Transfer Station is just inside the Daly City limits and borders Pacifica, so I wasn’t too surprised to see a couple of Daly City police cars were parked alongside some Pacifica police cars, just outside of the hump in the road that leads to the transfer station. One of the Pacifica officers recognized me and waved me in. I drove over the hump, through a cyclone gate and made my way upon the transfer station grounds. Inside the grounds was a small weigh station, followed by an enormous three-sided shed with large bays to park a car or truck and dump household or contractor trash. A large yellow tractor, normally used to compress the trash and later to dump the compacted trash into the beds of semi trucks that haul it to wherever trash goes, was parked along one of the walls.

On this visit, there were no paying customers dropping off trash, just a parking area full of Pacifica and Daly City police cars parked haphazardly about and a coroner’s ambulance. The air was filled with squawking seagulls and putrid air, and when I drove up Tony Chin was standing by the weigh station and talking to a couple of officers. He immediately spotted me and walked towards my car. I met him halfway.

What took you so long? He sounded annoyed so I jumped on it.

Had to pretty myself up, I responded.

For the dumps? he asked.

For the dumps, I replied.

I called you a couple of times. You said it would take you half an hour. It took you an hour and a half. What took you so long, and why didn’t you pick up? Did you go somewhere between your house and here?

Look, I said. I had to stop and get some coffee, and you do know you’re not allowed to use a phone while driving in California.

Get a headset, Tony said.

Those things mess with my ears. Look, what’s this about?

Follow me. Tony led me over to the trash shed, where I stopped. Filth was absolutely oozing from the piles of garbage and out toward the entrance of the shed, and I just knew my first step inside would cover the soles of my shoes in rank, raw sewage. I opted to just stay outside. Inside, I could see ripped-open trash bags, doors, clothing, suitcases, decomposing food waste, and housing rubble—everything you’d expect to see in such a place, except for the human body, partially covered and lying amid the muck. It looked as if he had a rag stuffed into his mouth.

Do you know this man? Tony asked.

Nope, I said. Can’t say that I do. But that’s not saying much, since he is pretty busted up.

Why don’t you come a little closer?

Upon seeing there was a dead body involved, I knew I had to go in. Immediately I felt myself sliding along the concrete floor, though I made it to the outskirts of the piles of trash without falling. Tony snickered as he watched me make my way to him. He was standing on top of some bags of garbage, right next to the body.

Now again I ask, do you know this man? Can you tell me anything about the situation we have here? Tony asked, as if I knew something.

I looked closer at the man. He was wearing a red Pendleton collared shirt over a stained wife-beater. His jeans were well worn, faded, and stained, and the stains looked like they were from before his garbage dive. He had one red, scruffy Wolverine boot on, with its apparent twin lying amid a pile of soiled magazines. His brown hair was curly, matted in places, and wet from the garbage sludge he was lying in. His body looked fairly in shape, except for his head, which looked as if it had been bashed about with a baseball bat. And what from a distance had looked like a rag stuffed into his mouth was actually a crab, a dead, ocean-floor crawling crab. It was quite sizable and stuffed halfway into the man’s mouth. It actually looked like it got stuck climbing out sideways from the man’s bruised orifice. I guess you can probably rule out suicide, I finally said as I stared at the crustacean.

You recognize him? Tony asked.

I looked closely at the man. His face was cut and bruised in red, purple, and death yellow. Can’t say that I do.

Is that so? Tony said. Look closer and tell me what you see is wrong with this picture.

I leaned forward, looked at the man, and looked closely at the dead crab.

From what I can tell, I said. It is a Dungeness crab and although it is crab season, this one is undersized so it is illegal for this man to have it on his person. Have you contacted Fish and Game?

Don’t be a smartass! Tony growled. Look closer. Look in his shirt pocket.

I looked at the man’s unbuttoned shirt pocket and saw what looked like a piece of paper. Using the fingernail of my index finger, I pulled open his pocket so I could look inside. What I found was a business card that read Coastside Detectives.

Still don’t recognize him? Tony triumphantly exclaimed.

Nope. I took another peek into his shirt pocket. Looks like one of our newer cards though. Different picture than the one we’ve been using. We left those out at different establishments a few weeks ago. He could have picked one up, or it could have been passed to him from someone else, a referral. What’s his name?

Tony looked disappointed. He always wants to look like he is on top of everything and knows exactly what is going on. Let me call around, I said. See if any of my partners picked up any new clients of late.

I headed for my car and Tony followed. I opened the trunk, pulled out another pair of shoes, and began to exchange them.

Joe still out hunting gold? Tony asked, making small talk as I worked on tying a shoe.

Not so much anymore, I said. Too many people get into your business if they see you sweeping an area with a metal detector.

Tony watched as I took the shoes I’d worn into the transfer station sludge pile and placed them in a plastic trash bag in the trunk of my car. I headed to the front of my car, climbed in, and closed the door behind me. Tony tapped on the window and I rolled it partially down. You need privacy? Tony asked suspiciously.

I rolled up the window, and rolled my eyes as well, then turned so I wouldn’t have to look at Tony. He got the message and headed over to the weigh