Dead Aim

By Ridley Pearson

The “remarkable” first novel in the series starring an ex-musician and amateur sleuth in beautiful, rural Idaho, by the #1 New York Times–bestselling author (Kirkus Reviews).
 
Chris Klick wants to get far away from his past in the fast-paced West Coast music industry. But trouble seems to find him even in the peaceful environs of Idaho. When a woman named Nicole Russell tells the amateur sleuth about her missing husband, missing Labrador, and missing fifty-thousand dollars, Klick’s suddenly up to his ears in mystery. Aided by his best friend, former basketball star Lyel, Klick pursues Nicole’s husband, dog, and lost cash in corrupt Snow Lake. But helping Nicole recover her money may mean losing everything . . .
 
Originally published under the name Wendell McCall, this is the debut novel in the series featuring Chris Klick, full of wit, grit, and adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9780795346446

Ridley Pearson

Ridley Pearson is the bestselling author of over fifty novels, including Peter and the Starcatchers (cowritten with Dave Barry) and the Kingdom Keepers and Lock and Key series. He has also written two dozen crime novels, including Probable Cause, Beyond Recognition, Killer Weekend, The Risk Agent, and The Red Room. To learn more about him, visit www.ridleypearson.com.

Book preview

Dead Aim

A Chris Klick Mystery

Ridley Pearson

Dead Aim

Copyright © 1990 by Ridley Pearson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Electronic edition published 2015 by RosettaBooks

Cover design by David Ter-Avanesyan/Ter33Design

ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795346446

www.RosettaBooks.com

For Ollie Cosman

and Chandler Lyell

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 1

The condition of the sky sets the tone for the day, more so than temperature or wind. Even on the coldest of days, with a brittle northerly blowing hoarfrost along the hardened surface of snow crust, a bright, crystal sky elevates my mood. Such a sky is intoxicating.

On that day in early September, the sky was a flawless expanse of mountain-air blue. It said, Smile. It said, Enjoy. I was doing both. My binoculars were trained on a pair of mergansers, members of the diving-duck family, the male richly colored, the female less so. The deck off the east side of the log cabin I regularly house-sit allows me a slightly elevated view of the slough that snakes along the border of the property’s five acres. The slough is a slow-moving, spring-fed creek that doubles as a source of irrigation water for the local farmers fortunate enough to own water rights. It is also haven to waterfowl, brook trout, songbirds, and a variety of bushy vegetation that grips its banks stubbornly. Arctic willow hugs its edges in dense clumps that stretch fifteen feet high, obscuring both sight of the creek and a neighbor’s nearby horse corral. The slough is the lifeblood of all flora and fauna along its edges, for the five acres are considered high desert, and if left to nature, little grows other than knee-high sage and an assortment of hearty wildflowers and weeds.

The mergansers motored silently from right to left—upstream—seemingly effortlessly, narrow silver wakes trailing behind, breaking the slough’s mirrored surface. How beautiful they were in their motionless swimming, paired, black agate eyes peering back into my non-glare lenses. The binoculars were strong enough to allow me to spot a flotilla of water bugs navigating the oscillating motion of the wake as they randomly scooted about, their tiny legs miniature pontoons on the hard glass-like surface of the slough’s dark water. They looked like pleasure craft avoiding the much larger ferry as they darted in behind the passing ducks.

I heaved a sigh of contentment. Birding was something new to me. Previously I had considered it a decidedly effeminate hobby meant for bald-headed, red-lipped bibliophiles. But a few months earlier, on another of my visits, curiosity and admiration had won out. The great blue heron was to blame. It, like well-postured women and vintage champagne, I found irresistible.

I was thankful that I had the good fortune to relax in a deck chair while watching mergansers feed. Tough life, this. But I also felt the torment of the child who has built a multi-towered sand castle and now must face the change in tides and the inexorable advance of the threatening waves. I had earned this time off—I had a sore shoulder and insurance claims to prove it—and it was passing much too quickly. Soon I would face a jetway again, and the short flight back to Horrorwood. Ugh.

That’s one reason I was annoyed when the mergansers took to wing, although I confess that ducks landing and ducks taking to flight are wonderful sights to behold. Had it been a natural response to a predator, or simply a desire to change diet for a few hours, their departure might not have bothered me. But it was because of the Jeep Wagoneer that pulled into my gravel driveway and the subsequent sounding of its horn that they flew, and I knew they would not return today. Probably not ever. My enjoyment of these particular two mergansers was over. In all, we had shared some twenty-five minutes together, and I could only reflect on what the rest of their lives might be like. It was duck-hunting season, my slough a sanctified retreat preserved from the scattering steel shot of anxious hunters. This Wagoneer had startled my comrades back into the sky, back into the game, and whether they would even survive the evening was now a matter of conjecture. By leaving here they had thrown themselves back into it, and I was anything but pleased.

***

I was wearing tennis shorts and a layer of number 4 block (I figured the September sun couldn’t do anything but enhance my summer bronze). I made no attempt to slip on the T-shirt that lay next to the St. Pauli Girl. This was my house, my time off, and this Wagoneer was uninvited. If the driver didn’t like looking at a bare chest and abdomen, then that couldn’t be helped. They weren’t bad, as far as male chests and abdomens go, and I wasn’t feeling modest. I was feeling intruded upon.

Hello, I offered in my best neighborly voice.

She waved with three fingers as she struggled to fix a scarf about her hair, securing it against the light breeze that had intruded as quickly as she had. I shielded my eyes against the harsh afternoon sun and fished blindly for my sunglasses, which lay somewhere near the T-shirt and beer bottle. My fingers struck plastic and I raised them toward my eyes.

Mr. Klick?

Chris or Christopher, I corrected.

I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, unannounced and all. I tried to find a phone number—

It’s not under my name. I’m house-sitting.

Her shadow stretched to my thighs. I could only see a silhouette, yellow fuzz burning its edges. I asked Nola where you lived, she explained, referring to our small town’s beloved postmistress. I told her it was an emergency.

Is it?

I think so.

With emergencies they either are or they aren’t. They’re quite dependable that way—you know when you’ve got one.

You’re angry. I have violated your privacy. I can understand your anger. I have to admit right up front that I’m not much on popular music. Stopped listening to the radio ten years ago. Would I know any of your songs? I understand you’re a producer.

I debated correcting her. I had been an unpublished songwriter once—maybe that counted. It struck me that she didn’t care about any of it anyway, so why bother with it? She probably didn’t know the difference between a back-up singer and a lead singer, a producer and an arranger, a gig and a session. Not many did. Upon hearing that I had found Brenda Catiglio and had bailed her out of some trouble, a local rag had decided that qualified me for celebrity status. I had refused the interview, but even so they had managed to dig up some dated misinformation, and had spread it across page 17—of 20. She was trying to build me up. We both knew it. I wondered why.

I climbed out of the deck chair and motioned to it. Have a seat. She hesitated. Sit down. I’ll grab another chair. Beer?

No, thanks.

Sure? I asked over my shoulder.

Oh, okay. She shrugged. It was a nice shrug. Genuine. Self-conscious and insecure. If it’s no trouble, she added.

All I do is open ’em and pour ’em, I reminded. Back in a jiffy—

When I returned a few minutes later, she was poised in the chair with her neck resting on its rim, eyes closed behind sunglasses, blouse unbuttoned and hanging at her sides revealing a skintight leotard made of purple Lycra. It pressed her breasts flat and smoothed her narrow waist. A chain of perspiration specks clung to tiny hairs on her breastbone. She had the skin of a sun worshiper. I placed her in her late twenties, early thirties. I had a decade on her, stood a good foot taller, and probably weighed in eighty pounds heavier. She was a little too perfect for my tastes. She had a very feminine jawline and a very delicate neck. I wondered what that body looked like when it wasn’t being flattened by Lycra. How far did that tan run? I dragged my chair with my foot so it would make a racket, and I sat down facing her, but with one eye still on the slough. Still hoping for a second curtain call by the mergansers. She made a sound like a vacuum cleaner coming to a stop—winding down—and sat up. Got to take every advantage of that sun, she said. Won’t be with us much longer.

Agreed. I handed her a glass of beer. She seemed perfectly comfortable in the leotard. To her it was obviously acceptable summer dress—just like my tennis shorts were to me. I was less comfortable. I found myself distracted. I’d been alone in my little cabin for a few too many weeks, I decided. The slow, steady movement of her as she breathed had me mesmerized.

I read that you visit here often, she began.

Off and on.

When you’re not out doing what it is you do.

That’s right.

She sipped the beer. I swigged. She said, You like it here?

It’s quiet. I like that. Open. That’s nice. I spend a lot of time in the city. This is better for me.

Then you like the city?

Some of them. Yes.

I’m from southern California originally. Came up here to Idaho to ski. Fell in love with it. Me and a thousand others, she said, laughing gracefully. Couldn’t stand the hustle of Snow Lake. Moved down here to Ridland, away from it, but still close enough for the restaurants and the powder days. You like to ski?

Yes.

She looked over. I’m bothering you.

To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? She toyed with the idea of buttoning her blouse, but I must have willed her off. She nervously fooled with a button and let the fabric fall open again. I wondered if she caught my smirk. I have trouble hiding my smirks.

We’ve only lived in Ridland about five months, she declared somewhat loudly. She wasn’t ready yet, and she wouldn’t be pushed into it. Her use of we did not go unnoticed. I noticed the ring then, the little band of gold that says I do, or I did, and almost never I will. I had trouble masking my disappointment. I swigged again and tapped out a rhythm connecting the bottom of the Pauli Girl with the beige metal armrest. I looked back out at the slough, hoping to see my winged friends, wondering why this woman had come along to scare them off. We met up at Snow Lake at the end of last season, she continued. Then she spun the ring to make sure I’d noticed it. I read how you saved that woman’s life—Brenda Catiglio—and you seemed like someone I should talk to.

The press exaggerates. I found her is all. I was actually looking for someone else, someone owed some back royalties. It was a fluke. She was in some trouble. I was handy.

And she’s Carmine Catiglio’s daughter?

I nodded.

I bet he was pleased.

I nodded again. I was still uneasy at having an Atlantic City casino owner claim he owed me a favor. Probably the same feeling as being a close friend to a politician.

The article said you make a living at it. You track down former pop musicians who are owed royalty checks and then help them get what’s rightfully theirs. Isn’t that what it said? I mean, besides writing your own songs?

That’s what it said. Yes.

"So you obviously like to help people."

I like music. This happens to be the side of the business I’ve ended up in. I got here via a very circuitous route. And it’s not all Robin Hood—although I admit I like that part of it. I do it for money, for a percentage, Mrs.—

Oh. I’m sorry. How rude of me! Nicole Russell. Call me Nicky.

Nicole suits you better.

She shrugged again. She had a patent on that shrug. Careless and indifferent. My father always called me Nicole. She hesitated just long enough for me to feel her grief. The mergansers could have felt it had they still been swimming out there. It probably would have scared them off, it was so intense. You can call me that if you like.

I like. That made twice she had used language to tell me something. First the we, and now the past tense in conjunction with her father. So it would be a contest of subtle semantics and nuances. I hoped she wasn’t going to make me pry everything out, a bit at a time. The green Pauli Girl bottle was half empty and my September sun was slanting quickly through the sky. I nearly ended our conversation with a blunt rudeness—I keep them handy for such moments—but Nicole had aroused my curiosity, at least my curiosity, and now I wanted her mystery as well. I feared I had taken the job before I even knew what it involved.

She moved in the chair and the Lycra flexed with the effort, softly shifting the flesh beneath. Again she sipped the beer. If she kept it up it would be flat by the time she was half finished. It made me uneasy. Beer—especially my green Girl—is to be appreciated.

Fall’s a beautiful time of year, isn’t it? she asked.

I like the migrations. Fall and spring are special because of that. They’re the seasons of change. Winter and summer, they’re the seasons of stability.

Birds or big game? The migrations, I mean. Are you a hunter?

Birds. And no to number two. I like to watch. I saw her blush and wondered why.

I get so angry at his hunting, she spit. Her jaw muscles hardened and tensed. Again the Lycra flexed, and again my mind wandered. I’d been cooped up too long. If he hadn’t gone hunting, none of this would have happened. It was a private comment—her way of telling me a little bit more.

It might save us some time if you’d just explain.

She cocked her head toward me.

Don’t move, I demanded sternly. Behind her soft-green lenses her brows cinched down tightly and her forehead wrinkled.

By the time I saw them, their wings were set. Two mallards just at the tips of the willows. Nicole obeyed and remained still. I had heard the whistling of their wings that is unique to ducks. I wondered if she had. They dropped steeply and skidded into the slough, webbed feet dragging behind them and frothing the surface. They ruffled their wings in unison, shaking off the water they had gathered on landing. Okay, I said, if you move real slowly. She brought her head around to look and I saw her smile.

I love that color green, she said. I think that’s my favorite color green.

Iridescent.

She nodded slowly. A couple, she whispered.

It’s Mr. Russell, is that it?

She nodded again, still watching the mallards.

He didn’t show up last night, I suggested.

She agreed with that, in her own way. At least I took it for agreement. Then she added, Two nights ago, and confirmed my suspicions.

And you’ve spoken to the police?

I didn’t want to at first. She wouldn’t look at me. Ridland’s such a small town. So off on its own. Self-contained, really. Everyone knows everybody’s business. You must get the same treatment as we do. They like us, but we’re not really part of it here. They have their own group here and there seem to be some unspoken rules to the club.

What did they say? The police, I mean.

"They? You mean him. He pointed out rather crudely that forty miles up the road is a world-famous resort with a lot of ‘young things,’ I think is how he put it. I challenged that notion. I told him I had already been up to Snow Lake and made the rounds and that none of his friends had seen him."

And?

"It’s the truth. It’s the first thing I did. I know all about failed relationships, believe me. But that’s not the way it is."

What’d he say to that? To your looking around, I mean.

He pointed out that there are eighteen hundred condominiums for rent—especially this time of year—and another three thousand motel and hotel rooms. He suggested that finding anyone up there wouldn’t be easy.

He’s right.

You’re missing the point. That’s not where he is.

Where is he?

She took a deep breath and watched the mallards poke their necks into the water, biting off food from the bottom. Their white tails stuck straight up in the air. They looked fake, like capsized decoys. You know they say there’s a feeling, in here, she said, depressing the Lycra beneath her breasts, that tells you when something bad has happened. I always thought that was some sort of romantic notion—fanciful, you know—bullshit, she said harshly, surprising me. She sniffled and I saw her swallow away another attack of tears.

Anything’s possible, I said tenderly, drawing on my beer.

It’s not him. It’s not Paul, she said, confusing me.

Meaning?

I don’t know about Paul. Not in here, anyway. Not in my heart. We were convenient for each other at the time. It’s pleasant enough—but no fireworks. No infatuation. Just convenient, that’s all. With Paul I can’t be sure. With Paul I can’t feel anything in here. There’s too much clogging it up. Too many impure emotions in the way. With Paul it’s different.

I don’t think I follow you.

It’s Harper. It’s Harper I feel in here. Something’s happened to Harper.

Harper?

My black Lab. Paul used him to hunt. He’s a retriever. The best damn dog in the world. She sat forward and crossed her arms tightly. She buckled over and sobbed uncontrollably. Harper’s hurt… or dead, she blurted out after a while. I just know he is.

It took me another fifteen minutes to get the whole story. Her husband had been missing for the better part of two days. Last night, going to bed, she’d been struck in her heart with a violent pain she attributed to her dog Harper. A dog! I saw my obituary fifty years from now: Finder of Missing Persons—and Pets. She had checked the kennel. Harper was missing, food still in the bowl. She couldn’t remember seeing him. Had he been there the first night? Had Paul taken Harper with him? She couldn’t remember.

Goddammit, Mr. Klick, I’m scared! she said, frightening the mallards who flew off in unison. And no one seems to care.

I care, I told her, my eyes staying with the mallards who circled, saw us, and rose quickly into the blue, darting over toward the river and an uncertain future. Go home and stay by the phone. Your husband may call. I didn’t tell her what I was envisioning: a twenty-year-old waitress with a middle-aged man.

I can pay you. Money I have.

I don’t work for a fee, I explained. Not exactly. It’s kind of complicated. I don’t handle things like this. This is for private investigators. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had no interest in a missing-dog investigation.

As she stood to leave I heard five quick dull pops from a shotgun far in the distance. The river, I thought gravely.

The mallards.

Iridescent, I whispered.

Nicole Russell looked at me curiously.

Chapter 2

By the next morning I had the first two verses of a song about a woman losing her dog—her companion. It was a sad, pleading ballad that begged to see my friend again. I felt good about it, even after a quick review following a bowl of Shredded Wheat, which for me is the ultimate test. The lyrics stood alone well, worked well as a poem, and the first hint of a melody twisting through my head complemented the sentiment well.

The living room—the central room of the house—has a lofted ceiling with globe lights and a large Vermont Castings stove in lieu of a fireplace. The stove is faced by overstuffed chairs and a sturdy couch upholstered in a gray wool nap. Between the chairs and couch, in front of the black, four-legged stove, is a thick glass coffee table resting on milled house logs and covered with hurricane lamps and recent issues of Forbes and a week-old New York Times Sunday Magazine. Ridland is too far off the beaten track to receive the current New York Times. I was sitting on the couch, pencil in hand, conceiving a third verse, staring at a crayon-pastel four-by-four-foot Julie Scott painting called The Man With Blue Hair, which was thumb-tacked along the wall of the stairs to the second floor. It is pinks and turquoises, a single man, head tilted, standing passively on a beach, the sun setting directly behind his head. The expression on the man’s face—in his eyes, really—is so marvelously whimsical that I felt tempted to go ahead and buy the thing. It was on a trial loan, and despite the fact that it was too big for this room, he and I had become friends, and parting with him now would be a great loss.

The Man With Blue Hair inspired the third verse, and I set about scribbling it down as quickly as the words and images flooded my brain. It dealt with loss and parting and that inexplicable pang in one’s heart as certain realizations of self-grief come to light. Is it for the lost one we grieve? Or is it for ourselves?

Nicole Russell remained with me, like the Man With Blue Hair remained with me even when I wasn’t in this room. I saw the genuine concern in her eyes, the frustration of helplessness, and that seemed good enough for me. I’m a sucker for people in distress, especially women. Especially kind, sensitive, attractive women.

***

The man arrived at my door uninvited, I thought. Had I not had the security system on, I might have greeted him in boxer shorts. As it was, I slipped into a pair of tennis shorts and greeted him before he had a chance to knock.

How may I help you? I asked.

Chris Klick? He was young, pale, and hosted a drawn face with a five-o’clock shadow. He carried a tape recorder and a notepad, and moved his sneaker-clad feet nervously, insole to insole. He spoke with a slight speech impediment. He sounded like Sylvester the Cat. My name’s Scott Shearson. I’m with KKSI. I called, he reminded.

I had forgotten all about the interview. Following a short piece in the Snow Lake Express on my efforts in Atlantic City, I had been asked by the local radio station for an interview. I’m not fond of publicity, but the young reporter had somehow won my sympathies and talked me into it.

Coffee? I asked, leading him inside and then, a few minutes later, out onto the deck overlooking the slough.

Scott had been doing this a long time, that much was clear. Despite his initial nervousness, he was now focused and poised, pencil in hand, tape recorder running. We had a couple of laughs about my friend Lyel—everyone knew and loved Lyel—and he had effectively broken the ice. I felt comfortable with him.

So, listen, he said. I don’t want to appear ignorant or anything, but I read that article twice, and I still don’t quite understand what it is you do for a living. I had a friend read it and try to explain it to me. He didn’t get it either.

I read it and I didn’t get it either, I kidded. After reading that, I’m not sure what it is I do.

For the sake of our listeners, he said, smiling, how about taking it from the top?

Sure. First of all, there’s nothing real mysterious about what my partner and I do. The same thing is done by banks, oil companies, investment companies—you name it. I had a great-aunt, I said, digressing. "She received a knock on her door one day. A man in a suit—this is the middle of Kansas farm country, mind you—tells her that his company’s records show she is a stockholder. If she can dig up the certificates, she’s entitled to decades of past dividends. She found the certificates—true story—in a chest of drawers. She had used them as shelf paper, to line her stocking drawer. Anyway, she produced the securities, the man produced a check. My family’s been making money off that stock ever since. It doesn’t amount to a whole hell of a lot, but it’s something.

I do essentially the same thing as that man in the suit. My partner in Los Angeles, a lawyer named Bruce Warren, specializes in back royalty settlements. Let’s say the Marvin Gaye estate hasn’t seen any royalty payments for the past two years despite the fact that ‘‘What’s Going On is still played by a hundred radio stations a day. ASCAP or BMI keeps track of the air play, but getting the money out of some of these record companies

Reviews for Dead Aim

[sharrona_4 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

McCall's mystery was complex and interesting. His lead characters were not. The bad guys were one-dimensional and the ultimate bad guy was unsubtly pointed out very early in the story. The setting was good but sometimes the language describing nature's beauty or feelings of love were just "way over the top."SPOILEROne major plot flaw: "Where's the dog?" A woman came to hire Chris Klick to find 3 things: her missing husband, her money, and her dog. The dog was, by far, the most important to her, and had her in anguish over his loss. At one point, she had to make a quick getaway to another state, and presumably left the wounded dog alone in a laundry room (unnoticed, without comment!). When she and Klick finally returned to that house, the dog was never mentioned again. I was reading this book aloud, and nearly every page I turned in the last quarter of the book elicited another "But where's the dog?"

[leslie398 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Pretty good mystery/thriller set in Idaho.