Mortal Vows: McCall / Malone Mystery, #7

By Glenn Harris

It's a critical time in both the relationship and partnership of Clint McCall and Devon Malone. Malone has accepted McCall's proposal and they pick up one of their oddest cases ever: a client wants them to reassure her that her son is not a dangerous psychopath. Easier said than done.

At the same time, old friends and lovers of Malone begin to die--and the deaths seem to be getting closer and closer to her. Is it all coincidence or is someone out for vengeance? And what if that kid IS a dangerous psychopath?

Our two detectives have to scramble for their lives to ensure that they ultimately have a marriage rather than a funeral.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Harris
• Release date: Nov 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386370628

Book preview

Mortal Vows 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, actually exists of course. 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 wreaked other minor havoc with Portland’s reality for the purposes of my story.

Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Harris

First Edition 2018

www.glennharris.us

Cover design: Cathleen Rehfeld

Mortal Vows

by

Glenn Harris

CHAPTER ONE

It was not a good day for Janet Metallious.

Her asshole boyfriend had been out of her life for a week already, which could be considered a good thing, but her rent was overdue, her dog was sick, and her boss was giving her shit because she wanted time off to take the poor little critter to the vet.

She was a twenty-six-year-old woman with pale reddish-blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail, a pale complexion to go with it, and—it seemed to her, more and more—pretty damned pale prospects as well. She’d been a waitress at the Good Times Coffee Emporium on Sandy Boulevard in Portland, Oregon, for her entire adult life. She no longer even registered all the chrome trim dominated by the standard encourage-people-to-eat-fast bright orange color scheme. It was just her natural surroundings, never changing and never good; she was beginning to think she’d probably retire from this pathetic job someday.

That was depressing enough.

And now lately there was this feeling that someone was watching her.

She tried to shake off the vague discomfort. Buddy, her ten-year-old Pomeranian, was the priority right now. Or should be.

The problem was, her shift was eight to six, five days a week, and the vet’s hours were nine to four-thirty, those same five days. She couldn’t possibly afford after-hours emergency care. Hell, she couldn’t afford any vet visit.

But she was going to afford it, damn it. Somehow. As soon as she could get some time off. Buddy was her whole family now and she wasn’t going to let him down. He was all alone in the apartment, just like always when she was at work, and he really didn’t feel good when she left him this morning. She could tell. She hoped he was at least eating something by now.

She glanced at her watch: ten minutes to one. More than five fucking hours to go before she could check on him, give him a good snuggle, see if maybe he had started feeling better on his own. She wished.

Is there someplace you have to be, Miss?

She focused on the elderly man who was looking up at her, realizing that she’d spaced out while waiting to see if he’d ever decide what he wanted for lunch. What?

You were looking at your watch. I thought maybe you were in a hurry.

Was this old fart actually giving her a hard time? She couldn’t believe it. She had twenty tables to keep track of. He was occupying one of them all by himself even though there were a couple of stools still available at the counter. She’d given him the menu at least ten minutes ago and he still hadn’t made up whatever mind he had left. And now he was giving her shit about glancing at her watch?

Sorry, she said with a smile that looked more like gritted teeth. Have you decided what you want?

His eyes went back to the menu. Jesus, he should have had the damned thing memorized by now.

After one more careful inspection of the listed items: I’ll have the special. With coffee. He handed her the menu back.

She restrained herself from hitting him with it and headed behind the counter to pass the order through to the kitchen. On the way she noted at least three of her tables gesturing that they needed some attention. She also noted that her feet had started to hurt. Again. She needed new shoes, which was another thing she couldn’t afford.

And she was sure she’d just caught a glimpse of someone staring at her through the front plate glass window. Again.

CHAPTER TWO

Why do you want to keep your apartment after we're married? I asked Devon Malone.

She was sitting on her side of our partners desk in the large single-room office suite that comprised the McCall-Malone Detective Agency.

She was dressed as usual in jeans (black today), snug tank top (also black), and boots (ditto), her brunette hair slightly fluffed around the sharp features of the face I’d grown to love. Her hair smelled faintly of cinnamon, as always.

I was dressed as usual in khaki pants, polo shirt (blue on this occasion), and scuffed brown dress shoes. My hair was definitely not fluffed; it was mostly missing. And I probably smelled faintly of bemusement.

It was two p.m. on a sunny Thursday in early July.

About three hours ago, after we’d had lunch with my daughter Colleen and Colleen’s new (shudder) boyfriend, I’d asked Malone to marry me—a slightly iffy proposition given that she’s thirty-five and I’m fifty-three. But she accepted. And I’d managed to wait the whole three hours to ask her why she’d then immediately specified that she wanted to retain her own apartment.

I didn't say I wanted to keep it after we're married, she responded with a slight frown of irritation—an expression I was intimately familiar with. I want to keep it while we're engaged. If we get married, I'll probably re-think.

That sat me back a little in my swivel chair. "If we get married? We just got engaged, right? That's supposed to mean that we're committed, that we're going to get married."

Slight shrug. And we probably will but, you know, shit happens.

I had to laugh. You are too cynical sometimes, you know that?

And, thank goodness, she grinned at me in return. Realistic. Not cynical. And you can't be too realistic.

I shook my head in amused resignation. I think maybe you can. And settled down to do some work.

I founded the agency six years ago and Devon has been my partner for five months. She was career law enforcement, a uniformed officer in Tigard and then a missing persons detective for the Portland Police Bureau—suspended from and ultimately quitting the latter job partially because of yours truly. Long story, best forgotten.

Our office is located at the corner of Third and Stark, above Previously Owned Books, right on the edge of downtown Portland. We share the floor with our attorney, our accountant cum internet expert, our insurance agent, and a small telephone survey outfit that we’ve never needed. It’s an excellent location, for all sorts of reasons.

We currently had several cases open, though none was what I’d call major: two skip traces for local landlords, three employment background checks for a local corporate headquarters, and one suspicious spouse wanting her suspicions confirmed or denied.

That last one was almost wrapped up. We now knew hubby was renting a downtown motel room on a regular basis and it was just a matter of getting some photos the next time he used it. A medium-sized bribe of the day-time desk clerk assured we would have that notification. Very likely suspicions would be confirmed.

CHAPTER THREE

I was initiating the latest of those background checks on my PC, a simple Google search which is about the best I can do, when there came a knock on our door.

Come in, I called, and watched the door open, very slowly and tentatively, to reveal a woman standing in the hallway.

She was squinting in at us as though there were fog in the room. She just stood there, not moving to come inside. Her brown hair was lackluster and hung straight down to her shoulders, but it framed a fairly attractive middle-aged face with sharp cheekbones and button nose. Whoever she was, she was either very hesitant about visiting a detective agency or near-sighted. Maybe both.

Can we help you? I asked.

She squinted from me to Malone and back again. Is one of you the detective?

We are both the detective, responded my partner, already sounding a little impatient. Would you like to come in?

The woman looked around as if surprised to find herself in the hall rather than in the office, then finally crossed the threshold and made her way to the visitor chair beside my half of the partners desk.

So you’re Mr. McCall and—peering across the desk—you’re Miss Malone.

Yes, I said, that’s who we are. Just like it says on the damned door. I was pretty sure already that this was not going to be an interesting or lucrative encounter.

She settled herself for a moment and took a careful breath. She was wearing a plain gray knee-length summer dress and carrying a simple black purse. She could have stepped straight out of a mid-50’s TV sitcom.

My name is Delores Kenmore, she said. The name fit. I want you to prove that my son is not a psychopath. I don’t care how much it costs.

Oh, okay. So much for not interesting or lucrative. And forget the sitcom.

After a moment or two of dead silence as my partner and I processed that, I said, carefully, Perhaps you should give us a little background on your problem.

With the understanding, added Malone, that we’re private detectives, not psychologists or psychiatrists.

The woman waved that aside, her eyes looking more focused and alert. She seemed to have gotten her bearings now that we were down to business. Joel has already seen every kind of mental health professional there is, maybe everyone in the state by now, and they all say he’s fine, that I have nothing to worry about. Her mouth twitched in a decidedly grim smile. They’re more worried about my sanity than his.

How old is your son? asked Malone. She was taking notes now.

Nearly seventeen.

Is he still in school?

He’s always been homeschooled. Not by me personally. He’s had the best tutors, a very good education. Pause. But he doesn’t seem interested in going to college.

So, I said, what makes you think your son—Joel, is it?—might be dangerous?

Lulu. That was the first thing.

We all waited for her to continue and she didn’t. She just sat there, looking at us as if we could somehow intuit who or what the hell Lulu was.

You need to elaborate on that a little, I finally said dryly.

Lulu was Joel’s puppy. He killed her. Tortured her to death, really.

Oh, man. That was hard to hear, especially given that her delivery was almost without affect, a resigned monotone.

How old was Joel when that happened? asked Malone.

Three, replied Joel’s mother.

CHAPTER FOUR

We all just sat there in silence for another long moment. Personally, I was already wishing this woman had not walked in the door. But I could see Devon leaning in and I knew we were going to take the damned case, whatever it turned out to be.

He tortured a puppy to death when he was three years old? Malone finally responded. You’re sure it wasn’t an accident of some kind?

I’m sure. Pause. "The experts aren’t. No one who talks to Joel believes he would do such a thing, even now, much less when he was three. My son is very smart, very charming. No one believes he would do serious harm."

Except you, I said.

Her control broke, her expression collapsing into anguish. "I don’t know! I don’t want to believe he is anything other than my wonderful, smart, odd son, but...I’m afraid. That’s why I need you. I need someone who understands the dark side of life, who knows how to recognize...wrong-doing, someone objective to look at Joel and find out what’s really going on. I don’t want you to meet with him. I don’t want him to know about this, of course. But, believe me, I’ll happily pay you any amount of money you want if you can tell me he’s not dangerous to himself or anyone else."

We can’t prove a negative, I pointed out. "Even if we find absolutely nothing to indicate that your son is a danger to himself or others, that doesn’t mean he’s not—or won’t be in the future. The only way you’ll get a definite answer is if we find evidence to prove he is dangerous."

Delores Kenmore slumped and sat back. I guess I can understand that...but if all your expertise comes up with nothing I will at least feel somewhat reassured. She slumped a little more. If you do find something, of course I’ll pay you anyway. Just not happily.

Malone and I looked at each other across the desktop. She nodded, as I knew she would. We’d had an unspoken deal since she joined the agency: If either of us found a case worth taking, we’d take it. If the client could afford it, of course.

This could take a lot of time, I cautioned Mrs. Kenmore as I opened a desk drawer and extracted the sheet we always give clients that listed our rates, contact number, standard reporting procedures, etc. I handed it to her. It could be very expensive.

She looked down and scanned the information. I was interested to see what her reaction would be. Everything she’d said indicated that she had plenty of money, although her plain dress and simple purse hardly shouted great wealth.

No visible reaction at all. She set the piece of paper on the desk, reached into the purse, and pulled out a checkbook. It says you require an advance. How much?

You’re sure? asked Malone.

Finally it seemed to occur to our visitor that she might not look like a well-to-do person. She spread her hands, one still gripping the checkbook, and shrugged. I’m not into ostentation, she said. "Don’t worry. My husband was very successful in real estate. Very successful. I can pay whatever you require."

Good enough. I gave her a figure and she gave me a check. Then we spent almost another hour with our newest client, Malone and I taking notes as Mrs. Kenmore provided background on herself and her son.

Her husband had run off with a younger woman when Joel was five years old but then died in a car accident before they could be divorced. Mrs. Kenmore inherited everything and had never remarried. It became clear as she talked that her son was a primary reason her husband had left and that she’d remained single. The boy apparently didn’t like competition and had a growing repertoire of nasty ways to show it, at least according to her.

He certainly did sound like a self-centered and unpleasant person, but there are plenty of those among us. But dangerous? A psychopath? That remained to be seen. And the seeing of it was going to be up to us.

We finally had everything we could think of about his schooling and medical history (the latter quite extensive), his friends (definitely not extensive), the names of his tutors past and present, his routines, his hobbies, where he liked to hang out, and of course a photo, which Malone uploaded from Kenmore’s phone onto her PC.

Kenmore accepted our assurances that we’d get right on her case and report in a timely manner, then left Malone and me sitting at our desk, looking at one another.

That woman, I finally said, just hired us to determine whether her kid is a dangerous psychopath.

Yeah, I was here for the whole thing.

I’m processing. Give me a minute.

My partner firmed up her shoulders and gave me a gimlet eye. "I don’t know all the symptoms of psychopathology, but that woman, our new client, is frightened. Maybe her kid is a psychopath. Maybe he’s a sociopath. Maybe she has the problem. We aren’t experts on diagnosis of the mentally ill.

But—and here she leaned a little forward and pointed a finger at me—you and I do know crazy. That we are experts on. So if Delores Kenmore’s son is a danger to her or anyone else—or, hell, if she’s a danger to him—we can figure it out and deal with it. You with me on that?

I looked into the fiercely determined eyes of my partner, my trusted friend, my backup, my love, and couldn’t hesitate.

Always, I said.

CHAPTER FIVE

This is going to be a labor-intensive case, I said after we’d spent a few minutes going back over what Mrs. Kenmore had told us.

The printer in the corner woke up. Malone must have sent it something. True enough, she said as she got up to head in that direction. Lots of research, lots of interviewing, lots of surveillance to do it right. We’ll need Eleanor, Johnny and Hap, maybe even some of your black belt buddies. She retrieved a couple of copies and returned to her side of the desk. Hopefully not Reuben.

She handed one copy to me. It was the photo she’d uploaded from Mrs. Kenmore’s phone. At least we should have no trouble paying them all. Here’s our target.

The recently upgraded color printer had pretty good tone reproduction, so I assumed the sallow look of Joel Kenmore’s face was accurate. It was a thin face below a full head of brownish-blond hair, with eyebrows that practically faded into the background, a sharp, almost-prominent nose above full, unsmiling lips, and eyes that would have drawn my attention no matter what his mother had said. Even in this paper reproduction of a digital reproduction, the eyes practically glowed. Whatever else he might be, this kid was not ordinary.

Ookay, I said. I’m going down to Eleanor’s office for a minute and get her started on some social media background. I checked my watch. A little after four. If she’s still here. The kid’s sixteen years old. Surely he uses Facebook or something like that.

Gee, I hope she can take a break from helping her clients cheat the government, Malone muttered. At least she’d reached sufficient truce with our accountant that she no longer said such things to the woman’s face. Still, better that I go there than have Eleanor come here.

And do you even know what Facebook is? she asked my back as I moved toward the door. As she well knows, I’m not very savvy about the newest technology or media, which is why I’ve always employed Eleanor Ivory to do it for me.

It’s where people post pictures of their cats, isn’t it? I said over my shoulder as I opened the door.

Malone snorted. Don’t tell me you’ve got Stella and Maxine on there. She was referring to the tortoiseshell sisters who had selected me as their human more than a dozen years ago.

I grinned back at her as I stepped into the hall. Nah, they’ve got privacy issues. I shut the door behind me and headed down the hallway to Eleanor’s office.

CHAPTER SIX

I was thinking as I walked that my partner was right about Kenmore and the resources we would need. Besides our accountant for internet research and possibly some hacking, we would need my old retired mentors Johnny Crew and Hap Harbaugh. They no longer had an agency of their own but they still occasionally provided backup for us, health and wives permitting.

The black belts Malone had mentioned were the six friends, including Eleanor Ivory, who had joined with me to rent our own training space downtown. They enjoyed playing detective now and then, Eleanor providing technical assistance and the others providing surveillance or bodyguard duty as we had need and they had time.

Reuben was Reuben Keys, Portland’s most flamboyant pimp and drug dealer, also a friend of mine—sort of—but definitely not of Malone’s.

Eleanor Ivory Accountancy was just down the hall on the left. I knocked on the door, heard a faint come in, and opened it to step inside.

The office was a single room like mine and Malone’s, though smaller. Eleanor’s desk was centrally located with shelves behind her housing stacks of files, a number of hefty tax law reference books, an elaborate doll collection, and a variety of other knickknacks. A mobile of papier-mâché birds hung from the ceiling.

She was looking up from her keyboard as I entered.

My ‘e’ is stuck, she said.

I’m sorry to hear that. I took one of her visitor chairs. You mean it won’t come back up?

She gestured at her screen, which I couldn’t see at this angle. That’s exactly what I mean. I have a whole screen full of ‘e’s and for all I know it’s still going. She squinted at the screen. There’s a flicker. It is still going. Shit.

Turn it off and back on again. That fixes everything.

Didn’t fix either one of my marriages, she said, but she shut the PC off anyway. There. That will hold it until I can get the key unstuck or get a new keyboard.

She swiveled to face me across the desk. So, what can I do for you?

"I need you to find everything you can on a sixteen-year-old named Joel Kenmore. Social media,