Hot Springs Fatale: A Sun Li Novel

By Doc Yale

Sun Li, a young, brown skinned detective of uncertain ancestry is on his first major investigation. A young man has been found dead at a local hot springs resort in rural Mendocino County in northern California. After a perfunctory investigation the Sheriff and Coroner have concluded that he died of an overdose of heroin. Sun is hired by the dead man's father who doesn't believe that his son would have taken heroin. He takes the case but with trepidation since he has never handled such an investigation where he is pitted against the local authorities. Sun is assisted by a young lady who is also of mixed but known ancestry-- part Mexican, Filipino and Pomo Indian. She has aspirations to be a detective herself and by carefully following the case is able to point out leads Sun is overlooking. Pursuing the case the two become immersed in the primary business of the county—the growing and marketing of marijuana. As they dig into the investigation, they discover that they are threatening people in the county who are willing to injure or even kill to get them to quit. But Sun, the classic "soft-boiled" detective, together with his strong willed lady friend, persist to the surprising and dramatic conclusion of the case. The story is played out in the beautiful and weird county of Mendocino with its rugged and remote landscapes and its diverse and quirky population of whackos, pot growers, aging hippies, back-to-the-landers, old cowboys, Indian survivors, and deranged scholars who have taken refuge in these hinterlands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543967555

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Text copyright @ 2015 Doc Yale All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-54396-754-8 eBook 978-1-54396-755-5

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and wheras many of the places are real or resemble real places the characters are all from my imagination. DY 2018

Author’s Note: With legalization and regulation the cannabis industry in this part of the world has changed in many ways since this story was written. However, some of the concerns elucidated in this book are still present.

Doc Yale wishes to acknowledge the support of his family as well as the Dos Equis in this quixotic effort.

Rather than putting in the usual blurbs from hundreds of publications that have not had a chance to read the book yet, we decided to ask the characters in this story how they felt about it. Their comments (in abridged form) are described below.

Glen – Sun Li is a real professional

Benji – I wish Sun was gay

Lucinda – I miss Toby

Jorge – Us Mexicans are getting a bad rap

Marcy – Sun is not really my son

Vicki – I’m a democratic socialist

Mark – Sometimes even the law helps people

Jep – Sun is a fast learner

Sean – I’m not a criminal!

Dino – Come to my restaurant any time (with a reservation)

Sheila – I resent being called a bimbo

Quentin – Sun is Pomo like my Grandson Ricky

Ricky – O

Gullickson – I wish Idaho was closer

Lonnie – I’ll nail that bastard

Sun – How’m I doing?

Paloma – Yes, I’m still in love

Toby – I wish I was back in Mendocino County

ET – What’s for dinner?

She felt the warmth from the hot springs, the intoxication of the single malt scotch, the pleasure of being with two strong smart sexy men who knew how to party, the enchantment of the misty rain and the magical smells of the redwood forest as the four of them walked down the path by the river to the rock they could jump from into a cold deep pool. But she knew no one was really going to do it this late at night. She was walking holding hands with Jim, the younger of the two doctors and she patted his groin and verified that he had something else on his mind back at their cabin. As he turned to fondle her breast through her terrycloth robe she saw a white shape in the mist and screamed there’s an animal. The other three turned to her in alarm and then quickly turned to look in the direction she was pointing. The older doctor had a headlamp that he turned on – and through the mist he could make out that it was a naked body lying on the path. He ran to the body and out of habit reached to take a pulse, although he was pretty sure he was not going to get one. As the others approached cautiously he said ‘I think he’s a goner—go call the police and I’ll stay with him till they arrive.’

Prologue

The young man rose at first light from a futon on the tatami floor. He tied his dark hair back and padded quietly out the east- facing door of the yurt. The sun was still behind the Mayacamas Range to the east. He paused to listen to the birdsong from his garden and the fields beyond, then breathed deeply and bowed in each of the cardinal directions—to the north thanking Norte for sending the storms this winter to nourish the hills and rivers, to the south thanking Sur for sending the birds back this spring, to the west thanking Oeste for sending the salmon back upriver and to the east thanking the Creator for bringing the sun once again to his abode.

He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly as his Yoga instructor had taught him, then smiled broadly and spoke outloud.

‘And Lord, perhaps you would send me some work today.’

He sat cross-legged, breathing deeply until the sun had cleared the Mayacamas range across the deep valley then rose and went inside to put on water for tea.

Contents

Chapter 1 The Call

Chapter 2 Glen Anderson

Chapter 3 Sean Carpenter

Chapter 4 Lucinda and Leanna

Chapter 5 Marcy

Chapter 6 Paloma

Chapter 7 Carly Mellows

Chapter 8 The Meds

Chapter 9 Marcy II

Chapter 10 Quentin Bensen

Chapter 11 Juan Maldonado

Chapter 12 Quentin II

Chapter 13 Jorge

Chapter 14 ET Bennett

Chapter 15 Interlude

Chapter 16 ET - II

Chapter 17 Mark Gardiner

Chapter 18 Big and Little Maria

Chapter 19 The Accident

Chapter 20 The Hospital

Chapter 21 Going Home

Chapter 22 The List

Chapter 23 Jepson’s Place

Chapter 24 Recovery

Chapter 25 Paloma II

Chapter 26 The Stories

Chapter 27 The Gardens

Chapter 28 El Panqueque

Chapter 29 Paloma III

Chapter 30 Sum

Chapter 31 The Picnic

Chapter 32 The Attack

Chapter 33 Interlude

Chapter 34 The Pictures

Chapter 35 The Bimbo

Chapter 36 Sean II

Chapter 37 Ricky

Chapter 38 Endgame

Chapter 39 Relaxing

Chapter 40 Sorting it Out

Chapter 1

The Call

I had just finished breakfast when the phone rang on my business line. It was only seven thirty and I somehow doubted the Lord could work this fast.

‘SL Investigators, this is Sun,’ I answered, trying to be as professional as possible.

‘Are you the new kid on the Greenough ranch?’

‘Yes, I live there.’

‘Half of the folk up there think you are a plant from the narcs—but my friend Benji assured me that you are for real.’

‘We are a registered detective agency, certified to operate in the State of California,’ I answered, hoping that he would not ask what I meant by we. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to meet with you—I may have a job for your agency.’

‘When would you like to meet?’

‘Sooner the better—I have put this off for too long and I don’t have much time. Can you meet with me today?’

I remembered the paragraph from the bible titled "Setting the Hook". It read:

Don’t underestimate the importance of meeting with a new client as soon as possible. You may be busy or at least want to leave the impression that you are busy but the first meeting is the most important. If a client has to wait a few days to meet with you—he may think that this is the pattern he will have to endure and he may well call another investigator.

I was new to the job, so I had studied the bible intensively.

‘I think so--where and when would work for you.’

‘Why don’t you come out to my place at noon?’

He gave me his address and some brief directions to get there from the County road. I wrote this down carefully in my client journal as recommended and then realized that I was missing something.

‘And your name sir,’

‘I thought you would never ask. I’m Glen—Glen Anderson.’

I wrote it down carefully.

‘And what is this about?’

‘We’ll talk about it when you get here.’

Chapter 2

Glen Anderson

After the call, I began to prepare. I had no other business that day and this could be my very first client as an independent Private I. It seemed like all those other firsts in life—first day of school, first game as a starter on a baseball team, first date, first speech in front of an audience… and just because I was now officially an adult and a college graduate my trepidation was still there. So I resorted to the technique that had carried me through other such events. I reverted to being systematic and methodical to the extreme. I carefully recorded everything in my Detective journal, starting a new notebook that I labeled Anderson Number 1 which I hoped, if anyone noticed, would give the impression that there were lots of other notebooks but this was merely the first for someone named Anderson. Then I referred to the bible section On Clients. It stated:

Find out as much about your client as you can before your first meeting but be discreet. A client does not want to find out that he or she is being investigated.

How the hell do you do that? I wondered. I checked the Internet but discovered that of all the hundreds of Glen Andersons of the world there did not seem to be any that looked like they were from here. Then I thought of Benji, whom Mr. Anderson had mentioned. Benji was my neighbor and he had just brought me a bag of apricots two days before. It was too early to call him, so I waited till ten and called his cell.

‘This is Benjamin the lusty one.’ He answered.

I couldn’t tell whether he was into the sauce or weed early or whether he was just being himself. With Benji you could never tell. Or maybe he was expecting a call from his mother whom he liked to shock out of her prissiness.

‘This is SL Investigators, on assignment from Homeland Security, we’d like to come over and test your blood for subversive substances.’

‘Sun—how are you this beautiful morning? I can assure you that every chemical in my body is certified organic—my body is completely fit to feed to the hogs or the bears. Would you like to come by and partake of some?’

‘Sorry Benji I can’t do that, as you can see by my looks I’m Jewish and cannot eat pork. By the way, thank you for the apricots—they are my favorite fruit; my Uncle Tom says that is proof that I am at least part Mongolian or wherever apricots came from. … I got a call from a friend of yours today.’

‘Did Glen call---good, are you getting the job?’

‘I don’t know. Do you know him well?’

‘In the biblical sense I know him but not too well—he and I shared a bed a time or two but that doesn’t exactly put him on a short list—for him or me. What do you want to know?’

‘Just curious. No, actually I want to know everything.’

‘Glen is your generic middle aged Mendonesian. Scion of a rich family, Stanford graduate turned hippie war-protestor, back-to-the-lander. Two wives, three kids before he discovered he was queer or at least enjoyed swinging both ways; talented artist and musician but ingested too many drugs to pursue them as a career—now saddled with AIDS or the alternative of old age and, of course, the more recent tragedy.’

‘And that is?’

‘He didn’t tell you. Then I’d better let him tell the story. He’s a genuine mensch, honest as hell but a little forgetful lately. You’d best get a contract in writing if you work for him.’

‘Thanks Benji, I owe you one.’

‘I look forward to collecting, dahling, you know what I like.’

‘I do—Petit sirah, right?’

‘Yes, before—during—and after Petit sirah goes well.’

The town of Ukiah sits in a deep valley between the arid Mayacamas Mountains to the east and the wetter, more forested coastal mountains to the west. A road takes off from the northern end of town and goes northwest toward the coast at Mendocino. It was originally a trail for the Pomo Indians of the valley to travel to the coast in summer to fish and gather abalone and escape the inland heat. For a short time it was a stagecoach route so travelers could get from Ukiah to the coast with an overnight stop on the way.

The road climbs steeply out of the valley rising over one thousand feet in four miles. Then it meanders close to the ridgelines for another four miles. The Greenough ranch, where I live, and which is now a rural subdivision not a ranch, lies to the north of this stretch of road. At about the eight mile mark the road crosses into a coastal watershed. The Pomo’s called these headwaters Turtle Creek for these ancient reptiles that are rarely seen there anymore. The road then drops down steeply to the uppermost reach of this creek where, due to the vagaries of the convoluted geology of the area, there is a natural hot spring which has been visited for thousands of years by Pomo’s on their way to the coast but more recently by tourists from all over seeking meaning and warmth in their life.

From there the road follows the creek down for about ten miles meandering among alders and redwoods. The north facing slopes of the valley are covered with redwoods and fir trees but the south facing ones have a mix of conifers, oaks and open grassland. This rich mix of food plants and cover once supported an abundance and diversity of wildlife with deer, bear, elk, salmon, river otters, mountain lions and a long list of smaller critters. Like the rest of the north coast the wildlife of the valley is now greatly diminished. Grizzly bears no longer roam the hills but black bears still persist and raid the beehives and chicken coops of the modern homesteaders. The elk are gone but the deer are abundant and are still stalked by mountain lions in the hills. The salmon still return to spawn but not in the numbers of a century ago and thus the bald eagles no longer congregate to feed on salmon carcasses when the fish are running.

Ten miles downstream the road leaves the valley and climbs up through conifer clad hills to the next watershed to the south which it follows out to the coast. The road is now paved, or as some residents like to say, is pockmarked as it seems like the surface of potholes is greater than the surface of pavement. My ancient VW bug did well on this road as long as the potholes could be avoided.

The turnoff to Glen Anderson’s place was about six miles past the hot springs and his home was not hard to find. Once you left the county road onto the maze of dusty dirt roads there were a lot of turns—but they were well marked. At one time the back-to-the-landers had resisted signing their roads as they figured signing would just make it easier for the narcs or other government people to find them. It also made it near impossible for the poor volunteer fire departments to find them. After enough cabins in the hills had burned to the ground because no firefighters could find them, the new settlers reluctantly started naming and signing their roads. The local wags explained the new signs were so that the old demented hippies could find their way home. The last three turns to the Anderson place had a prominent sign indicating which way to turn to get to Andersonville.

The Anderson place was a typical Mendonesian homestead, set on a south-facing bench above Turtle Creek where the redwoods and Douglas fir of the river bottom were transitioning to the dry chaparral of the hillside above. The entrance was garnished by an old weathered sign carved in wood that hung across the road proclaiming this was the Anderson Ranch although there was no sign of cows or cowboys. The drive to the house was lined with old cars and pickups in various states of abandonment and salvage—some on redwood rounds with the wheels gone – others merely sitting on flat tires giving them the appearance of having sunk into the mud. The house itself was octagonal but with various additions poking out in different directions that together with the numerous outbuildings gave the appearance of a giant octopus with severed limbs.

I parked outside, honked once, and waited as is the custom in these parts. Mr. Anderson came to the door and waved me in. I introduced myself and we shook hands formally. The inside of the house reminded me of the attics of relatives I had visited with cobwebs and a thick layer of gray dust everywhere. I turned down his offer of coffee or beer and we sat at a table so crowded with dust covered junk and books that there was only a small area for me to place my notebook.

Glen Anderson looked to be seventy or so, although he might have been much younger. He had thick wire rim glasses and had not shaved for a number of days, His face was blotched with red spots and gray and brown hair looked to be falling out in uneven batches from his head and beard. He wore clothes that looked like they were two sizes too big like he had lost a lot of weight but had not sprung for new duds. He gave the impression that his body had given up on life--only his eyes suggested that there was an active passionate mind behind them.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Anderson?’

‘Call me Glen. I want you to find out who killed my son and why. .’

‘I need a little more information, Mr. Anderson--Glen.’

‘You don’t know? Oh, I guess that’s not surprising. The radio hardly covered it and nobody reads the newspapers these days—they’re hardly worth buying except to start fires—you can’t even use it for fish wrap cause of the toxins. I suppose you are new here too.’

‘Yes, somewhat—I have been in the county only for a few years.’

‘My son was found naked and dead downriver from the hot springs three weeks ago—June 21, I believe. You can read the police report—I have a copy for you—but I can give you the basics. There is usually a big party at the hot springs on the solstice. This is the place you passed on the way out here. Old hippies and younger ones trying to get in touch with their pagan past, or whatever people were before they began to worship money and consumption. My son, Tobias, was there with some friends including his on-and-off girlfriend, Lucinda.’

‘What’s an on-and-off girlfriend?’ I asked, wondering if this had some sexual connotation, and then feeling kind of self-conscious, began to scribble some notes—trying to appear professional, even though I knew I would not forget any details—at least for a while.

‘Oh, you know, like you kids these days, they hung out together a lot—I’m sure they slept together when in the mood, but not much more commitment to each other than to get their partner a ride home—sometimes not even that. I don’t know where you are from or what your background is like but most kids here haven’t had a relationship that lasted more than a few months—a few years at best—more typically a week or two.’

He stopped himself suddenly and said,

‘Please excuse me if I start rambling or going down rabbit trails. I don’t have much time left but there are still a few things I want to do.’

‘So a solstice party at the Hot Springs was the sort of event that both Toby and Lucy would enjoy—growing up here Toby knew the owners and I don’t think they had to pay to be there and they were both pretty sociable. One or two of their friends would have rented a cabin at the springs for the night and they would move back and forth between the various pools and the cabins where they would go to drink and dance and hump. Nothing unusual here.’

‘Early the next morning two Sheriff’s deputies drove up here to the house. I’m not used to seeing a sheriff out here nor very comfortable with it but I don’t really have much to hide any more. They told me that they had found my son dead downriver from the hot springs. He was found by some late night revelers from the springs who had gone for a walk. The deputies waited for me to overcome my shock and then said they needed to ask some questions.’

‘The questions were pretty routine and I managed to respond to them easily. They asked, ‘Where were you last night?’ and I told them "At home-asleep in front of the TV by the 9th inning when it was clear the Giants were going to lose". ‘They asked if Toby had any enemies and I told them I didn’t know of any. They asked if he had a bad drug habit and I told them just the usual ones -- alcohol and an occasional toke. And so on. I asked them if they had any idea of what might have happened. They said no, but that the Sheriff would get in touch with me as soon as they learned anything.’

Glen started to fade a little and I could see the agitation in his eyes.

‘This is painful to talk about—but mostly I need to take my meds if you’ll excuse me. You sure you don’t want a beer.’

He poured himself a liberal shot of what smelled like brandy from a decanter on the table and then lit up a king size doobie and took a couple of hits from it then tossed back a couple of pills with his drink.

‘It’s the pits, he said. We took all these things for pleasure for so many years and now we have to take them for pain.’

‘So what did the police discover?’, I asked.

‘It’s the Sheriff not the police. This is an unincorporated area as is most of the county. They did a perfunctory investigation and an autopsy. The conclusion of their report was that he had died of an overdose of heroin. His body had a lethal level and as far as the Sheriff’s investigator was concerned it was case closed. Suicide is the easiest way out for lazy investigators—victim and suspect all wrapped up in one. No need to look at motives – the family can work that out. Their investigation took less than a week and they notified me of their conclusion a week ago.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘It’s not what I think, it’s what I know. Every parent has a limited understanding of their kids—what they do, what makes them tick, their vices—and their virtues-- but I think I know some things about my son. Toby and I had a pretty good relationship, once he got over me breaking up with his mother. He, and Lucinda, were both helping to take care of me with my illness. Toby would never take drugs like that. He liked to drink beer and wine and take an occasional hit, but he would never do anything stronger. He had two of his friends die from overdoses when he was a teenager and he had worked down in the city for a few years and seen the devastation it can do to minds and bodies. If there was heroin in his body—somebody put it there.’

‘Didn’t the Sheriffs consider that?’

‘Not really. They’re pretty incompetent. People kill themselves all the time in this county with overdoses or accidents related to drugs. This must have seemed like just another case of a little too much partying. Oh, they interviewed everyone who had been there that night and asked them what they had seen but nobody really knew much. Toby was not seen after a certain point in the evening—but that sort of thing was not unusual and nobody was particularly upset, except perhaps Lucinda.’

‘Why Lucinda?’

‘As I understand it, when they went to a party they did not cling to each other but circulated and partied with an understanding that they would end the evening together. When she was getting tired and ready to go home or to bed—she couldn’t find him.’

‘Could she have done it?’

‘Impossible—she grew up here -- I have known her since she was a little girl. She had a wild streak but it didn’t involve drugs or violence and there is not a mean bone in her body. She could hardly murder a chicken, much less her boyfriend.’

‘Did the Sheriff look at other possibilities?’

‘No. They’re not very professional. In fairness, their budgets have been getting cut each year so they have less staff and there is pressure to close cases. On the other hand they get a lot of money from what they confiscate, asset forfeiture is what they call it, and using that money to do a better job of investigating murders does not seem to be a high priority. They want new toys—guns and surveillance devices—even drones for god’s sake.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to do what they should have done. Find out who killed my son and why.’

‘That may be difficult.’

‘I know that—but I think that with persistence you can learn more. I have checked you out and I know you don’t have much experience. But I’d take a motivated greenhorn over a jaded journeyman any day. I have talked with some of these seasoned dicks and they do not impress. They have spent so much time tracking philandering husbands and unfaithful wives that they hardly know how to observe people or ask penetrating questions. The first thing they want to talk to me about is their gadgetry. What are we going to do? Put a microphone or microchip on a cadaver.’

‘I‘ll see what I can do. But we need to talk terms.’

I pulled out the contract that I had prepared and thought of the bible section on "Payment" and remembered the admonition in bold print at the end.

If you do not have a contract and a retainer, you do not have a job. You may as well be a volunteer!

‘I need