Chump Change

by G. M. Ford

  Also in the Leo Waterman Mystery Series

  Who in Hell is Wanda Fuca?

  Cast in Stone

  The Bum’s Rush

  Slow Burn

  Last Ditch

  The Deader the Better

  Thicker than Water

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 G.M. Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477819753

  ISBN-10: 1477819754

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920524

  To Amber Cangilose

  1976–2013

  A Light so Bright.

  Shine on Baby,

  Shine on.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Did you hear that?” Rachel whispered.

  The question dragged me up from the pit of passion. My lust-glazed eyes tracked her outline, as she slid from my embrace and moved across the darkened room. I watched as she gathered her robe from the carpet and wound it around her naked body. I rubbed my eyes and sat up in bed.

  “Hear what?” I asked.

  “I heard glass breaking.”

  “In here?”

  “Next door.”

  “Probably just the wind chimes,” I groused. “Come back to bed.”

  She ignored me, and instead padded across the room, parted the drapes with her hand, and peeked out through the opening.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Shhhhhhh.”

  For the second time since we’d begun keeping serious company, Rachel and I were house-sitting for Frank and Andrea Landry, the parents of one of her best friends, Celia Warner. Rather than endure the gloomy seasonal mildew of the Pacific Northwest, the Landrys decamped every fall and headed for their little twelve-room shack in the French countryside, for several months of sunshine and Old World charm, leaving Celia to deal with the ancestral manse.

  It had been during our first house-sitting session last April when Rachel and I had, how shall I gallantly say, cemented our relationship for the first time, lending a certain lustful nostalgia to the very mention of the joint.

  With this year’s Christmas season come and gone and both of us wearied by the seemingly endless rounds of good friends and bad Bundt cake, we’d been easy marks when Celia asked how we’d like to hold down the family fort again, while she spent a few weeks in Cabo with somebody named Jarrod. Beyond dreamy, I was assured.

  Took us all of a minute and a half to say yes. Took another day and a half for Rachel to pack and clear her relationship counseling calendar, and then we were off, bouncing across Puget Sound on the Fauntleroy ferry.

  We’d spent the past eight days taking a much-needed respite from the rigors of city life, sleeping in, partying with the neighbors, living on greasy cheeseburgers from the Sunrise Tavern across the bay, and otherwise being as useless as humanly possible, a behavior mode with which I was intimately acquainted.

  I slid from the bed and kicked around in the darkness, trying to locate my jeans.

  “I’m calling the police,” Rachel announced in a stage whisper.

  “Hang on. Hang on,” I chanted impatiently as I hopped on one foot and stuffed myself into the Levi’s. “Lemme see.”

  I peered out into the darkness. The house next door belonged to the Morrisons, an elderly couple who, as nearly as I could tell, were never in residence. Overhead, a thick blanket of clouds slid across a backlit sky. I blinked and rolled my eyes over the backyard, across the leafless shrubbery and the dark patio, with its canvas-shrouded furniture and lifeless flowerpots, over the sightless garden statuary, and finally to the wide grass bank as it spilled down and disappeared into the black water of the bay.

  “Did you see it?” Rachel hissed.

  “See what?”

  “The curtains.”

  I shifted my gaze and squinted through the darkness. She was right. The drapes covering the back slider were quivering.

  “Probably just a heating vent,” I offered.

  “Did you bring your gun?” she whispered.

  “Why in God’s name would I bring a gun?” I asked incredulously.

  “You’re a detective.”

  “I didn’t come out here to detect anything. I came out here to roll around naked with you. What would I possibly need a gun for?”

  She shrugged. “You’re supposed to be prepared, aren’t you?”

  “I thought I was doing pretty well.”

  “Not that,” she scoffed. “For emergencies.”

  “Since when am I a Boy Scout?”

  That’s as far as the banter got, because at that moment, something or someone inside the Morrison house plastered the drapes against the window with enough force to bow the glass outward.

  “Go in the kitchen and close the door,” I said. “Call nine-one-one.”

  She opened her mouth for the inevitable discussion that preceded even the smallest of actions, but I cut her off.

  “Go!” I said.

  As Rachel disappeared into the hallway, the muted sound of breaking glass found my ears. I snapped on the overhead light and, after a bit of searching, located my shoes under the far corner of the bed.

  By the time Rachel returned, I had reached the foyer and was shouldering myself into my brown leather jacket.

  “They said it could be a bit,” she whispered.

  “What’s a bit?”

  “She said they had a hostage situation going on at some apartment complex.”

  I started for the front door.

  “You can’t go out there,” she hissed.

  “What am I gonna do?” I asked. “Just stand here while they tote the flat-screen out the front door?”

  “Wait for the police,” she insisted.

  “I’ll just have a quick look,” I said. “Go call the cops again.”

  I evaded further discussion by easing the front door open and sliding out onto the porch. The air was cold and damp. Like being wrapped in wet felt. I shivered and raised my collar against the chill. My breath became visible as I stepped out onto the flagstone walkway. Overhead, an icy wind whipped the trees back and forth like Rajneesh dancers. Somewhere in the distance, a siren whined in the night.

  I walked to the end of the drive and checked the street in both directions. No getaway vehicle in sight. No nothing. Just the intermittent roar of the wind and the feel of frozen fingers on my neck. I shivered again and peeped around the shrubbery at the Morrisons’ front porch.

  Truth be told, I was looking for a way out. I don’t remember exactly what my fantasy du jour was, but you could bet it was something that sent me back inside the house, back to central heating and Rachel’s warm embrace. Something we could laugh about later over cocktails. Reality, however, as is its wont, was not nearly so accommodating.

  The Morrisons’ door frame bristled with fresh splinters. The white, four-panel door hung from a single hinge, oscillating slightly as the wind swirled about. A muddy boot print adorned the center of the door. Probably not the UPS guy, I figured.

  I heaved an inward sigh.
I don’t know exactly what propelled me forward. I’d prefer to think I was motivated by a sense of responsibility, of being my brother’s keeper, or something vaguely noble like that, but when you look at my history, it’s hard to attribute it to anything except the same mule-headed stupidity that’s taken a chunk out of my hide so many times in the past. I guess some folks just never learn.

  I listened intently for a faraway siren, hoping I could convince myself to hang in there until the cavalry arrived. But no matter how hard I listened, nothing was audible above the freeway roar of the wind in the trees.

  I stifled a sigh and started crabbing down the concrete walk, moving slowly, my head on a swivel, half expecting somebody to leap from the bushes and attack me.

  I turned my shoulders sideways and edged through the prickly door frame, one slide-step at a time, dropping my eyes to the littered carpet, making damn sure I didn’t step on anything.

  Somewhere in front of me a calliope of crashing echoed through the house. Sounded like somebody had swept the kitchen counter clean and was now kicking about in the rubble. I was inching in that direction when the intruder suddenly stopped moving. I shut off my inner voice, held my breath, and listened. I could just make out another sound. Something low-pitched and vaguely musical. The intruder was humming some simple, childish rhyme, over and over and over, as if to comfort himself. I strained to hear, but before I could name that tune, his silhouette passed the kitchen window and disappeared into the darkness at the back of the house. Without consciously willing it so, I began to follow.

  Above the house, the peekaboo moon split the cloud cover, throwing a cubist collection of silver streaks across the interior of the house. I picked my way through the minefield of shattered bric-a-brac spread about the floor. I was so intent on my feet, I failed to notice he’d stopped moving again.

  He must have picked up on my presence, cause the minute I poked my head through the archway, push immediately came to shove. He came blasting out of the darkness like a Scud missile, aiming to elbow me aside as he bolted for the door. At least, that was the plan.

  I’m a pretty big pile of protoplasm, not easily displaced by anything short of a diesel train. His elbow dug hard into my ribs, but I held my ground. He grunted as he bounced off my shoulder and slammed into the wall. I stuck out a foot and let his momentum send him to the hardwood floor with a thud. As he tried to scramble to his feet, I threw myself onto his back and clamped him in a bear hug.

  He was almost too wide to get my arms around. He bellowed something unintelligible and rolled me onto my back, where I didn’t have much choice but to hang on for dear life. Last thing in the world I wanted was this guy kneeling on my chest, beating my brains to jelly.

  “Easy now . . . easy,” I chanted into his ear, trying to calm him down. The sound of my voice, however, seemed to have precisely the opposite effect. He began to struggle violently, twisting back and forth, throwing his big shoulders and kicking his feet, as he tried desperately to break my grip.

  That kind of all-out effort is tough on the cardiovascular system. Half a minute of thrashing and he was panting like a racehorse. I hugged him harder and thought I had him under control, when suddenly he threw his head straight back. My world went red. Bad enough that I felt my nose cartilage explode. Even worse, I heard it. Sounded like somebody breaking Popsicle sticks.

  As I laid there on the floor, my vision gone haywire, squeezing with all my might, a warm trickle began running down over my chin. I spit blood and cursed myself for not waiting for the cops.

  Despite the cold, I could feel a sheen of perspiration forming on the backs of my hands. And then suddenly he slipped one arm loose and was prying at my fingers, peeling them back one by one, until they lost their sweaty connection, and he began to scramble back to his feet.

  Figuring he’d try to dance the tarantella on my face, I raised my hands to protect myself, but apparently the big guy wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Instead of stomping my head through the cut-pile shag, he bolted for the door.

  Why I went after him I couldn’t tell you. I shoulda let the cops worry about whatever happened next. But no. That would have been smart, and smart’s never been the specialty of the house.

  I’ll blame it on the fact that my vision suddenly cleared, which instinctively sent me scrambling to my feet. I looked his way just in time to see him step on an overturned yachting trophy and roll his ankle all the way over. I winced as he screamed like a panther and went down in the doorway.

  From somewhere deep in his chest, a high-pitched keening sound began to fill the room. The sound went up two full octaves as he pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried to crawl out onto the front porch. Didn’t take Dr. Oz to see why he was screaming. The injured ankle hung at an angle never intended by nature. Every time he slid that leg forward, the foot swung loosely, as if it was about to fall off. I looked away.

  As the keening reached mezzo-soprano pitch, I started across the carpet, taking my time. No hurry. This guy was going nowhere fast. Most burglars don’t carry weapons. Bring a gun to a break-in and you graduate from swapping lies with the gomers in the county jail to an extended vacation with the rectum-rippers over in the state penitentiary. At least, that’s what I told myself as I stepped out the door.

  He was right there, sitting in the darkness, leaning against the house, humming that same stupid song.

  Between the rush of the wind and our own labored breathing, I never heard them arrive. They came in without the lights and siren and were standing no more than ten feet away when somebody started screaming at me.

  “Keep those hands where I can see them,” the voice yelled.

  I looked that way. Two local yokel cops in bright yellow rain jackets. Flashlights in one hand, guns in the other. Light and lead, both pointed in our direction. The older of the two was about fifty, and hadn’t seen his belt buckle in a decade. He was wearing one of those state trooper kind of cop hats with the strap tight across the chin. Looked like Smokey the Bear waving a Glock 19.

  In the semi-darkness, the second cop appeared to be all of nine years old. Clean-shaven and bareheaded. Eyes the size of dinner plates. He looked fresh out of some police academy and ever so eager to save the world.

  I put my hands on top of my head.

  “It’s under control,” I told them.

  “On the ground,” old cop yelled. “Spread your legs.”

  “On the first date?” I joked. “You must be kidding.” I favored him with a bloody smile and inclined my head toward the guy on the ground. “It’s him you want.”

  “Get down,” the older cop yelled again.

  “I’m staying at the Landry house,” I explained. “We heard some noise coming from over here, and this guy . . .”

  I looked down at the intruder. His face was slate gray and covered with big oily beads of sweat. His labored breath rushed in and out of his open mouth. He held his shattered ankle and rocked back and forth to the heartbeat rhythm of the pain. And then, for reasons I’ll never understand, he tried to struggle to his feet.

  “Stay down,” I cautioned, but by then, it was too late. As he slid a knee beneath his body, and began to lever himself upright, a piteous groan escaped his lips. The sound must have scared the kiddie cop, cause a moment later, a pair of silver wires flashed across my field of vision. The high-voltage jolt from the Taser contracted the big guy’s muscles, hurling him against the house, throwing his head back into the cedar siding with a resounding thud.

  As he began to slide down the wall, he looked up at me with wet, uncomprehending eyes and said something I’ll never forget.

  He said, “Leo?”

  And then he died. Right there on the cold concrete.

  The orange jail coveralls had been recycled so many times they felt like they’d been woven from aluminum filings. I caught a glimpse of myself in an office door as a pair of deputies led me down the rear corridor of the Lewis County Law and Justice Center. What I saw was not encouraging. Betwe
en the scratchy coveralls and the quarter mile of surgical tape holding my nose to my face, any chance of being considered innocent until proven guilty seemed, at best, remote. Be lucky if I didn’t get the death penalty.

  Ten minutes later, minus the obligatory belly chains and leg restraints, I was ushered into Courtroom 4, where the Honorable Rosemarie Keenan was holding Superior Court, in and for Lewis County, Washington. As I walked in front of her bench, she looked up from her paperwork and eyed me like I was something escaped from a petri dish. I pretended not to notice.

  Seemed like Jed James had been my attorney since conception. We’d been in the same class at Briarcliff Elementary School. Played ball together. Double-dated the toothsome Moody sisters. Had our first drink together. My history was his history. Sort of, anyway. If there was a gulf between us, it was the matter of motivation. While my old man was hanging out in City Hall, carving his ill-gotten fortune from the Seattle taxpayer, Jed’s dad was drinking a lot of cheap rye whiskey and carving meat loaf down at Marty’s Diner. Unlike me and my trust fund, the only thing Jed’s old man left him was alone.

  Over the past thirty years, Jed had cultivated a reputation as one of Washington’s fiercest litigators, and had built a prodigious law firm that employed a coupla hundred people. Me? I guess I’m still a few pitons short of the peak. No matter what anybody says, money changes everything.

  He took one look at me shuffling into the courtroom and put on his bemused face. Same expression as when we were eight years old and thought the height of humor was phoning Kennedy’s Funeral Home and asking for Myra Mains. Back in the day, extricating me from trouble had been a fairly common occurrence. These days . . . not so much. Apparently, I’m not nearly as interesting as I used to be.

  His uptown Brioni suit looked out of place in the funky old courtroom. I gave him my best Elvis lip curl and sat down in the chair beside him. I looked back over my shoulder. Apparently, assaulting an officer was not front-page news in this neck of the woods. The courtroom was nearly empty. Half a dozen geezers in the back row and the older of the two cops from last night. That was it.