by Trevor Scott
He just kept an eye on the car, making totally irrational turns, ensuring the car was in fact following him.
It was.
He didn’t normally carry a gun unless he was going hunting or target shooting. Since he became a private investigator, most of his jobs involved insurance fraud or missing persons. And the later were usually people who didn’t want to be found. Guys like Frank Peroni? Maybe.
Thinking about all the reasons he didn’t carry a gun, he wished at this moment he had found a single reason to carry one.
He looked into the rearview mirror. There were two men in the front seat. Not as big as the rent-a-cops. But close.
Driving slowly along residential streets, he thought about what he wanted to do. He had worked in Portland a few times with the police. The last time he was part of a task force seeking a unabomber wannabe ten months ago, just after retiring from the Navy. Instead of hanging out in some tiny cabin in Montana, their 76
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man lived in a squalid apartment along the Columbia River in the glide slope of Portland International. Turns out the guy was even more dangerous than the unabomber, because his bomb making techniques were as meticulous as a five-year-old putting together playdoe men. Half of the bombs would have never blown up, and those that did either blew the crap out of helpless mail, or fiz-zled like wet fireworks.
Tony did make a few contacts while in town for a month track-ing the guy down. So he picked up his cell phone and called a Portland Police Bureau captain he had spent some time with, drowning a few microbrews. He reached him at home and told him his current situation.
Driving north toward downtown Portland, Tony kept an eye on the Bonneville behind him.
Ten minutes later he pulled over to the curb in front of the administration building at Portland State University.
He just sat there, glancing at the car that had pulled over behind him, watching the two confused men.
Then Tony saw him. A man walking up the sidewalk, a huge German shepherd at his side. When the guy got alongside the Bonneville, he pulled a gun and aimed it at the head of the man in the passenger seat.
Tony took that as his sign to get out. Cautiously he walked up the sidewalk toward the car. By the time he got to the front of the vehicle, his friend, the police captain, had holstered his gun and was laughing.
Captain Al Degaul, wearing a black Nike sweat suit, reached his hand out as Tony approached. He hadn’t changed much. At forty-five, his black hair might have had a little more gray. He could have gained a few pounds, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. They shook hands and then Degaul turned toward the two men in the car.
“Tony,” Degaul said. “These are detectives Shabato and Reese.” His voice was harsh and gravelly like that of a college football coach. Reminded Tony of his Uncle Bruno.
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Now Tony felt like an idiot.
The two detectives, dressed more for a night out on the town than for official police business, got out and they all shook hands.
Shabato, the driver, was a good six feet, with droopy black eyes.
Reese was a few inches shorter than Shabato. His red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Tony guessed they were both around thirty.
“Sorry for any misunderstanding, Mr. Caruso,” Shabato said.
“We were watching Frank Peroni’s house when you showed up.
At first we thought you might have been him. Then we thought you might have been involved with him.”
Degaul moved his hand and his dog sat, its tongue hanging out while it panted heavily. Its nose had a patch of gray giving away its age.
“Tony’s worked as an explosives consultant with the Seattle and Portland police,” Degaul said. “Worked the PDX bomber case. Before that he was a Navy ordnance officer.”
The two men nodded their head with respect. It was pretty much a given within the police community that only a crazy bastard would put himself next to a bomb to de-fuze it. It didn’t matter if the cop was the most macho guy on the force, it took someone with balls the size of watermelons to play with bombs. What they didn’t realize, though, was that the police had hired Tony to consult based on his military ordnance background. They needed him simply to rule out any bomber that might have been trained by the military.
“Why were you checking out Frank Peroni?” Tony asked.
The detectives glanced at each other and then to Captain Degaul.
“Well?” Degaul said.
Reese spoke up first. “His wife reported him missing a couple weeks ago. We were doing a follow up.”
Tony wasn’t buying that, and neither was Captain Degaul from the look on his face.
“There’s more to it than that,” Degaul said. “You wouldn’t be 78
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showing up on a Sunday evening to follow up.”
It was Shabato’s turn. He raised his dog-tired eyes and said,
“We’ve had Mrs. Peroni under surveillance since she reported her husband missing. Following up the day after she made her report, we went to Frank Peroni’s employer. A lock company. They said Peroni was supposed to go to Bend for a few days and then come back. They tried to contact him there at his hotel, but they couldn’t find him. We called the Deschutes County Sheriff’s office and had a deputy stop by his room. Nothing.”
“What about his car?” Tony asked.
“Can’t find it,” Reese chimed in.
Captain Degaul looked perplexed. “What his finances tell you?”
“That’s the point,” Shabato said. “That’s why we’ve been watching his wife. There have been cash advances taken four times in the past two weeks, all from Central Oregon cash machines.”
Captain Degaul scratched the stubble on his face. “Let me guess. All from different towns.”
“Yes, sir,” Reese said. “All of them in tourist locations in the middle of the day.”
Tony wasn’t sure what this was all about. There had to be more to this than the two detectives were saying.
The captain turned toward Tony. “How in the hell are you involved with all this, Tony?”
Damn. Tony thought he’d gotten away without having to answer that.
“Well?” the captain said.
“I’m looking into a murder suicide that took place in Bend two weeks ago.”
“Heard about that,” Degaul said. “You think Frank Peroni was involved with that?”
“I don’t know.” That was the honest truth. “He knew the two victims.” He was calling them victims now, without even knowing for sure if it was true, at least in the case of Dan Humphrey.
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“Yeah, but you’ve got a hunch, right?” Degaul said. Well he didn’t make captain by being stupid.
The two detectives were waiting impatiently for Tony to answer.
“Yeah. Dan and Barb Humphrey supposedly picked Frank Peroni up at the Riverfront Bar in Bend, took him back to their house, and Dan watched while Frank and Barb got it on.”
The two detectives smiled identically.
Captain Degaul raised his brows. “Kinky shit. Then what happened?”
“This is all speculation, since Dan and Barb are dead,” Tony said. “But the local cops say Dan shot his wife, Barb, and then set his gas fireplace to blow. The house blew up real good. Damn near burned to the ground. Left Dan and Barb looking like Kenny Rogers chicken.”
“Who hired you?” the captain asked.
“Can’t say.”
“Someone who thinks some nefarious shit is going on other than murder suicide,” Degaul said.
Tony shrugged.
They talked for a few more minutes. Then the two detectives handed Tony their cards, saying he should contact them if he found out anything else about Frank Peroni. The cops were holding back information. But what? And why? Probably just not trusting Tony.
When the detectives were gone, Tony stood out in the damp night air, gazing toward the city lights. There was something abou
t the sparkle of city lights after a drenching rain. It was as if a layer of slime had been stripped away, making the city somehow more pure. If that were the case, Portland had too many layers, because it rained there a lot.
Captain Degaul asked him over to his place for a beer. How could he refuse that?
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CHAPTER 13
They sat up late drinking beer and talking about the case they had worked together. Al Degaul had lost his wife to breast cancer right around the time they were working together on the crazy PDX bomber case. So for the past ten months he had lived only with memories and his fifteen-year-old German shepherd, Rex. His German Sheppard had been his partner on a K-9
unit, and, as is often the case, the dog had lost a step or two and was forced to retire.
Sounded like the story of Tony’s life.
Their dogs got along without a hitch, sleeping next to each other near the fireplace.
Tony slept on the sofa and woke with a tremendous headache and dry mouth. After he brewed up a pot of Sumatran coffee, Degaul finally dragged himself out of bed. Rex got up immediately and lumbered to the captain’s side.
“Jesus Christ,” Degaul said. “What the hell time is it?”
Tony was flipping sizzling bacon by now, about to throw some eggs into the pan. Without checking his watch, he said, “Little after eight.”
“Ah, damn!” Degaul picked up the phone and punched in a number. He mumbled a few things and then hung up.
“Someone going to miss the good captain on a Monday morning?”
“You’d think not,” he said. “But I got this new lieutenant work-BOOM TOWN 81
ing for me. Don’t want to send the wrong message coming in late.
She’s a real...she’s efficient.”
“She? Anything I should know?”
He shot Tony a critical glare and then poured himself a cup of coffee. “Strictly professional.”
Tony poured some mixed eggs into the pan, and they instantly solidified outward. “You been seeing anyone?”
“What the hell are you, my mother?” Degaul took a seat at the table and sipped his coffee. “Whoa...that’s some strong shit.”
“You know if you don’t use it, it gets smaller,” Tony said.
He laughed. “Then I’m gonna have a hard time finding it to take a piss.”
Fluffing the eggs into a perfect stack, Tony flipped them one last time before plopping them onto two plates. Then he added three pieces of bacon each. What the hell. You have to die of something, Tony thought. Besides, he only ate eggs once or twice a month.
They both ate without saying a word. When they were done and working on another cup of coffee, Tony noticed his friend staring at him.
“What?”
“You’ll make someone a fine wife some day,” he said.
“Fuck you!”
Degaul left a few scraps of bacon and eggs on his plate and then set it on the floor to his right, where Rex had waited patiently. The dog delicately lapped it up.
Tony’s dog sat quietly across the room, not even considering what the captain’s dog had just done.
Having slept really well, thanks to the vast quantity of beer, one question kept nagging at Tony ever since he woke up. Why in the hell were the two detectives really so interested in Frank Peroni?
“There’s something more to Frank Peroni you can’t tell me,”
Tony said.
Captain Degaul hesitated. “Is that a question?”
“Reese and Shabato. Are they good cops?”
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“What are you gettin’ at?”
“Nothing,” Tony said. He felt like he was interrogating his friend. “What I mean is, why are they so interested in a two-week old missing person? Doesn’t sound like something you’d put two detectives on, considering Frank Peroni’s relationship with his wife.”
The captain sipped his coffee, stalling. “First of all, Tony, those two don’t work for me. I’m in charge of special units. Secondly, it’s none of your fucking business.”
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry, Tony.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes wandering around the room. “I honestly don’t know what they’re up to. You’re right, though. There’s something more to Frank Peroni than the fact that he’s missing. That I am sure of.”
Tony thanked Al Degaul for his beer, sofa and breakfast, as well as the info. He told him he’d be in touch and gave him his cell phone number and e-mail address.
Then Tony drove west to Beaverton.
It was past nine o’clock, the traffic having died down somewhat on Highway 26 and the surface roads.
Pulling into a business complex, with brick and glass structures no more than three or four stories high, he parked in an unmarked spot and sat for a moment.
He had the laptop on, so he checked the address for Cascade Lock one more time. It was a useless reaction, because there was a big sign out front with the company name engraved in granite.
That said something about a company, Tony thought. If a company throws up a wooden sign with the name painted on it, the logical assumption is the company won’t be there long. Marble or granite, though, and that shows permanence. This company was here twenty years ago, and still would be in a hundred years. He was sure of that.
Tony went inside. The lobby and reception area on the third floor, where the sign on the first floor said the marketing director’s office was, reminded Tony of one of those influential law BOOM TOWN 83
firms with a hundred lawyers working for Microsoft. Marble walls. Columns. Stone floors. Again, permanence.
An older woman, who still tried her best to look young, sat at an oak desk, a phone notched between her ear and shoulder as she flipped through an appointment book. She was dressed top to bottom in gray wool. Under her blazer was a white satin blouse.
Tony stood patiently waiting for her to get off the phone, gazing at the water colors on the wall. Someone had studied the French impressionists. Finally the woman hung up.
“May I help you, sir?” she said. Her voice had a Tootsie quality, only perhaps a bit more masculine than Dustin Hoffman.
“Yes. I’m Tony Caruso. Here to see Mr. James Burton.”
She checked her appointment book, even though Tony was sure she knew he wasn’t on it.
“Mr. Burton has an appointment in ten minutes,” she said.
He thought quickly. “What about Frank Peroni?”
Her eyes shot up at him. Surprised. That’s what he’d hoped for.
James Burton’s office was probably as impressive as the reception area. Would have been, if Burton hadn’t covered his desk and credenza with mounds of papers that must have taken a small forest to produce.
Burton himself was a tall, stout man in his mid-forties. His remaining hair was a blond gray mix, slicked back, trying to cover bare spots. He wore a fine domestic suit with enough mate-rial to make two suits of normal size. His tiny round spectacles could have been a matching pair of the ones Dawn Sanders wore.
Burton stood and shook Tony’s hand. Firm. Businesslike.
Tony took a seat in a leather chair that seemed to invite him to stay there forever.
He told the lock man he was a private investigator representing a credit company looking for Frank Peroni. It was as good a lie as any.
“I’m afraid Frank no longer works for us,” Burton said, adjusting his glasses even though they didn’t need it.
Tony pulled out a small notebook, flipped through a few pages, 84
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and stopped on a page where he had scribbled a few notes. It was really his grocery list from when he had first gotten to the condo in Bend.
“Says here he’s an account representative,” Tony said, using the fancy term for a lock and hardware salesman.
“Was, Mr. Caruso. As I’ve said, he’s no longer with us.”
Tony turned a page in his notebook and shook his head. �
�You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him?”
The man shook his head and his jowls stopped shaking a few seconds after his chin.
“We sent him to Bend over two weeks ago,” Burton said. “He never came back.”
This conversation was taking a dive in a hurry. But Tony had had a little time to think about what would concern two Portland detectives in a simple missing person, that could have been merely a man who didn’t want to be found. So he bluffed.
“Something else is missing from the company besides Frank Peroni,” Tony said. Accused actually.
Burton’s reaction was incredible. Would have gotten a D in high school drama for that performance.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Burton said.
Bullshit! That’s what Tony wanted to say. Instead, he said,
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Burton hoisted his body up and rolled toward the door. He opened the door and turned toward Tony. “Our conversation is over, Mr. Caruso.”
Tony got up and headed out, but stopped right in front of Burton, his finger pointing at the guy’s sternum. “You want to get what’s yours, you should have talked with me.”
Tony took off and went to the elevator. When he got to the first floor, the doors opened and his two favorite detectives, Reese and Shabato, were waiting, their jaws somewhat slack.
“I warmed him up for you,” Tony said, passing them.
Not bad. He’d managed to get thrown out of two offices in just a few days. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a record for him.
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CHAPTER 14
Tony got back to Bend in the late afternoon. The pass around Mount Hood had been cleared, with the exception of the very top, which still had piles of heavy snow unplowed.
Bend itself was clear and cloud-free, like it was nearly three hundred days a year.
Tony would be the first to admit that his methods when working a case were somewhat unorthodox. Trying to use logic, he collected information from those he thought should give him what he needed to know. Then he sifted out the bullshit. What remained should be the truth. Problem was, damn near everything he was currently collecting seemed to be irrelevant bullshit.
