River City

by Doc Macomber

  As the deputies pulled the boat up to the dock, loud cursing spewed from inside one of the boat houses. The men headed toward the commotion. Colefield pulled open the battered door and peered inside.

  One of their boats was taking on water. A lot of water. Deputy Larry Weaver was down on all fours near the stern. The portable bilge pump they had dropped inside the hull had stopped working and he was frantically twisting wrenches to revive it. Tony Parker, the other deputy, was inside the cabin, cussing up a storm.

  “Weaver! What’s the matter?”

  “That you, Colefield? Go get your wet suit.”

  That was about the last thing he wanted to hear. “Thru-hull fitting?”

  “Yep. Busted off at the base. Tony’s jamming a rag in the hole but it’s not working. I thought if I could get the water pumped out, we could seal it up with Instant Seal. But nothing seems to be working right today. Think you can go down and hammer a plug in from the bottom? The fitting’s too damaged from our end.”

  The boat had always been a problem. They desperately needed a new one, but budget constraints necessitated that this one still float as a backup.

  “There’s another pump in the other boat house.”

  “Not anymore,” Weaver said, standing up and mopping his sweaty face. “I trashed it last week on that schooner taking on water. Remember?”

  “Shit. That’s right. Didn’t Becker fix it?”

  “He had to order parts. It’ll be another week before it is back in commission.”

  “Get the hand pump from our boat,” Colefield said to Bart.

  “I’ll be right back,” Colefield told Weaver.

  Tony popped his head up. “It’s a two-inch fitting.”

  Colefield left the garage and headed up to the main office and his storage locker.

  Lieutenant Daniel Briggs, was built like a fireplug, and only wore button-down shirts for meetings with the Chief. He stood jiggling some wires on the back of the two-way radio. When that didn’t work, he slapped the front of it with the palm of his hand.

  “Doesn’t anything work around here anymore?” Colefield asked as he opened the front door.

  “Have Bart take a look at this will you?” Briggs put his fingers inside his collar and stretched his neck out.

  “Who you calling?”

  “You! We need a diver.”

  “So I heard.”

  “I’d let that piece of shit sink if it was my own boat, but for now we need to keep the damn thing above water.”

  “Where’s Becker?”

  “Responding to a service call.”

  “We have any of those two-inch fittings lying round?”

  “Check his storage locker.”

  The Lieutenant’s phone rang. He dropped the microphone, headed toward his office, slamming the door closed behind him, a habit to which the deputies had grown accustomed.

  As Colefield pushed through the door to the locker room, a pain shot through his back. Every day his aches and pains seemed to increase. Still at this point it was nothing a good masseuse couldn’t fix.

  He headed to the garage where each deputy had a locker for equipment storage. Colefield had the luxury of two because he was the only certified diver on the team and needed the extra space.

  He changed out of his tactical gear and into his wet suit, grabbed fins, a mask, and a five-minute air bottle. He collected some basic hand tools and a fitting from Becker’s area. He then headed back down the ramp to the boat house.

  Bart was back, knee deep in water inside the boat, working the handheld bilge pump like his life depended on it. Water flowed in spurts out the nozzle and back into the river.

  “Hurry it up!” Tony shouted.

  Colefield sat on the wooden floor and pulled the fins on his feet. He had the hammer and a tapered wooden plug stowed inside a water-proof pouch hooked on his dive belt along with a flashlight.

  “You owe me a beer for this,” he said to Weaver and then stuck the regulator in his mouth and dropped down into the frigid water.

  The world went murky and dark. But he was experienced. He’d logged at least a hundred dives over the years, and taken all the specialized courses the Navy had offered, providing lifesaving knowledge time and again.

  There was a strong current underneath the boat. The garage had been built on floats and there was no protruding water-block on the structure. The river ran under it like it would out in the middle of the Columbia. Because of this Colefield had to hang onto the hull as best he could and patted his way over to where he suspected the thru-hole fitting was located, kicking his feet to tread just below the surface.

  The job took less than five minutes. He jammed the tapered wooden plug into the hole and hammered it until it met resistance. He gave it another hard blow and assumed now the rest of the damaged fitting could be removed from inside the hull. He resurfaced and told the guys they could ease up on the pumping. The plug was secure.

  Tony suggested they replace the old fitting on land. Once the water was pumped out of the hull, they could run the engine, motor around to the boat ramp and pull the boat out with the trailer. No big deal.

  An hour later after he had showered and changed into street clothes, Colefield looked out the window as Bart trudged up the ramp, hauling fifty feet of water hose and the old portable bilge pump. From inside the warm office Colefield heard the garage door open and then close. A few minutes later, the sloshing sounds of wet boots filled the air as Bart appeared.

  He was soaked from the waist down, his shirt muddy and his hands covered in grease.

  Instead of cleaning up, Bart collapsed into his chair. “I’m more tired than after a day of chores on my folk’s dairy farm.” He looked down at his belly and sucked it in and out a few times. “I think I lost some weight today.”

  “Your chores aren’t done yet.” Colefield pointed to the squawk box, which was flickering between static and frequency. “Lieutenant wants you to take a look at the radio.”

  “Now?”

  Lieutenant Briggs’ door opened. “I’ll need your reports on the Island case by end of day.”

  Colefield glanced at his watch. “End of day is in five minutes.”

  “Not for you two. The Chief’s chomping at the bit on this one.”

  “I was thinking I could write my report tomorrow,” Bart said.

  “I need them both done today.”

  Colefield slid back from his desk. “What’s your definition of done?”

  The Lieutenant frowned.

  “Look, Bart and I were talking earlier. I think our office should take the lead on this case. It’ll improve morale. And be good PR. It’s technically an island, which involves plenty of water. We could make it fly.”

  “Not a chance. It’s Homicide’s, especially since the FBI is now involved,” the Lieutenant said. “If Homicide needs an assist, they’ll call.”

  “So in the meantime, we spend our time checking expired tags while some child killer is at large?” Bart was full of righteous indignation.

  The Lieutenant rubbed his eyes. “With my luck we’ll end up with the case anyway.”

  Colefield sat up. “Why’s that?”

  “Detective Feinstein called a few minutes ago. He said you know the agent the FBI has assigned to the case. An Agent Costa?”

  Colefield’s face tightened. “What’d Harvey tell you?”

  “Just get me your reports.” The Lieutenant’s telephone rang again. He stomped back to his office, the door banging shut behind him.

  Colefield sat forward and planted his feet squarely on the chipped linoleum. He felt light headed. He hadn’t eaten all day. Breathing the rank air from the portable tank and seeing the boy’s destroyed face had left him queasy. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. It wasn’t really about the murder or the day. It was the unexpected mention of FBI Agent Tamara Costa. That painful relationship bubbled its way back into his thoughts. Colefield wondered what planetary shift was occurring
in his life. First Scarbough’s unwelcome return and now Tam…

  Wet boots and faulty wiring were a bad mix but Bart began fiddling around with the loose connection on the marine radio.

  Anything to avoid writing a report, Colefield mused.

  The radio blasted nail-biting static until Bart twisted the squelch knob and the soothing sound of barge traffic filtered in on Channel 12.

  Colefield faced his computer and began typing. His fingers pounded the keyboard so hard the tips went numb. Eventually, the report was done and he sat back and read it. Halfway through he got an idea and began searching online. Next he downloaded his notes and crime scene photos. He printed out the results and along with his report, slid the documents under the Lieutenant’s door before heading toward the locker room to get his jacket.

  Meanwhile Bart stared forlornly at a blank computer screen. He laid his hands over the keyboard as if willing the powers above to help him start typing.

  When Colefield returned from the locker room, he told Bart if he finished before midnight to join him for a beer. He pulled back the sleeve of his peacoat, a holdover from his Navy days, and glanced at his watch. He’d have to hustle if he wanted to catch the end of Happy Hour.

  The night air swiped at him as he stepped outside, but the sky was clear. Weather guys called it wrong again.

  Colefield zipped his jacket. Traffic was heavy on both sides of Marine Drive. An endless stream of blinding headlights made the short route to Sextant’s Tavern dangerous if you weren’t paying attention.

  He hugged the shoulder listening to the gravel crunch underfoot and thought about the kid. According to his pal at Homicide they had begun inquires but were coming up empty determining the boy’s identity. What with their caseload, and the face mincemeat, no surprise there.

  Still nobody had filed a missing person’s report, which seemed odd for a child his age. The Medical Examiner had determined the body had been dead for more than 24 hours. You’d think someone would have noticed a child missing for that long.

  The press had gone ahead with the story on the five o’clock news, but as far as he knew, no one had come forward with information for the police.

  Colefield cut across the grass, skirting the busy parking lot, under the green neon glow of the tavern’s sign. As he hopped up the front step, the door swung open and a group of half-sloshed regulars poured out and patted him on the back. Apparently the River Patrol was mentioned on the news broadcast. He ducked inside before any of them could ask about the case.

  Case? What case? The Lieutenant had put the kibosh on that.

  The bar was jammed and the crowd seemed rowdier than usual. Every table had stacks of empties. He looked for a seat at the bar. No luck there. The butts were wedged together so tightly it would have taken plastic explosive to clear a space.

  He smiled at his girlfriend Jill behind the bar, twirling bottles with the dexterity of a gunslinger. He loved the curve of her neck and the muscles flexing down her toned arms. She wore a racy black top, one of his favorites. He’d given it to her on her 35th birthday. It showed off just enough skin to keep the men amused and the women jealous.

  She turned her blonde head and big green eyes in his direction and winked. It gave him an enviable jolt. Then her slender arm shot out like a sideline pass to reach for a bottle. Without a word she returned to the hectic pace of serving the crowd before the end of Happy Hour.

  Colefield managed to snag the sleeve of a harried waitress whisking by and asked if she could deliver a couple beers to him.

  He found a vacant table in back by a window. Five minutes passed, then ten. The longer he sat, the more prone he was to dredge up old shit. Today had torn the scabs off several painful memories.

  He stood up to better survey the crowd. Jill was making the final round with the patrons at the bar.

  So where the hell was that waitress with his beers?

  Before he could find out, two deputies from the River Patrol arrived. Colefield waved them over. They were no fools though. They headed straight toward the bar to place their order before taking a seat at his table.

  Across the room he ferretted out the waitress in question bursting from the kitchen while juggling a tray of food and frothy beers. She spotted him and fought her way toward the table.

  “Three beers, right?”

  “Two.”

  “You ordered three.”

  No point in arguing. Someone would drink the extra.

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry it took so long,” she removed the pint glasses and dropped them in front of him on the table so hard that liquid sloshed over the tops.

  Colefield picked up one of the beers. “First Friday night Happy Hour?”

  “First night in Hell, you mean.”

  The waitress balanced her tray on his table and half-heartedly sopped up the beer with a bar towel pulled from her hip pocket. “I’ll be back in a minute to collect. I need to deliver this hamburger before it’s ice cold.”

  His co-workers cruised over with their drinks and flopped down.

  Colefield noticed Weaver had been looking frumpier than usual. Being married with three kids could explain it. He also had the world’s hairiest body. And his attempts at trimming all that fur produced a scraggly molt guise. Weaver claimed that after sixteen years of police work, things happened to the body that he would never have imagined. Tony constantly gave him shit about his unkempt appearance, nicknaming him “Hobo”.

  Tony was the office gadfly, always singling out the new waitresses even though he was in a committed relationship. Tony’s pants were pressed and sharply creased, and his dark hair was always styled and trimmed. He never wore a hat even when it rained.

  Tony took a sip of his draft and looked around at the crowd. “Who’s the new waitress?”

  “Don’t ask. I don’t think she’ll be here after her shift ends.”

  “You received a call after you left,” Weaver said.

  “Who?”

  “Some chick. An Agent Costa from the FBI.”

  Colefield’s chest fluttered. “What did she want?”

  “To talk to you. Has something to do with the shooting out on the island. She wants to set up a meet tomorrow back at the crime scene.”

  Weaver unfolded a crumpled piece of paper he removed from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the table in a puddle of beer.

  You would have thought the paper contained the winning Powerball numbers Colefield moved so quickly to pick it up.

  “The Lieutenant brief you guys on the case?”

  Tony answered. “Yeah. A child shotgun vic. Possible murder.”

  “Did you tell the FBI agent that the case had been turned over to Homicide?”

  “Yep,” Weaver said. “That didn’t seem to matter to her. Said it was important you contact her personally. Said to call her tomorrow, first thing.”

  “You mention that tomorrow is Saturday and I’m going skiing with Jill?”

  “Hey, asshole, I’m not your personal secretary.”

  Colefield pulled out his cell phone went outside and placed a call to the telephone number that the beer had made nearly impossible to read. He wondered how she figured into the island shooting. Was this part of a bigger picture? Part of him hoped she just wanted to see him again. Who doesn’t have an unrequited love in their past? When he returned to the table and sat back down, he appeared to be mulling something over in his head.

  “You get ahold of her?” Weaver asked.

  “No.”

  “I told you she said to call her in the morning.”

  Tony stared him in the eye. “So you canceling the big ski trip with Jill now?”

  Tony liked to stir up trouble.

  Disrupting their conversation, a women’s voice shouted above the roaring crowd. And for a moment, the room fell silent, everyone’s attention focused on Jill castigating a rowdy customer.

  “She look like someone you’d screw with?” Colefield paused. “If I need to I can take c
are of business in the morning and we can be on the slopes by mid-afternoon.”

  “Sure, you could if you were running the show,” Tony said.

  “You better call it off before you blow your good thing with her.” Weaver scratched his scruffy chin. “I need another beer. Anyone want another round?”

  Weaver looked at the pair of untouched beers in front of Colefield, then at Tony.

  “Sure, take em.” Colefield slid the beers across the table. As the men tipped them back, Jill looked over and waved.

  “She makes this place, doesn’t she?” Tony said, grinning.

  Colefield flashed him the evil eye.

  Truth was everyone knew she was the main attraction at the bar. But she had confided to Colefield on several occasions that the job was burning her out. She was considering a change. Colefield didn’t know if he would be included in the reordering of her life.

  “Well this might be your chance,” Weaver broke the silence at the table. “Jill looks like she’s got a few minutes so you can go deliver the bad news.”

  “Great.”

  The loud cadence of Happy Hour was petering out. The waitress wandered over to the men’s table and held her hand out toward Colefield.

  “Time to pay up.” She tapped her toe.

  Colefield looked from Weaver to Tony for their donations. They smiled back in response as he reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten and a five and handed them to her. Her look said it all. He fished out a couple more dollars. Disgusted, she snorted and stormed off.

  “She’s kinda cute.” Tony checked her out across the room. “And she’s taken a real shine to you.”

  Colefield finished his beer and stood up.

  Chapter 5

  There were no witnesses in the kitchen when Colefield delivered the news. He’d figured he could always hide behind some pots and pans or make a dash for the walk-in cooler and wait it out until she calmed down.