River City

by Doc Macomber

  The kid had a point, but he was at that age where he probably thought all adults were screwed up.

  “What can you tell me about Timmy?”

  “Just that he hung with us but didn’t smoke. He was mostly a loner. I never seen him–”

  “You never saw him, you meant to say.”

  “He never hung out with anybody in particular.”

  “You said that. What else?”

  “He came to school with a black eye last month.”

  “Who gave him the black eye?”

  “He didn’t tell me but I overheard him in the can make a comment that his stepbrother beat the crap out of him.”

  “You mean Jeb Scarbough?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Did he say why he hit him?”

  “They got in a fight over his stepsister.”

  “Over what?”

  “Beats me, dude, but they hung out sometimes.”

  “Penny and Timmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Out here?”

  “Yeah – Penny smokes. Timmy and her talked.”

  “What about?”

  “Stuff. It was bad for him, you know. Jeb was jealous.”

  “Jealous of whom? Penny and Timmy?”

  The kid shrugged. “Like Timmy liked hanging with chicks and it pissed Jeb off.”

  “Was Timmy scared of his stepdad?”

  “Yeah. He’d get drunk and beat him. His mom was a screw job too, but he was more scared of his stepbrother.”

  “Did you meet Jeb?”

  “Nah … but I’ve heard stories that he’s pretty mean.”

  “What stories?”

  “You know, stuff that goes around school.”

  “Have any specifics?”

  “Like he went camping one time and a kid died.”

  Colefield grew very serious. “Say that again.”

  “He was on a hiking trip this summer. One of the kids fell off a cliff and died. Timmy thought his stepbrother had something to do with it.”

  “Did he have proof?”

  “No. Just a gut feeling.”

  “Was he with him on the trip?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he tell anyone else?”

  “Probably just Penny.”

  The kid looked over his shoulder. The others were smoking again and staring.

  “Can I go now?”

  “What’s your last name, Randy?”

  “Brant.”

  “Don’t mention what we talked about to your friends, all right?”

  “OK.”

  “You’re a good kid. Find some new friends to hang with.”

  The kid reluctantly walked back over and rejoined the group. The kid in the leather jacket kept his eye on Colefield as he crossed the field.

  * * *

  The next two kids had nothing new to add to the discussion other than Timmy was an outsider who wasn’t attached to any peer group. Apparently he wasn’t bad enough to hang with the troublemakers, and not chill enough to hang with the cool kids.

  Colefield found Costa waiting at the back of the Gymnasium, a mustard-colored brick building with graffiti on the walls. Using the building as a windbreak, she was in the middle of jotting something down in her notebook, then crossing it out, her head shaking in frustration.

  “I think we have a suspect.”

  She stopped writing and looked up. “You’re serious?”

  He nodded. “Remember that hiker that fell off the cliff last summer?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, I think I just breathed new life into your case. Do you have a list of the kids that were on the hiking trip?”

  “Back at the office.”

  “Do you remember talking to Jeb Scarbough?” She thought about it.

  “Think hard. It’s important we make a connection. Was he there?”

  “I’d like to say I know the names and faces of every one of those boys I interviewed that day but I just don’t.”

  “What about Timmy Dodson?”

  “What about him?”

  “The kid I talked to said he was there that day.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The kid’s sure.”

  “I think I would have remembered him.”

  “If Jeb and Timmy were on that hiking trip last summer, Timmy might have seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Recently, he came to school with a black eye. Perhaps that was the first warning to keep his mouth shut. The second warning could have been more serious.”

  “When I get back to the office, I’ll double-check my notes. We’ll go from there.”

  “Did you find out anything yet?”

  “Just that I’m glad I’m not a teenager anymore.”

  They exchanged a look. A few students wandered off around the far side of the building. That left the two of them alone.

  He didn’t need reminding that their very first kiss was out behind a gymnasium. Did she remember it as vividly as he had?

  “Remember what we used to do behind the gym?” he asked.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Costa laughed. “I think you pretended to be a lousy kisser, just so you could practice.”

  Chapter 20

  The following morning, Colefield waited outside the FBI Building leaning against the hood of Montgomery’s derelict wreck. Two female joggers in their twenties sprinted by in Nike shorts and tank tops when Costa finally showed up. She hopped up on the hood beside him and gave him a quick smile.

  “See something you like?”

  Colefield kept it to himself. “Have any luck?”

  “If that kid is telling the truth that Timmy and Jeb were on the same hiking trip, then we have some more digging to do.”

  “I’ve been sitting here thinking about why the boy would lie. There’s no reason he would. If he says Timmy and his stepbrother were there then I believe him.”

  “OK – so we go on the assumption both boys were hiking that day and not part of the Boy Scout group. I want to play the devil’s advocate here. If the stepbrother did kill the Boy Scout, if my theory is accurate about the other cases, then I’ll need to place him at each crime scene.”

  “Can you?”

  “There have been no witnesses, so besides his brother, there is no one to ID him.”

  “What about the pellets?”

  “The forensic department identified them as lead shot. They’re still trying to make a match to the shotgun.”

  “Scarbough was lying when he said he was bird hunting with that gun.” Colefield absently scratched his scar. Costa took note.

  “Oh, hey, I brought breakfast for you.”

  Resting on the hood next to Colefield was a brown paper bag that contained something that was leaking grease stains through the bottom of the sack.

  He reached inside it and removed two fat, juicy burritos. He handed one to Costa and kept the other for himself. “My treat.”

  She held the smelly burrito like it was road kill. “Is it gluten free?”

  “Really – Tam?”

  “I’ve got allergies aggravated by wheat products.” She handed the burrito back to him. Colefield didn’t skip a beat. He put the burrito back into the sack and removed a small plastic container of hot sauce. He tore it open and dribbled it over his breakfast.

  “You want something else?” he asked, eager to dig in.

  “I’m going across the street to the Deli. You want to hang or come with?”

  “I’ll hang.”

  She strolled across the street and entered a Delicatessen on the next block. Halfway through his breakfast, his cell phone rang.

  He pulled it out of his jacket pocket, trying his best not to get the buttons fouled with the sticky hot sauce on his fingertips. “Hello?”

  It was a woman’s voice on the other end of the line. “Mr. Colefield?”

  “You got him. What can I do for you?”

  “This is Sally Ashley … Mr. Montgomery’s friend. Do you remember me?
”

  “Sure. You had the loft.”

  “That’s correct. At the time of our conversation I said my daughter was coming to town to visit. Well, that has changed. My daughter’s girl is too sick to travel so if you’d still like to use the condo for a few weeks while they dredge the moorage, it’s available.”

  “That’d be great. When can I pick up a key?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m downtown, near the Waterfront, sitting on the hood of a car eating a very messy burrito.”

  “That is probably something you shouldn’t tell your future landlady. You do agree to pay for anything you damage?”

  “I’m not as messy as it might sound. I was in the Navy. They harp on tidiness.”

  “So was my husband. I wouldn’t say he was all that clean though.”

  Colefield licked a drop of hot sauce teetering on the edge of his burrito that was about to fall off and splat on his leg. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “Could you possibly meet me – say in an hour? You could come by the loft.”

  “Shoot me the address.”

  As she rattled it off Colefield balanced the burrito on his leg. Grabbing a pen from his pocket, he took down the information on the only non-oily corner of the brown paper sack.

  He said he’d see her soon and hung up.

  Colefield was preoccupied with his thoughts when Costa returned. She placed a plastic container of green salad on the hood. “I’m going be civilized and eat this up in the office later. I need to get caught up on some Emails and review the list of scouts on the trip in which the boy died. You got enough things to do on your own?”

  “I’ve got to go look at a loft and then head to work.

  “You’re moving?”

  “Temporarily. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Shall we plan on meeting … say around Happy Hour?”

  “It depends. Are you willing to help me move some stuff from the houseboat in exchange for a libation?”

  “I’d usually do about anything not to drink alone,” she said. “But helping you move is pushing it.”

  “I’ll call you later. After I figure out if this loft is going to work out.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll research our chief suspect.”

  Costa started to walk away and then stopped. She gestured toward the corner of her mouth. “You missed a spot.”

  * * *

  The Pearl District is an area that encompasses some of the priciest real estate in Portland. It is located just north of downtown. Expensive high-rises, French boutiques, art supply shops, galleries, brewpubs, fine dining restaurants and a vast selection of historic warehouses-to-lofts conversions. You can get drunk in a martini bar, watch live theatre in a historic old armory, get a college degree from a renowned art school, take a cooking class, practice yoga, work out in a private gym with a personal trainer swinging kettle bells or buy most any street drug you can imagine two blocks East of the area. It supplies the best and the worst Portland has to offer.

  The loft that Sally Ashley owned was in a building known as the Gregory, a twelve-floor, sand-colored brick building near NW 11th and Glisan in the heart of the Pearl. A Pizza Schmizza was on one corner of the building, next to a drop-off child care center, allowing people from the suburbs to stash their rowdy kids in a protected environment for a few hours while enjoying fine dining in the neighborhood.

  Colefield was not much of a loft person, but it would be convenient, he reasoned. There’s a lot to be said about convenience.

  Sally Ashley was in her seventies but held her age well. She wore designer clothes and lots of flashy jewelry. Her fingers were sprinkled with diamonds. Her arms were weighed down with bracelets of jingly gold. She had on a fitted skirt and a white lace shirt, open at the neck. Her figure was trim. Her skin tanned. Her chest well-endowed. Her eyes and neck were as tight as a twenty-year-old. Expensive heels clicked over the marble floor as she approached the main entrance. Her eyes smiled at Colefield as they exchanged brief introductions.

  “You’re right on time,” Sally said, glancing down at her Rolex. “What do you think of the area?”

  “It’ll do, Ms. Ashley.”

  “Call me Sally.”

  “All right, Sally. Thanks for calling me back. I was beginning to think I was going to have to push an inner tube out in the middle of the Willamette and sit this thing out.”

  “Yes, William told me you were being stubborn about moving.”

  “It’s just a time issue. I’ve been wrapped up in a homicide investigation that has me running all over the place.”

  “I see. So you’re a policeman?”

  Colefield just nodded. “Shall we go inside and see this terrific place of yours?”

  Chapter 21

  Every once in a while things go your way, Colefield mused as he drove back toward the River Patrol Headquarters on Marine Drive, the keys to Sally Ashley’s loft safely in hand.

  The inside of her place was like a stage set, full of stylish knickknacks and modern art to muse on, impeccable throughout, right down to the perfectly matched dishes and color coordinated towels in the opulent bathroom. The loft boasted every conceivable amenity, including a spectacular view. He could see two bridges and a tail section of the Willamette River winding its way north. A six-hundred thousand dollar elegant home in the sky with a great view and a weekly cleaning service.

  But hey, the homeless can’t be choosy.

  Since the Sea Scouts were located less than a mile from his office, he decided to follow up on the lead Timmy’s father had given him.

  The turnoff for the clubhouse came up sooner than he had expected and he nearly missed it. At the last moment, he made a sharp left hand turn into the dirt drive. The tires skidded as the car came to a stop at the marina.

  At the end sat a wooden headquarters building. A Coast Guard vessel sat idle at the south end of the dock along with several personal watercraft, rocking back and forth in the light breeze. There were a dozen or so boat houses chained along the western edge of the dock and an old decommissioned tug tied to the northern end.

  Colefield climbed out and strode toward where a group of teenagers huddled around a short, chubby man in his sixties, wearing a polo shirt and tan shorts. The troop broke up and the kids divided up into pairs, making their way toward eight or nine sailboats. In groups of two they climbed aboard their assigned craft, donned life vests and prepped sails.

  A redheaded boy down at the end glanced back at Colefield. He couldn’t be certain but he would have sworn it was Jeb Scarbough who climbed into the boat and took over the helm.

  The teens were practiced sailors. They wasted no time in firing up the small outboards, untying bow lines, and shoving off from the dock. The boats funneled onto the river in single file. Only one boat was left behind. That appeared to be the Scout Leader’s. He ran along the dock barking orders until the last boat had left the moorage.

  Before the commander’s small boat had a chance to join them, Colefield snagged the bowline and reeled the boat back toward the dock.

  “Hey, sir!” The man looked outraged. “What’s this?”

  Colefield flashed his badge. “I’m coming with you.”

  The man pointed to a forward storage locker. “Life vests are in there. They may not be your size…”

  Colefield climbed aboard, rocking the boat back and forth. After he sat down in the bow, he lifted the lid on the forward compartment. He tried a vest on for size but it was too small to fit around his large shoulders. He put it back and tried a second. It fit, but was still tight. He managed to get the straps fastened.

  “So now that you’ve commandeered my boat, what is it I can do for you, Deputy?” The man fidgeted with his own inflatable life vest and then readjusted his cap.

  “I’d like you to catch up with the kids.”

  “Yes, all right. Anyone in particular? Or are you arresting them all?”

  “Was that Jeb Scarbough in the lead boat?”r />
  “Yes. He’s a fine lad and a good sailor to boot. What’s the nature of your business with the boy?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the ride.”

  The man at the helm reached out and attempted to pull-start the outboard engine. It sputtered and coughed. A puff of blue smoke floated skyward. He pulled a second time, and a third, and a fourth. He took a little break, winded, and then messed with the choke lever. All the while, the other boats motored out of view.

  “I know a thing or two about outboards. Let me try!” Colefield volunteered.

  “I have been operating these engines for years. Just sit tight. It will start … you’ll see!”

  The man pulled the cord one more time. The little two-horse engine sputtered to life, swallowing them in a blue plume.

  “Giddy up!” Colefield shouted.

  At the mouth of the entrance to the Columbia, calm water ended. At that point they left behind the protective waters of the moorage. Whitecaps crashed over the bow as the boats merged with the stiff current head-on. Heavy water splashed over the gunwales, soaking Colefield’s pant legs. The icy cold water sent shivers down to his toes.

  By now the other boaters were sailing down the middle of the river, mains up, jibs flying in the wind. The young sailors tightened lines and trimmed sails. Their tiny boats tipped sideways and soared through the water like the hulls were on a sheet of blue ice. The wind slapped at Colefield, making his eyes water. He swiped a wet sleeve across his face and focused on the lead.

  Colefield pointed. “Is that Jeb’s boat?”

  The man glanced ahead. “Yes sir. Is this about his stepbrother’s death?”

  “It is connected. I want to ask him about a hiking trip he and Timmy took last summer.”

  “You must be referring to our Beacon Rock trip last August?”

  Colefield’s face brightened momentarily. “Yeah. The one where the kid died.”

  “That was just dreadful. He was not one of ours, you understand. Anyway, yes I organized the trip. We sailed upriver in August and camped at Beacon Point Campground. That poor boy falling to his death. What a tragedy.”