The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1)

by Brent Kroetch

  After a quick shower and a couple of aspirins, he decided a walk in the sunshine might clear his aching head. That and a little food to wash down the night.

  Exiting onto a busy boulevard—which a street sign announced as Ala Moana—and straight into an already blinding sun, he arbitrarily turned left, searching for sustenance, until he happened upon what he hoped was an authentic Hawaiian establishment, the Wailaila restaurant. After a quick meal of eggs, hash and, curiously, fried banana—the only thing even loosely resembling Hawaiian influence—he set out to explore the area a bit, reasoning there was no real hurry. A rock star and his household would probably consider anything before noon to be nighttime hours. He didn’t need to exercise the deductive reasoning of a detective to figure that one out.

  To his slight disappointment, the area around this stretch of Waikiki Beach was comprised of mostly tacky gift shops, with little else of real interest to see—save the towering palms and lush, exotic greenery so lacking back home. On impulse, he popped into one of the tinier outlets where he was greeted by a sweet and enthusiastic elder lady of Hawaiian descent. Her welcoming manner and eagerness to please turned his wariness to warmth and, strangely, a desire to please. The latter was reflected in the three huge bags of souvenirs he now toted back to Blake’s. If his new found ethics demanded that he turn the job down, that he not take advantage of Blake’s gullibility, he’d at least have a treasure trove of memories.

  And a treasure trove he had. Besides the clocks, t-shirts and sculptured items he carried, he wore his new Hawaiian experience proudly. They’d been impulse buys, a little silly really, but he figured he’d never be back and, well, why not. He could lounge around the apartment and play Hawaii Five-O. Meanwhile, he felt the stares directed his way, studies in admiration, as he ambled his way back up town.

  Ham used the key Charlie had provided—he couldn’t remember exactly when, must have been sometime during the night, between drinks at Tropics—and ascended the elevator to the private residence at the top. To his surprise, the household was awake and buzzing when he stepped into the foyer. It was only then that he remembered that it had been 10:30 his time when they called the day before. Half past eight in the morning for them.

  So much for deductive reasoning, he chastised himself.

  Ham followed the noise back to the solarium and tossed his bags on the nearest chair. Blake and Charlie regarded him quizzically for a few seconds before both burst into laughter.

  “Oh look, Popster, you hired Magnum, P.I.”

  Ham reddened as deep as his shirt, an exact replica of the parrot shirt made famous by Tom Selleck on that old show from when he was a kid. It didn’t help that he wore the same shorts and sandals, too. And that he was a freaking private investigator himself.

  Through tight lips, Ham replied, “You really do watch too much retro TV, Charlie.”

  Blake shook his head and added his two cents to Ham’s discomfort. “I don’t know what you P.I.s do, but if you need to go incognito, this look ain’t gonna work for you. You’re the prototypical tourist nerd, man. You’ll stand out like a neon sign in the desert.”

  “I was about to feed Popster. You hungry?”

  “I ate, thanks. Coffee would be nice, though.”

  As Charlie scooted off to, presumably, the kitchen, Ham told Blake, “I didn’t think Charlie was the domestic type.”

  “Charlie’s full of surprises.” Indicating the chair opposite, he commanded, “Sit down. Let’s talk. Do you remember what I told you last night?”

  “Not much,” Ham admitted. “Truckee River is going to reunite, you’re going on tour and you’ll be in several states in August, unless you’re dead first, like your psychic told you. So tell me, why is Truckee River reforming?”

  Blake’s surprise erupted on his face. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Maybe everything, maybe nothing. It’s curious that you decide the band is getting back together and, wham, you’re warned that your life is in danger. Very coincidental, and I don’t believe in coincidence. Not of that type.”

  “Cause and effect, huh? Now why would someone try to kill me just because the band’s back together after all these years? I mean, who cares besides our fans? And consider, too, that the fans aren’t homicidal. They sometimes criticize one of my songs, but they’ve never threatened to kill me over it.”

  “You told me last night that rock and roll is a business. Businessmen have enemies. Sometimes dangerous ones.”

  “So you do remember through the fog,” Blake laughed. “I’m a little surprised, though very pleased. It means you’re as good as I think you are. Drunk, and still thinking and reasoning. Well done.”

  “Yeah, well…that’s a bit unusual for me, I promise. On all counts.”

  Blake shook his head and said without any trace of humor whatever, “Strange. You get embarrassed when Charlie teases you, yet you put yourself down at the drop of a hat. And apparently without regard to context. It’s like a habit. I find that curious—to use your word.”

  “I spent a lot of years on the force being called a pig by police haters. It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “No, I doubt it. I think it goes a lot deeper than that.”

  “Whatever,” Ham said irritably, “let’s just get back to my point. When—and why exactly—did these plans for reunion and touring come together? Who’s running the show? Who’s involved? And who—”

  Charlie chose that moment to reappear with a tray of food, coffee and juice. “There you go, Popster. Eggs runny, bacon nearly raw. Ugh.”

  Ham’s still jumping stomach almost turned at the sight. “Well there’s a cholesterol attack waiting to happen.”

  “Hence all these pills,” Blake smiled as he pulled four or five from a pillbox on the tray. “But I like it, and that takes precedence over a few added years of what otherwise would be disappointing culinary drudgery.”

  “Don’t argue with him, Ham. He’s too old, too crotchety, too rich, too famous. Nobody can tell him anything.”

  “Thank you, daughter.” Turning to Ham he added, “That’s her way of trying to change me. Subtle, huh?”

  Charlie gave her father an affectionate peck on the cheek, then unfolded and laid upon his lap a silken napkin. “Never mind, Popster. We’re going to bore Ham with our domesticity. On with the show.”

  “Right, on with the show, which was what we were talking about. Truckee River and our upcoming tour. Ham’s not so sure it’s not a fatal mistake.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ham protested, “and please don’t put words in my mouth. I’m trying to find out what exactly you are up against, what the facts are—”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” Charlie muttered.

  “And if I’m going to work for you. Because I’m not yet convinced that I will.”

  “Tell me why. What’s the problem?”

  How could he explain? That a newly formed conscious developed during flight? Or maybe ethics were the symptoms that masked the underlying disease: good old fashioned fear. The scene from his dream, with Blake on his back, his guitar cradled like a lover to his chest, blood everywhere, Charlie screaming, accusing…all of it, that would be just the start. It wouldn’t just be Charlie who accused him. He’d occupy a prominent place among the most hated men in the history of rock and roll. Every Blake Garrett biography ever written, ever after—and a murdered legend warranted dozens—would prominently feature Ham’s blame. The Man Who Failed The Star. His very name would be an epithet. He wouldn’t be able to leave his apartment. His self imposed isolation would be complete, foisted upon him beyond his wildest desires.

  And he’d have to break every mirror in the house.

  “Look, I’m not sure that, in all good conscious, I can do this. I don’t believe in this fortune telling crap. I’d be doing it for…well, for money, for access to fame, for…all the wrong reasons. Understand?”

  “Well, perhaps I can outbid your conscious.”

  “See, the
re you go. That’s the temptation, isn’t it? But no, I just can’t. How could I ever explain myself to you afterwards, when nothing’s happened? I do what, claim I stopped it? And if so, how’d I do it? You’d see right through that, I’d see through that. How do I keep you from hating me once you understand I took advantage of you? Or, for that matter…”

  Blake smiled gently as he finished for him, “Charlie?”

  “No,” Ham protested too quickly. “Your fans.”

  “And they’re going to find out, how?”

  “I don’t know, man, but that’s not the point. The point is I just don’t think I want to do this. The drawbacks exceed the benefits, you know? I’m not going to be fooled into—”

  Ham’s words were lost as the bullet and an ensuing boom shattered the day, the glass window and nearly Ham’s ear. He leapt across the table, scattering food, glasses, plates and Blake everywhere. Though he made a lunge at Charlie along the way, he managed only to swipe more glassware from the table.

  “Get down!” he screamed at Charlie. “Get the damn hell down. Now!”

  Charlie, being Charlie, merely grinned down at Ham as he sprawled across Blake, the food and the floor. “There’s a problem?” she asked.

  Blake groaned beneath him, a gurgling moan that told Ham, beyond doubt, this was a dying declaration. He peered down to see a wide-eyed, ashen Blake clutching a torn plate to his chest, a lover’s embrace that signified nothing less than total devotion to an inanimate object that oozed red around the yellowish flow of shattered yolk. Panicked, searching for the source, Ham tore it from Blake’s grasp, reaching for the hole which spewed Blake’s emptying blood, directly over his heart, from which now no telltale beating could be heard.

  “It’s not Saturday, you fool.” To Ham’s ear, Blake’s attempt at a growl came out more like a shaken groan. Blake gulped a few raspy breaths before he found his true voice. “What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with you? Pull yourself together and get off me.” When Ham failed to respond, he added, “Now would be good. Stupid son-of-a-bitch.”

  Ham glanced down, up, around and back again, confused at the normality. Where did the blood go? The plate? The runny eggs, the…And then he got it.

  A vision. Another lousy, hideous vision conjured up by a feverish and superstitious mind. The second from a total list of two that marked his life.

  “So,” Ham snarled as he stood and wiped bits of food and other debris from his shirt and pants, “the good natured legend, the famous rocker, the icon, has at least a bit of a temper, doesn’t he? Too bad he doesn’t have the sense to match.” Glancing over his shoulder, he snapped, “And you, Charlie, next time I say get down you damn well do it. Understand? No arguments, no hesitation, no nothing. You do it. You hear me?” Even as he said these things, he realized that his anger was a direct reflection of his sick vision, not their words or actions. Or lack of them.

  Even so, he noticed that Charlie, for the first time since he’d met her, had the good sense to look abashed. Until she spoke, of course.

  “Yes, boss.”

  Ham shoved her aside a little harder than needed as he warily crept toward the window, the one with the now shattered hole in its majestic center. A complete wall of glass. Nowhere to hide.

  Ham pulled out the pistol he carried tucked behind his back and under his shirt and slowly stood along the offending wall. Looking out over the horizon, he saw only rooftops from hundreds of yards away, all shorter than the penthouse level, and by several stories. Whoever shot had chanced much, and with little probability of success. Very strange.

  Blake, eggs smothered into his shirt, still stretched across the floor, regarded Ham with amusement. “How’d you manage to sneak that bazooka through security?”

  Without looking back, Ham replied, “You can pack it, unloaded, and the clips in your checked baggage. Nobody ever told you that?”

  “Can’t say they have. Of course, I never asked. Never needed to. Can’t think of why I’d want to, actually.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not me. You stick to your guitars, I’ll do the gun thing. And it’s not a bazooka. It’s a lightweight Browning 9 millimeter. Accurate and deadly but easy to conceal. Anything else you need to know?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Got any binoculars?”

  “Of course. For beach watching.” Blake half pulled himself up with the aid of the bar and tossed over a pair he snatched from the counter. “Here you go.”

  Ham searched the rooftops of the possibly offending buildings, each one individually, slowly, thoroughly. Nothing. Not a darn thing. Except for a brief flash of…something…on the one over to and nearest on the left. He swung the binoculars back toward the general area from where the whatever had flashed but saw nothing before the sun chose that moment to duck behind some low flying clouds.

  He abandoned that effort and instead made a mental calculation of the bullet’s trajectory. The hole was maybe three feet off the ground, and he’d felt, heard, sensed it whizz by his ear. Thus it would have risen maybe two feet over the course of the ten feet that separated the window from his seat at the table. If he figured right, that meant he’d find a hole—and the bullet—embedded in the wall about two feet over Blake’s head and roughly ten feet behind the spot where Blake had sat devouring his eggs. The ones that hadn’t been scrambled on a bloody plate.

  “So it’s going to be by bullet,” Ham blurted. “Given the…” No! Don’t mention the dream! “…And this attempt…”

  “What do you mean? Given the what?” Blake asked.

  “Well,” Ham stammered, “I mean, your psychic and…um…this attempt. You know?”

  Ham turned from Charlie’s semi-accusatory, semi-curious stare and purposefully strode toward the suspected hiding place of that vision inducing projectile.

  “Charlie, bring me a screwdriver or something like it, would you please?”

  “How about a mai tai?”

  Ham just sighed; no response short of violence would suffice, so what was the point? “I’m guessing…” Ham nearly missed it, passing as it had about a foot higher than he’d expected, and directly through a sunset print that almost obscured the hole with its painted darkening sky.

  As Ham removed and placed the print on the floor, Charlie stood with innocence of face and screwdriver in hand.

  Ham smiled vaguely. “Thanks.”

  Ham regarded her more closely and felt a gut punch to his intuition. Maybe that studied innocence on Charlie’s face kicked it up because, finally, the obvious dawned. Recognition well overdue, especially for an always suspicious detective.

  “You know, you two are pretty cavalier about an attempted assassination. It’s almost like this is…I’m searching for the thought here…shut up, Charlie…what I mean is, I’ve been a detective—private or public—for a very long time, and I’ve never seen victims, or potential victims, react with such equanimity. This isn’t right. So what’s going on here? Was this expected, put on for my benefit for some strange reason? Or is this just so normal you no longer react as a real person at all?” His accusing glare bounced back and forth between the two as he again demanded, “So what’s going on? What’s the game?”

  When neither spoke, the light went on. “This was staged, right? A mother loving over-the-top farce of a performance.” Wonder kissed his face as he summed it up. “I’ll be damned. I will just be totally and thoroughly damned.”

  Blake’s gaze drifted off toward the window while Charlie’s eyes challenged Ham directly. “You’re babbling,” she pronounced. “Understandable, I suppose, but not bright. Nor helpful.”

  “This was expected,” Blake affirmed.

  “It…was…expected. What the sam hell does that mean?” Ham demanded.

  “It means, dear Hamster, that the psychic knew today was a day of danger. But not of death. So just go with it.”

  Before Ham’s reddened face exploded into purple, Blake explained. “Not a set-up, Ham. Just not a surprise. That’s all.”r />
  “Not…a…surprise. That’s…all. Wow.”

  “You’re having a bit of a problem completing a thought, Hamster. Take a breath.”

  Ham shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. And like those unseen webmasters, his intent was malevolent when he snapped, “You know, Charlie, sometimes you amuse me. This is not one of those times. Best to let it go.” His gaze bored into her, anticipating, daring—perhaps hoping—she would boldly stomp over that invisible but deftly laid line.

  And Charlie would have no part of it. “Foolish I may be. A fool I am not.”

  Blake jumped into the breach. “Ham, you’re fast. Much faster than one might think looking at your rather lumbering self. And under the circumstances, this pleases me. Very much. But the point is, even expected as it was, I was startled. Well, panicked, actually. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, you reacted before I could even understand what was going on. Given a few more seconds, I might have dived under the table or something if you hadn’t tackled me into a pancake first. And when that did happen, my concern rapidly changed to breathing. That’s all.”

  “And I,” Charlie added, “might have screamed, or swooned, or indulged in some other womanly pretense, but your comedy act beat me to it.”

  “My comedy act?”

  “Oh, Hamster, even you must see the humor in flattening Pop the way you did. If not, you really need to lighten up. Watch some Woody Allen films. Spend some time studying the tragic comedy of human life.” Looking deliberately thoughtful, she added, “Sure wish I’d had a camera. Can you imagine what that would fetch on E-Bay?”

  Rather than assuage, their explanations—especially Charlie’s—further served to enrage a still shaky Ham. “That’s crap. Pure, unadulterated, fresh stinking crap.”