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

by Brent Kroetch

  Russ smiled, true amusement showing in his eyes. “Nicely done. I love how you side-stepped that. The perfect ‘non answer’ answer.” He glanced out toward the now returning figures of Blake and Charlie nearing shore, turned his attention back to Ham and patted him on the shoulder, almost with a fatherly affection. “Drew said you were good. See you soon.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  DAY THREE

  8

  STATE OF CONFUSION

  Ham roused slowly to consciousness, blinking his eyes into focus. Even through the heavy drapes, darkness had begun to surrender to the rising sun. Giving in to the inevitable, he glanced at the bedside clock and groaned. Only six-thirty local time, which meant he’d been in bed and asleep for less than six hours. But hours never mattered. His internal alarm, which had not gone on pension, demanded he rise, get on with the day, and he knew from useless experience that it would not be denied, no amount of pleading to the contrary be damned. Besides, he was due to meet with his hottest and only lead in a little more than two hours. Seems that the sniper ghost had managed to wangle a rare day off. So breakfast it would be.

  Ham discerned no telltale sounds of household activity and assumed that Charlie and Blake were therefore still abed. Eager for that first cup of wakefulness, he threw on his by now well broken in new shorts and padded bare foot and bare chested down the hall and out to the kitchen area beyond. He rummaged through the pantry, found coffee grounds and filter, remembered to add water—something he’d forgotten to do more than once when he delayed setting the pot until morning—and stood there impatiently willing the stuff to brew. In his mind, it took nearly forever, but then that was to be expected, he supposed. As they say, a watched pot never boils and a watched coffee pot refuses to yield its treasure. He pretended to study the contents of the pantry, fooling the pot into action, until at last he heard a final gurgling that signified success. Flushed with success, he poured himself a cup, black, and strode to the veranda to bask in the morning glory.

  And glorious it was. At this time of the year, sunrise had just blossomed into promise, clearly eager to rise but not yet there, and the contrast between bursts of orange to the east and purple darkness to the west was unmatched by any painting, by any master, he’d ever seen. Even the masters couldn’t improve on Mother Nature, he mused. She was perfection herself, the epitome of accomplishment. No mere human, no matter how talented, no matter how trained in the arts, could dare to hope to even moderately approach her flawlessness.

  Ham studied the rising splendor, absorbed by the slow moving dance of night into day, until the darkness to the west admitted defeat and retreated beyond the horizon. Satiated, and in need of a refill, he returned to the kitchen and poured another cup, then set off in search of the foyer—and hopefully a morning newspaper. He was curious to see what kind of coverage the carnage at the coffee shop from yesterday would receive. After all, a cop had been killed, assassinated as he sat there speaking to…Ham himself. His curiosity turned to dread as he realized that he might figure prominently in any reporting. He had, after all, been there, across the table, from the deceased detective at the time of his death. It was unlikely that would have been unnoticed by those hound dog reporters. Unless the Hawaii Police Department chose not to advertise that fact, an occurrence that might indicate even more trouble than he currently assumed. Silence was an old ploy, long used by cops the world over, and by himself many more times than once, to catch a perp unaware and off guard.

  Sweat began to pour off him as he raced down the foyer, coffee slopping over the sides of his cup, in his head long dash to the door. He’d seen a paper lying around the veranda yesterday and hoped that Blake had it delivered daily during his island stays rather than sending for delivery. Hopefully…

  Ham yanked open the door, saw the paper lying there and with a grateful sigh snatched it up. Back in the veranda, he plopped down into one of the wicker chairs, put his feet up on the coffee table—he’d seen Blake do it, he was sure he wouldn’t mind—and flipped it open to the Star Advertiser’s blaring headline.

  HUNT ON FOR COP KILLER

  Dateline, Honolulu

  By Dan Wright

  The Honolulu Police Department is on the hunt for a killer of one of their own. Detective Kaneho'omalu Hookano was gunned down yesterday as he sat at the Wailili Café in the company of a white male of unknown origins. The unknown male, described as 6 foot to 6 foot 3, about 200 pounds, with graying brown hair, is currently the subject of a manhunt by the HPD, as it is not known why Hookano was with him when shot. Though a spokesman for the HPD stated that the unknown male is not a suspect, he is a “person of interest” to the investigation. “We ask that this witness come forward and speak to us, to tell us what he knows about Kane’s (Hookano’s) last moments. We repeat, he is not a suspect, but we do need his help and we ask that he voluntarily come to us in order to aid us in the investigation of this heinous crime. We are appealing to his civic spirit.”

  The shot was delivered (cont. on p.9)…

  Ham flipped to the rest of the story but stopped short at an excellent rendition of his face that was displayed as a prominent element of the story. No need to read further, he decided. That die was cast. No way could he leave Hawaii, not without dropping in on his brothers in arms. That freaking composite would be in the possession of every cop at the airport, eager lesser pros itching to make a name for themselves, get relief from tedium and advance to the big adventurous time of the main investigative force.

  But he couldn’t pop in on them yet. Not until he’d spoken with Blake, received his permission to share confidences he felt duty bound to keep, law or no law to the contrary. Though he would never have accepted that reticence when he himself was a cop, he’d since found religion. People who forked over hard earned money, desperate people who employed his services and paid his rent, these people had problems and insecurities, deep seated fears to thwart, and needs that he was paid to protect, consequences be damned. And if he had to forestall official demands and inquisition to protect Blake, well, then, that’s exactly what he would do. He still had pull back in Vegas, he could get some reciprocal heat applied on the HPD if needed. But only if needed. He’d pay for it too dearly, back in Las Vegas, if he had to go that route. One too many favors called, as it were.

  “Well, hello, Hamster. Just make yourself at home.”

  Ham glanced up, neither startled nor surprised, and flashed a warm smile. “Good morning, Charlie. Is your dad up? I need to speak with him and,” checking his watch, seeing it was already 8:00 o’clock—where had the time gone?—announced, “I haven’t much time.”

  “Give it another hour. He’ll be up.”

  “That may be too late.” Thinking it over, he said, “Maybe you can help me. What do you think of Russ? I didn’t get a hell of a lot out of dinner last night, except why Drew’s here, that is. After the way he challenged me on the beach, I expected fireworks. Yet he didn’t attack, in fact he barely spoke to me. So what’s the deal? What do you think?”

  “Let me get some coffee and we’ll discuss it. That is, if I can concentrate, what with you being near nude and all.”

  “I see what you mean, dear,” Blake opined. “It is distracting, isn’t it?”

  “Popster,” Charlie beamed. “You’re up and at ‘em unusually early. I was just telling Hamster that it’d be at least another hour.” Suddenly, she looked concerned. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Well,” Blake replied dryly, “if I’m going to be dead in a couple of days there’s no real use in wasting time in bed, is there?” After a pause, and into the silence, he added, “I heard you were after coffee. I’d love some.”

  As Charlie set off, Blake tossed a light windbreaker to Ham. “Here,” he grinned. “So you don’t distract Charlie.”

  Ham shrugged into the jacket, zipped it half way up, and tossed the newspaper to Blake. “We’ve got a bit of a problem. There’s the publicity you wanted to avoid. So far th
ere’s no hint of you. Me, there’s a huge whiff. I’m going to have to tell them something.”

  Charlie returned with two cups filled to the brim and set one down before Blake. “Why tell them anything? Why not let it go? If they knew enough to identify you, they’d already be here at the door. Or am I wrong?”

  “I can charter a plane,” Blake affirmed. “We won’t have to go through airport security, not if I toss my name around. I could probably get you out of here unnoticed.”

  Ham shook his head, firm in his refusal. “That’s not the point, Blake. Although Charlie is right and they have yet to put name to picture, I’ve got a responsibility to help if I can. A cop, a man who struck me as a very decent type, this man was killed, murdered, simply because he was sitting with me. I’d like to know who did it, and I’d like to know why. Because I promise you this, it definitely involves you. I don’t believe for a second that it’s not the same person who shot through your window, although why he’d kill the cop, I don’t know yet. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, really. There was just no need for it.”

  “Well,” Blake mused, “there must have been a reason. Maybe a bad reason, maybe an insane one—well, obviously an insane one, whether good or bad from the assassin’s point of view—but a reason nonetheless. That murder must somehow advance this lunatic’s plan, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe just to keep you off your game,” Charlie interjected, “or even just to keep Popster on edge and worried.” Her eyes narrowed as she added an afterthought. “Or to throw you off track, distract you from…whatever…thereby making it easier for him to get to Pop. You know what I mean?”

  Ham jumped up, set his cup down on the coffee table, and began to pace furiously back and forth. Back and forth, forth and back, his mind churning, seeking answers, explanations, what ifs. He noticed, but didn’t register, that Charlie and Blake followed his every move, cautiously reticent, as if awaiting, expecting, a sudden revelation.

  As he concentrated on his moving feet, his unconscious mind fed information to his consciousness, dredged up heretofore only half realized thoughts. It was a routine he’d developed early in his career, much to the amusement of his colleagues. The site of Ham pacing the confined halls of the detective bureau became a pantomime that was reenacted at holiday parties, by the drunk and sober alike, a sure fire year after year hit. Even Ham had found it humorous, the reenactments, always exaggerated as they were to the point of absurdity. Especially the one with Drew, the one where she’d done Ham as Groucho Marx, replete with cigar, a parody that culminated in several pratfalls from unseen impediments.

  And there it was. That was why he paced, the raison d’etre of his exercise. Always, always it yielded a gem. In this case, the reference to Drew.

  Pulling up short, he absently reached for his coffee, took a tentative sip as though testing its acceptability, then raised his eyebrows in question. “Drew had the salient point when she asked about your will last night. Who, besides you, knows the details, know who’s in it and for what, who the major beneficiaries are, and like that.”

  Blake shook his head. “We talked about that yesterday. It has to be a crazed fan. Has to be, and I want to believe that. Period.”

  “Right, well, your period doesn’t end the sentence. You’ve got more money than God, you’ve got a song catalogue that will go on earning huge royalties for untold years to come, you’ve got houses and who knows what else. And that’s my point. Who knows? There’s Charlie, of course, and…”

  Charlie flashed anger, her dancing eyes dangerously large. “Ham, if you are for one second even hinting around that I’m involved, I won’t bother with Popster. I’ll kill you.”

  “Relax, Charlie,” Ham grinned. “You could hardly have pulled the trigger from across the street, nor murdered the cop, and I don’t believe for a second you’re the money and brains behind some conspiracy. If you wanted to kill ‘Popster’, it’d be easier to get him drunk, take him out for a long swim and drown him in the ocean. Accidental drowning would be a cinch, you wouldn’t even be taking a chance.”

  Blake’s eyebrows shot up in feigned surprise. “Hmmm. Hadn’t thought about that. It may be that I’ll have to rethink our little swims, Charlie.”

  Charlie tossed him an evil eye, emphasized with the pillow tossed at his head, but her giggle belied any attempt at offense.

  “The point is,” Ham continued, “I’m rejecting a crazed fan. It’s from the inside, Blake. So let me ask you again, why not consider changing your will, leave everything except a specified amount to Charlie, and let that be widely known. In that way, you eliminate the motive.”

  Blake shook his head. “Right, the motive but not the act. We’ve been through all this before, remember? So let’s not waste our time here, shall we?” After a pause, he added, “Besides, even if you’re right, then Charlie becomes a target since she’s the only one with anything of monetary value that they could get to after that. And putting her in danger, that I will not do, not for any reason.”

  Ham glanced at Charlie inquisitively. “Do you have a will?”

  She nodded. “Everything goes to my mother.”

  “Does that bother you, Blake?”

  The surprise on Blake’s face was obvious. “No. Why should it? We weren’t married, never went through the acrimony of a divorce, and I still love having her around when she’ll consent to do so. She’s much like Charlie…I guess I should say that Charlie is much like her…and you know how I feel about that. In other words, she’s in my will, too.” Blake brushed that aside and demanded, “Why blow off the crazed fan theory? If we do that, aren’t we exposing ourselves to danger from the unexpected?”

  “I’m not suggesting we won’t have full security, you can be damn sure we will. But it’s not a fan. What we have is proof certain that somebody is after you, and they must have a damn good reason if they’re willing to kill a cop to further their ends. So. What that means is that your psychic is right, at least to the extent that there is a very real, a very dangerous situation here. Which means that I have to at least consider that it may be this so-called psychic who is behind this.” At Blake’s firm but silent denial, he insisted, “Yeah, yeah, I know, you trust her and, in this case, literally with your life. But I do need to talk to her. Where is she?”

  “I told you. She comes and goes. You’ll meet her, I assure you. But it’ll be on her terms. That’s just the way it is.”

  “That’s the way it is,” Ham replied. “Right. Well, what about Russ, then? I was asking Charlie about him when you came in. Could he have any vested interest in you not being around?”

  Blake’s face purpled with rage. “Get out. Get the hell out. Now.”

  “Popster…”

  Blake closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and with a visible effort forced himself to a modicum of calmness. “Sorry,” he said to both. “I don’t tolerate well any attacks on Russ, he’s my brother.” Noting Ham’s shock, he grinned, waved his hand in emphasis, and stated the obvious. “Not in a literal sense, Ham, so don’t get your shorts in a knot. But as close to it as I could ever had hoped for. He’s also my partner, a soul mate, and maybe the one, aside from Charlie, who would hurt most if I was gone. The personal aside, he’d lose untold millions if he had to cancel the upcoming reunion tour. How’s that for perverse incentive, huh?”

  Blake toyed with his coffee, took a sip of the now cold brew, not seeming to notice its inadequacy, and with a lost air, almost as if transported somewhere in the past, he added, “As I said, Russ is my partner, and the fact is, I never would have made it without him. We’re the right and left hands of the band. I had talent, yes, but I lacked that killer instinct, the inbred belief that I was going to be rich doing…something, anything. Russ had that, that defining something. He just barreled ahead, against any and all odds. He pounded on doors, begged for bookings, he virtually lived at the recording studios and record company’s offices, wore them down until they’d talk to him about this new band of his.
He was totally amazing. Without him, without his drive and determination, we’d never have seen the light of day, let alone become what we ultimately did.” With that soft smile of his, he added, “Me, I just wrote songs. I thought that was good enough. I was really naïve as to the business world of music. Or the music world of business, I suppose is more apt.”

  Ham, without being asked or told, retreated to the kitchen and returned with the half pot of coffee still remaining. He topped off Blake’s cup, then Charlie’s and finally his own. Setting the pot on the table, oblivious of the coasters he might have employed, he eyed Blake with something approaching sympathy.

  “I get all that. What I don’t get is this. Russ blasted me on the beach…”

  “That’s just his way,” Blake interrupted. “You get used to it. He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s part of his genius.”

  “And he clearly doesn’t believe in your psychic,” Ham continued, ignoring the interruption. “Or more correctly, I should say that he clearly doesn’t believe she’s not in some way screwing you, taking advantage of your gullible nature.” At Blake’s look, Ham hastened to correct himself. “His words, not mine. Hence, his hiring Drew, who he found out through his own sources was close to me, to keep tabs on me, make sure I don’t screw you for fame or money. I see that as highly indicative of your relationship, your closeness, your two-way protectiveness, but I don’t see it as anything other than a potential hindrance that could get you killed. So why is that? Why does he think your psychic is phony?”

  “Why?” Blake grinned. “Why. Well, maybe because he doesn’t know she’s a ghost. He thinks she’s just some busybody lady who’s hung around long enough to grow older than Methuselah , a lady who’s taken my money for readings, like any shill in a carnival. Russ, you see, is simply a nonbeliever. He’s everything I could ever want in a friend and everything else, but he’s not especially receptive to the supernatural. He’s, unfortunately, too firmly rooted in the physical world. I’ve never been able to get him to open up, to understand that. So I never told him she’s a ghost. He’d think I’d gone mad. And his reaction would be instantaneous and wild, I can guarantee you that.”