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

by Brent Kroetch

  “Look at him,” she smiled. “Does he look like he’s about to make a fuss?”

  Ham glanced at the big guy behind the bar, and his two compatriots, and had to admit that it was more likely that they’d help her keep it lit than to deny her the privilege. In fact, by the look on George’s face, if she’d been beating a puppy he would have supplied more newspaper.

  “All right,” he admitted, “but still, those things will kill you. It’s not worth the momentary pleasure.”

  She laughed softly, clearly amused at his naiveté. “These will kill me? Dear, dear Ham, these things can’t kill me. I’m already dead. I’m a ghost, remember? How many times must we go through this?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ham mock apologized. “You’re absolutely right and it should have been apparent, even to me. I have no idea what I was thinking.” He waved a conciliatory hand of approval. “By all means, puff away.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in rebuke but her voice was mild as she said, “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Ham. I’ve told you that before.”

  And that was it. He snapped.

  Ham’s recently found mantra ceded to his fury, to his mystification, not to just this momentary flash, but at all that had come before. “No, damn it,” he snapped, “you have never told me that before. In fact, you’ve never told me anything before because I’ve never met you before, I’ve never seen you before, I don’t know you, I—“

  “Oh, stop it. We went through all this before I died. Let it go already.”

  One pill makes you larger, one pill makes you small. And the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all…

  “Do you know Grace Slick?” Ham joked. “Because it sure fits.”

  “Of course I do, dear. Who do you think gave her the words?”

  “And Lewis Carroll?”

  “Not me, but yes.”

  Ham thoughtfully sipped at the dregs of his coffee, seemingly thinking that over, before setting the cup down and grinning evilly. “This doesn’t make sense, Martina. You can’t be dead. I’ve read all the Odd Thomas books and he made it clear, ghosts don’t talk.”

  “Oh yeah, those gave me a giggle,” she laughed.

  “You thought they were funny? I thought they were wonderful. Terrific stories, unparalleled writing.”

  “Oh for sure, I didn’t mean that. I meant they were funny from my point of view. Dean Koontz has a wonderful imagination but he’s writing from ignorance. Obviously, he’s never actually met a ghost before.”

  “Oh yes, obviously. So maybe you should have a talk with him,” Ham jibed. “Give him the facts, show him what an idiot his lack of imagination has made of him.”

  She regarded him with eyes that could only be described as wickedly humored. “You know, Ham, that’s not a bad idea. Not bad at all. I might do just that. In fact,” she nodded, “I believe I will do just that. He really ought to be told the facts before he writes any more of that nonsense.”

  Note to self: send Dean a letter of apology. And a bottle of wine. He’s going to need it.

  “You’re getting lost, Hamster,” Charlie interjected. “Whether you believe her or not is a bit beside the point. Because the point is, she was right about the attempt on Popster, and you need to accept that she might be right on the rest. Debating metaphysics isn’t going to get you where you need to go right now. Head out of your ass, know what I mean?”

  Martina nodded agreement, humor no longer evident in her demeanor. “Charlie’s exactly right. The fact is, very few people know I’m a ghost. It’s not something they really need to know, it’s not something I broadcast. A lot of people do know I’m psychic, however, because that I make no secret of. Many, maybe most, like you and Drew, don’t believe even that. A select few do because they’ve seen the proof. People like Detective Wilson Phillips of the Honolulu Police Department, by the way. I’ve already talked with him and he’s expecting you. Not to worry, though, I told him what you and Kane were talking about, how shocked you were when the murder occurred, that you had no knowledge other than that. He won’t give you a lot of grief, of that you can be assured.”

  “How the hell could you know what we talked about?” Ham demanded. “What the hell is this?”

  “Oh, dear Ham, I was there. I saw it, I heard it. I just related the facts to him.” Smiling at Charlie, she mimicked, “Just the facts, ma’am.”

  Remember your mantra, he advised himself, and repeat after me: Just stay the course. Be not amazed, be amused. Repeat yet again. Keep repeating.

  Ham surreptitiously winked at Drew and nodded agreement. “Okay, that’s great. I was a bit worried about how to handle HPD. This’ll help a lot. So,” he added, “I better get to it. I think I’ve got about all I need for the moment, though I’ll no doubt need to talk to you again.” Turning to Carson, he affirmed, “We are going to need you, so consider yourself on the payroll. I’ll talk to Blake and get back to you about how much I can pay.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Charlie assured them. “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “Good. In the meantime, Drew will fill you in on what where we want you to start and what we’ll need you to do. I’ll go talk to this Detective Phillips then meet back up with Charlie and Drew at Blake’s place.” Turning to Drew he finished, “Keep Russ there until I arrive if you can.”

  “Then, if it’s all the same to you, I believe I will take my leave,” Martina announced. With a wave to George and his two-deep clientele, she arose, still majestic in her sweeping dress and charming beauty. “I have some things to take care of. Like talking to our Mr. Dean Koontz,” she grinned at Ham.

  She was half way to the door before Ham rose and stopped her with a question that had niggled at the back of his brain. “Wait,” Ham said. “What did you mean when you said we’d gone through all that stuff before you died? I thought you were supposed to be really old. You told Drew you’re old enough to be her great-great-grandmother or something like that, didn’t you? So how could we have talked before you died?”

  Martina patted his cheek affectionately. “Ham, you are a sweet, sweet man. But a little slow. Which is why we were all so surprised when you became a detective. It’s ever been the same with you. Each new life, you think it’s your first. Not to worry, though. You have eternity to figure it out.”

  She paused at the door to turn around and grace the room with her beatific smile. Then she disappeared.

  Whether she actually, physically disappeared into thin air or simply merged into the bright haze behind her, Ham could not tell.

  Whatever. Be not amazed. Be amused.

  11

  SUSPICIOUS MINDS

  Did he say he’d meet Charlie back at Blake’s? Ham should have known better. Charlie went wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted, whether wanted or not. On the plus side, he had to admit that her presence could end up an asset, given the thinly disguised superciliousness of Detective Wilson Phillips, apparent de facto chief of the Honolulu Police Department’s “You Don’t Want To Mess With Me, I’m A Cop, You’re Only A Civilian” squad. He gave the impression that, despite Martina’s introductory smoothing, his nose was still bent by an out of town ex-cop invading his province. Charlie’s wit and easy charm might smooth the edge off that pique, if not his condescension.

  Now, waiting for His Nibs to return, and as Charlie opened her mouth to speak, Ham shushed her with a quick but firm shake of the head. This was a game that he knew all too well, as well as anybody on earth. If Phillips was going to make them wait, hoping to learn whatever—or merely to jangle their nerves—then Ham would make certain that Phillips wasted an much of his day as they themselves were forced to exhaust.

  Unless the cop was unfamiliar with Ham’s previous occupation, the approach was without investigative reason. To Ham, this meant that Detective Phillips either grossly underestimated him, which would be good, or that Phillips was deliberately poking Ham in the eye, which would not. Either way, the aggravation of dealing with such an overbearing miniature p
rick would be considerable, as would the necessary nuisance of playing fence and parry with a skilled adversary.

  Hoping to defuse just a potentially incendiary interview, Ham had voluntarily relinquished his gun, a leap of faith that had purchased him nothing other than a sharply worded command to produce his permit to carry in Hawaii. To nobody’s surprise, the Las Vegas P.I. lacked said permit. Whether the weapon would be returned had yet to be determined but, despite the possible hazard, he believed he’d done the right thing and knew that would do so again. He’d been on the other end far too often to put another cop in the uncomfortable position of placing an armed and largely unknown player across the table from him, even in his own court. That would epitomize an unpardonable sin under any circumstances, but most especially cop to brother cop.

  Ham had hoped that his forthright manner would induce a small amount of camaraderie or, at the very least, decrease any lingering tension that might have existed given his failure to surrender himself after the shooting at the cafeteria where Kane was killed. Instead, it seemed to have heightened Phillips’ suspicion. His reaction had been to toss them here into this interview room, with a barely smiled apology for the wait they would have to endure before he would be able to return after he finished up a report that was “due on the captain’s desk within the hour.” On the plus side, he did promise to bring coffee back with him. Whether that would include some for Ham only time would tell.

  He examined the undersized room and suffered the same vague sense of depression that these rooms always provoked in him, even as he had used them to his advantage. Even Phillips’ promise of coffee upon his return would fail to warm the frostiness of this iron themed accommodation. Bare except for four chairs and a metal table decorated with handcuff rings, the single florescent bulb served to accent the starkness and hopelessness the little room was intended to offer. For that was the purpose of such design: sensory deprivation. With nothing to look at, nothing to contemplate or examine, the mind was left to its own dastardly devices. An exercise in psychological terror. The more uncertain the captive, the more intense the guilt—even if innocent. And of course that was precisely the point.

  Just to shove it back in Phillips’ face, Ham would have liked to toss down the gauntlet with his own air of affected nonchalance. A total lack of concern, exhibited by closed eyes and feigned sleep, would irritate the questioner to the point of impatience, and to the detective’s detriment. He’d make mistakes and in making errors the questioner would blow that high stakes game of back and forth, question and answer, accuse and deny.

  Parry, thrust, touché. The suspect walks.

  Still, much as he’d like to, Ham dared not play that game. Should Charlie choose to use that opportunity to speak up, he’d find himself on the defensive—advantage Phillips. So instead of restful insouciance, he’d go for playful detachment, maintaining a good natured grin at Charlie, a grin he hoped served a proper warning. In his mind he chanted, “Lights, camera, action,” mentally alerting Charlie to the fact that the tapes rolled, the sound was on and, far from finishing off some report, Phillips was using this time to study them.

  Ham swallowed a laugh at the amateurish attempt to intimidate. Even if he were to be underestimated, not presumed a pro, it should be clear to any half ass experienced cop that a former detective, no matter how good or bad he or she may have been, would be so thoroughly familiar with these tactics as to make them utterly useless. So assuming Phillips met the half assed qualification specified, it was back to the stick in the eye.

  Then again, Ham thought, maybe Phillips didn’t meet even that minimum criterion. After all, he apparently had some connection with Martina, some belief that her psychic ability was more than delusion, which might just be a delusion of Phillips’ own. In Ham’s experience, overreliance on outside help indicated under reliance on innate ability, one’s own sense of self worth and wisdom. Maybe, just maybe, Phillips was one of those who unexpectedly stumbles upon an answer from time to time and, knowing intuitively his lack of worth, attributes such to pure luck or divine intervention—or even psychic help. Like from Martina. And so, in his own inadequate mind, his ability and reputation depends on hers. Were she to be proved a fraud, so too would he prove to be, if not to anybody else, at least to himself.

  So to Phillips, if Ham read this right, Martina must be believed. And that knowledge was power. He would use this, use her, her authenticity, to validate himself. To make him untouchable. Don’t cross Martina, dig?

  Never mind that he himself believed not a word of Martina’s claims of supernatural status, be it living or dead. Misdirection could go both ways. With her, against her, with Phillips, use Phillips. Whatever it took to get to the truth of the who, the why and the when. Because that was all that mattered here, the truth, which was that Blake’s life was genuinely under threat. If nothing else, the bullet in his wall proved that. Whether the intent had been to kill or merely to frighten, any bullet anywhere demonstrated evil and resolute intent. Nobody, no matter how clouded of mind, put himself in threat of legal jeopardy without purpose. Just because that purpose was inimical to sanity—and it always was—it changed nothing. It only added to the peril, escalated the threat. And as he well knew from unwanted experience, insanity breeds its own purpose, which is madness for the sake of folly itself.

  Charlie chose that moment to break discipline and interrupt his reverie. She glanced at her watch and huffed indignation, clearly exasperated at their forced idleness and pained from the pressure of those agonizing ticks of the clock.

  Ham pursed his lips, briefly irritated, knowing that Phillips would catch and recognize the significance of that open irritation. The upshot would be a longer wait, with Phillips eager to stretch the tension so taut that they’d both snap.

  A good plan, Ham admitted to himself. And one that wouldn’t work. He grinned at Charlie, pulled the shells from his pocket and bounced them in his hand, both for visual effect and sound. He aimed a sly wink at Charlie and her short, stifled laugh told him she’d got the idea. It would not be long now. Not long at all.

  Less than two minutes passed before Phillips came bounding into the room, balancing three Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee in his big paws. As he did so, Ham deliberately slipped the shells back into his pocket. Phillips could either out himself or pretend ignorance, but not both. Either way, score one for the Hamster.

  Phillips set a cup before each of them and one before the chair that he proceeded to occupy. He nodded politely to Charlie then turned to Ham with a friendly smile. “So fine, I’m busted. What’s with the shells you so plainly wanted me to see?”

  Ham’s large eyes feigned surprise. “Why, whatever do you mean, Detective? I thought you were filling out forms.”

  “Don’t take it as an insult. It’s just procedure.”

  “Forget it,” Ham replied. “You mess with me, I mess with you.” Ham took a sip of coffee and shrugged appreciation. “Not bad for jailhouse brew.”

  “Kona,” Phillips grinned. “Only the best for our perps.” Just as abruptly as it had appeared, Phillips’ affable demeanor evaporated, replaced with his previous imperialness. “Now about those shells. Let’s have it. And let’s have it straight.”

  Ham gently laid the shells on the table before Phillips. “I found these beauties yesterday morning on the roof of the Muhala Tower. I don’t know that they will do you any good, but the fact is—”

  “The fact is,” Phillips interrupted, “is that I should throw you into cuffs right this fucking minute. What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck were you thinking? You, a former cop, and you don’t know to leave evidence alone, to not abscond with it, hide it from us?” His face purpled from its reddish hue as he stood and reached for the cuffs in the container attached to his belt. “In fact, I think I will do exactly that. You may get away with that shit in your state, but not here, not in my territory. Stand up, put your damn hands behind your back.”

  Charlie’s soft voice stopped them b
oth short. “Enough. If you two are going to play “who’s got the biggest dick” I’m out of here.” She stood and glared at Phillips, no longer the carefree Charlie Ham had known, but a much tougher, older version of that little girl persona. “And hear this, Detective. If I leave, I take Martina with me. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  Ham smothered a laugh—and his astonishment at Charlie’s chameleon-like performance—as he witnessed Phillips’ facial features, in a matter of a few seconds, morph from anger to astonishment, astonishment to confusion, and confusion to shame.

  Ham’s delight with Charlie grew beyond all reason as it dawned on him how that performance would look on tape. And it was on tape, every facial tick of accomplishment caught for posterity. Already, whoever was monitoring the interview would have alerted his cronies, demanded they come watch the show. With typical cop black humor, bootleg copies of the tape would be floating around the Division by noon, latest, more copies of which would be shown over and over, ad infinitum, at holiday parties for years and decades to come.

  The fact that Phillips, too, seemed to realize this, escalated Ham’s opinion of the man’s intelligence. Phillips muttered a quick “excuse me” and dashed from the room, intending, as Ham felt sure was the case, to put a stop to the offending machine’s witness of his recent humiliation at the hands of an innocent and harmless looking semi-hippy civilian.

  When he returned, he appeared abashed and still red of face. He did, however, have the grace to acknowledge the obvious.

  “The tape is off. Let’s talk.” Turning to Charlie, he asked, “Who are you, exactly? I mean, how do you fit in this? You’re a friend of Martina’s, I take it, but what else? Anything I should know?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Ham answered for her. “Just that she is very, very close to Martina, that they’re not just friends, they’re confidants. Charlie has a good deal of sway with Martina, and that’s all she meant. Enough sway, actually, that Martina, if forced to make a decision, will always side with Charlie. Again, that’s all she meant. There’s no threat there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”