 
LARSON'S POINT

By Jerry Kilgore

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jerry Kilgore

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

"Jesus, Tucker," Lila gasped as we untangled ourselves in my narrow bed. I lay panting, trying to catch my breath. Our sex was like that. Intense and bordering on violence. We grasped and tore at each other and were both left spent and somehow still hungry.

Lila turned on the lamp and rolled a joint and lit it. She inhaled deeply and handed it to me. The clock glowed three am. I took a hit and handed it back, feeling the smoke slide through me, curl inside my head.

Lila was quiet for a minute, then said, "Zou Zou wants to see you."

I looked at her. She was shadowed by the lamplight, dark curls that fell to her shoulders, perfect breasts. She had been an exotic dancer but had gotten tired of flashing her tits for a bunch of drunks and had quit dancing, taken a pay cut to tend bar. Zou Zou Gabonet was her boss. A four hundred pound Tahitian, formerly an NFL second round draft pick. He owned the topless joint called Ruckus. He also ran every vice you could think of. Prostitution, drugs, loan sharking, bookmaking. I owed him twelve thousand dollars that I didn't have. He was the last person I wanted to see.

"What'd he say?" I asked.

"He said tell that piece of shit Tucker to come see me or I'll send somebody over to break his legs."

It was about what I expected.

"Fuck Zou Zou," I said, knowing nobody fucked with Zou Zou. "I'll have five hundred for him on Friday."

I'd had a bad run. Everyone has one. Mine had started a year ago and somehow got out of hand. I borrowed money, used credit, knowing my luck was bound to change. And it did. It went from bad to worse. I was in deep and way overdue.

"There's this guy came in today," she said. "Maurice Fonteyn. He's got a problem."

"Everybody has a problem," I said.

"Some guy who works for him has gone missing," she continued. "I told him maybe you could help." She handed me the J.

I hated missing person cases.

"I'm busy," I said and took a drag. It wasn't true. I had one case I was working. Insurance work. Some asshole claiming he had a bad back from a fender bender accident. It was scut work but it paid the rent. Barely.

"He's got money," she said. She took a last hit, snuffed out the joint and blew a cloud of smoke. "You should talk to him."

The money part was interesting. But not interesting enough. "I don't do missing persons anymore," I said.

I hated missing person cases because they always ended bad. Some asshole goes on a bender and shows up a week later, broke, hung over, begging forgiveness. Then the client stiffs you because you didn't actually find anyone.

But far worse were the kids. Like the one I had last year. The one that finally made me quit. Eleven year old Danny Conrad. Cold leads, dead ends, dead children. Every time I thought about it, it felt like someone kicked me in the balls.

I went to the kitchen table, twelve feet away in my tiny studio apartment, finished the last inch in the bottle of bourbon Lila had brought, then crawled back into bed.

"Five hundred won't cut it, you know that." Lila put her thigh over my legs, her hand on my chest. "He's pissed at you, Tucker. He wants to see you today. This evening."

I couldn't imagine going to see Zou Zou without any money to give him.

She stroked my chest, ran her fingers down my belly. "Fonteyn's anxious to find his guy. He's got money. He's loaded. Get an advance. Give it to Zou Zou."

I pulled her on top of me and looked in her eyes. They were dark, like her hair. I didn't know what I hoped to see there. Love? Lies? But all I could see was my own reflection.

"Okay." I didn't like it but Zou Zou was a strong incentive. "You got a number?"

"He'll meet you at one this afternoon," she said. "He's in the book. Fonteyn Development."

She'd already set it up. I let that slide and told myself maybe this was the break I needed. Maybe my luck was turning. But I couldn't buy it. Missing person cases always ended bad.

Chapter 2

Fonteyn Development was in a downtown high-rise, twentieth floor. I downed a half pint of vodka before I went up just to smooth out my nerves. Fonteyn's secretary, a good looking blond, led me to a corner office and left me on my own. It was a big office with a view of downtown Seattle. Thick carpet, leather chairs. A modern, glass-topped desk filled one corner and there were big blown-up color photographs on the walls showing the skeletons of skyscrapers and impressive buildings in various stages of construction. The place had the feel of big money.

Maurice Fonteyn charged into the room from a side door. He was short, bald and fat with thick black framed glasses. A bundle of nervous energy.

He extended his hand. "Maurice Fonteyn," he said. His hand was damp and he had a harried look about him like a man with a lot of worries.

I introduced myself and handed him my card. "Jay Tucker. Tucker Investigations."

He waved me to the leather chair in front of his desk and landed on the far side, tossed a file folder across the glass surface. "Patrick Marshall," he said. "I haven't heard from him since last Thursday and I need to find him right away." His words came out rapid fire, urgent.

I ignored the folder. The only thing I wanted to know was how much it was worth to him. "I'm pretty busy right now, Mr. Fonteyn. I don't know how much time I'll have for this."

Fonteyn pulled a thick brown envelope from a drawer and tossed it over. I opened it. Hundred dollar bills in a neat stack.

"There's five thousand in there," he said. "If you find him in a week there's another five in it for you." He stared straight at me, a flat look, no nonsense.

I hefted the envelope. Five grand. Cash. And the possibility of another five. I felt a flutter in my belly, like I'd just pulled a pair of aces. I reminded myself that a lot of things beat a pair of aces. But it was a hell of a good start. I could put my current case on the back burner for a week, no problem. I slid the money in my jacket and opened the folder.

Patrick Marshall stared out from a big, glossy head shot. A good looking guy, thick dark hair, strong chin, confident smile. Beneath the photo was a job application and a two-page resume. I scanned them quickly. Address, phone number, social security number, references, job history.

"If I'm going to find him," I said, " I'll need all the information you can give me."

Fonteyn nodded.

"This address current?" I asked.

"Yes, and the phone number."

"Does he have a wife? Family?"

"No wife." Fonteyn shook his head. " I don't know about his family."

"How about a girlfriend?"

He shrugged. "I think he has a girlfriend but I don't know who she is."

"Any coworkers I can talk to?"

"I'm his coworker," Fonteyn said.

"Friends?"

"I have no idea."

"How long has he worked here?"

"Three years."

I was wondering how you worked with a guy for three years and didn't know anything about his friends or family or the name of his girlfriend. Fonteyn must have read the look on my face.

"Listen," he said, "we aren't pals. We don't hang out together. He does ninety percent of his work out of the office. He comes in once or twice a week and we touch base. I don't know shit about his personal life and I don't care. I need you to find him and bring him here. Can you do that or not?"

Spoken like a man under a lot of pressure.

"Yeah, I can do that," I said. "What does Marshall do here?"

His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the top of his desk.

"He's the Director of Finance." He swept his arm around the room indicating the photos on the walls. "He helps put these deals together. He gets financing, investors and so forth. He's very good at it. We're in the middle of a big project right now and I need him."

"What kind of project?"

Fonteyn pursed his lips and studied my face, like he was deciding whether or not to tell me. He got up and motioned me to follow. We went through the door Fonteyn had entered from.

The side room was dominated by a large table with a scaled, three dimensional model of a piece of land, a ridged peninsula painted in browns and greens with blue around the edges to indicate water.

"This has to stay quiet, you understand?" he said. "If word gets out it could kill the whole deal. Understand?"

I nodded.

He waved his hand over the model. "Larson's Point," he said. "Two hundred acres of untouched waterfront land."

The model was overlaid with different colored lines designating roads and services. It was going to be chopped up and sold off, piece by piece. The access was Clover Road. I knew the road, just north of Seattle leading west.

"Most of it is low bank waterfront," Fonteyn said. "Every lot has a view. You can't find this kind of land any more. We're going to build an exclusive development of high-end homes and condominiums with retail space below. There are millions of dollars at stake here. Right now we're wading through all kinds of environmental bullshit and the financing isn't sewed up yet. That's what Patrick was doing. That's why I need to find him."

"You call the police?"

"If we get cops, we get publicity. This has to stay quiet. That's imperative, you understand?"

I nodded. I understood perfectly. Five grand in cash. No cops. Millions of dollars. This job was way off the books. Fonteyn was a big time developer, probably had half the City Council in his pocket and a lot of other people to keep happy. But I didn't care about whatever illegal bullshit he might have going. That was his problem. My problem was getting twelve thousand dollars to pay off Zou Zou.

"I'll find him," I said. And collect the other five grand, I told myself. My luck was changing.

"I want daily reports,' Fonteyn said. We went back into his office and he handed me his card. "Call my cell number, it's on the back."

It was clear I was being dismissed. I took the card.

"And I want daily reports," he said. He took my arm and led me to the door. "If you get Marshall here by Friday, you get another five."

He opened the door.

"And if I don't?" I asked.

He gave me that flat look. "Then we're both fucked," he said and closed the door in my face.

Chapter 3

It was early evening, just getting dark when I got to Ruckus and the place hadn't heated up yet. Lila was behind the bar serving a few of the alcoholic regulars and there were some glassy-eyed business types sitting next to the stage ogling one of the girls as she jiggled her tits and looked bored.

"He's in back," Lila said and motioned towards the room where Zou Zou did his business.

The last of the vodka was still warm in my belly. Instant courage. I walked past the empty tables and knocked on the door.

Johnny Brill, one of Zou Zou's goons, cracked the door, looked me over slowly with hooded eyes, then swung the door open. Brill was a muscle bound freak, mean as a snake and about as smart.

I went into Zou Zou's dimly lit cave. Sofas and chairs were staged around a seventy-two inch flat screen TV. A basketball game was on, NCAA tourney, the sound turned low. The place smelled of booze and weed. Johnny Brill stood next to me, his muscled, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Riley Scanon, Zou Zou's number one, sat on the couch with a drink in his hand.

"Tucker!" Zou Zou boomed. His moon face split in a wide grin and his voice filled the room, as big as he was. His massive body was stuffed into a leather recliner and five yards of blue silk shirt ballooned over his bulk. His hair seemed to explode out of his head in a wiry bush.

"Been worried about you, man," Zou Zou laughed. "Been wondering if you were gonna show up." He looked like some big Polynesian Santa Claus. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was a nice guy. I knew better.

I handed him the envelope from Fonteyn. I'd taken out two grand to pay some bills, make some bets. There were a couple of teams I liked.

"Three thousand," I said, hoping it would keep him happy for the time being.

He tossed the envelope to Scanon.

"This ain't some kind of cash and carry, bitch," Scanon said. He was a lean, hatchet-faced psycho, blond with mean eyes, violent and unpredictable. He opened the envelope and peered in. "Three grand," he said with disgust, then looked at me. "Bullshit."

"I need a little more time," I said.

Zou Zou laughed his big laugh. "Sit down, Tucker. Johnny, get my man Tucker a drink. Scotch. The good stuff."

I sat in the nearest chair while Johnny Brill got the drink. He wasn't happy about it.

"Where you get the money, loser?" Brill asked, handing me the tumbler of scotch with a blank look on his face. Every time Brill spoke it sounded like he had rehearsed his line.

I started to tell him it was none of his fucking business but caught myself. I was walking a tightrope with sociopaths and psychotics whose only motivation was money and pain. I downed the scotch and asked myself what the fuck I was doing with these assholes.

"I've been busy," I said to Zou Zou. "Working. I'll have another payment for you next week." My hands were sweating and I tried to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

"Next week?" Scanon said. He looked at Zou Zou. "You believe this fucker?"

"Tucker, you dumb ass," Zou Zou said amiably. "You owe me twelve grand, I don't see you for three weeks then you show up with three and ask me to set up a payment plan?" His tipped his head back and his laugh boomed through the room again. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Scanon walked to one side of my chair and Brill stood on the other, both of them looking down at me.

"I tell you how it's gonna be." Zou Zou swung his legs down and heaved his bulk out of the chair. He moved fast for a six foot five inch behemoth and in two steps he stood over me. He put his massive hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard, digging his fingers into my flesh. It felt like my shoulder was being crushed in a vise. I gritted my teeth and tried not to make a sound.

He relaxed his grip but kept his hand on my shoulder, leaned down close and spoke low in my ear. "Time is money, Tucker. You want a week? It'll cost you a grand." I could feel his breath against my face. "You owe me ten grand. You got till Friday. You ain't here on Friday, I'm gonna get worried. Don't want to worry about you, Tucker. I get worried, I send Riley and Johnny to see you."

My shoulder hurt bad and I wanted to rub it but I didn't want them to see me do it. I hated Zou Zou and I hated Scanon and Brill but mostly I hated myself for getting in this position, putting up with this shit.

"You'll get your money," I said. "Don't worry. Sending these two after me would be a mistake, Zou Zou."

He squeezed my shoulder again. "I'll tell you what the mistake is you degenerate fuck," he said. "You are."

Zou Zou released me and lowered his bulk back into his chair. "Get the fuck out of here." He turned his attention back to the basketball game.

I walked to the door, Brill and Scanon following along.

"See you Friday, asshole," Scanon said and shut the door behind me.

The music still droned on. The business types, the stripper, the regulars still went about their pathetic business. I was pissed off, relieved and ashamed at the same time. I couldn't look at Lila as I walked out.

If I found Marshall and got the other five thousand, I could probably keep Zou Zou off my ass for another week. He wasn't going to put me out of commission as long as I was paying a reasonable amount. At least that's what I told myself. I wondered what I would do if Brill and Scanon showed up at my door? Shoot the pricks?

What was I doing with these assholes?

But I knew the answer. Booze, drugs, sex and money. I hated what my life had become but craved my addictions for the relief they gave me. This was my world, filled with my own, personal, four hundred pound demon.

I slid into my beat up Honda Civic and rubbed my aching shoulder. The streetlight light shone through the window and I opened the file folder laying in the passenger seat where I had tossed it.

Patrick Marshall's face smiled at me in the faint light.

"What the fuck are you smiling at?" I said and headed for another bar.

Chapter 4

Nine a.m. Tuesday morning I rolled out of bed with a pounding headache and a sore shoulder, the last hours of Monday night lost in a drunken blur. Fucking Zou Zou.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at a reflection I barely recognized. I was thirty five but looked ten years older, gaunt and haunted, like a refugee, my black hair two weeks overdue for cutting, my eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. I had always prided myself on being fit but I hadn't run or worked out in a year and hard muscle had turned soft.

And every time I looked at myself I thought of Danny.

From all accounts, Danny Conrad was a likable kid, smart with a sense of humor. Three days before Christmas, a little more than a year ago, Danny disappeared from a park three blocks from his home in the Queen Ann district where he had been playing with some friends.

After six weeks the police investigation had stalled. No idea where he was or who took him. That's when Danny's mother, Mary, called me.

I didn't want any part of it, but Mary talked me into it. Her husband, Donald, Danny's natural father, was a mess. And Mary wasn't kidding herself. She knew Danny was likely dead. Her hopes were slim but she was a rock and she had to know what happened to her son. She knew the cops weren't getting anywhere. She knew that I might not get anywhere either, but she wanted to try. I couldn't let her down.

The psycho that took him somehow found out I was involved and all of a sudden it became a game. Maybe it pissed him off that Mary would hire some stupid private detective to track him down. He started to send me notes, little clues. Turned me into his puppet and made me and the cops look stupid. He got his jollies leading us around, watching all of us dance to his tune.

I finally put the pieces together but by then it was too late. I called Detective Sergeant Brooks Meacham, the cop in charge of the case, and we met up at an old Victorian house in Everett and found Danny in a cold basement.

Danny had been held for over three months, raped regularly and, at the end, strangled to death. Afterwards, his body had been mutilated. The Medical Examiner determined that he had been dead for about twenty hours when we finally got there. The rats got there first.

We never found the fucker who did it and I couldn't forgive myself for not figuring it out sooner.

I dressed and staggered down the two flights of dingy stairs from my crap apartment to my tiny, street front office, put on some coffee, washed down four aspirin and started going through Marshall's file.

He had an MBA from the University of Washington, spent a couple of years with smaller banks, then got a job with Ranier Bank as a real estate loan specialist. He was there for six years and ended up as their top loan officer. A smart guy on his way up in the world. After that, presumably, he went to work for Fonteyn. His address and phone number were at the top of the page and there were three references at the bottom.

I ran his name and social security number through my search site. The only new information I got was a credit report. He had three credit cards and his credit rating was a hell of a lot better than mine.

Around ten I started calling his references. Of the two that were still around, neither had seen or heard from Patrick Marshall in years and knew nothing about his whereabouts. Dead end.

On a whim, I called Marshalls home number and hung up when the answering machine started, then got in my car and drove to his address.

Marshall lived in a large apartment complex in West Seattle. I found the manager, a young guy with a baby in his arms and two little ones hiding behind his legs. Marshall's rent was paid up for three months and the manager couldn't let me in to Marshall's apartment.

I peeled out a fifty. He stared at it, licked his lips then took it and handed me a key.

Before I went in, I knocked on the doors of Marshall's neighbors. Only one was home, an older woman in a robe and brown slippers.

"Who?" she said when I asked about him.

"Your next door neighbor, Patrick Marshall." I showed her the photo.

"I haven't seen him in weeks," she said. "I don't think he's here much. Is he in trouble?"

"I don't know," I said and handed her my card. "If you see him will you ask him to call me?"

"Of course," she said and smiled. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I'll watch for him."

I went in to Marshall's apartment and locked the door behind me. I was thirsty and my nerves felt raw and ragged.

It was a large one bedroom with a view of the water, nice furniture, granite counters, thick carpet and a gas fireplace. I walked slowly through it, looking for a trace of Marshall, a view into his life.

The place was spotlessly clean and felt almost sterile. Nothing was out of place. No dirty laundry laying around, no dishes in the sink. The pictures on the walls were prints like you would find in a motel room, colorful and anonymous. He had lots of suits hanging in his closet, lots of shoes, all of it nice stuff, expensive. I checked all the pockets, went through his drawers and found nothing of interest.

As I went through the living room, I saw the message light on his phone flashing red. I punched the button. He had six messages. I went through all of them. A mechanical voice noted the date and time for each one.

The first four were from Fonteyn, stretching through the weekend, sounding increasingly angry and worried, demanding that Marshall call him.

The fifth message was recorded at ten Sunday night. A woman's voice. "Patrick?" That was all she said. The line stayed open for about fifteen seconds, like she was waiting for him to pick up, then she hung up.

The last was a hang-up. My call.

I thought about the woman's voice. A girlfriend?

I went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, then went through the cupboards. I found an opened bottle of Glenmora Scotch on an upper shelf. It was just what the doctor ordered. I poured three fingers in the glass and took it with me as I continued looking for some kind of lead. The first drink warmed me and I could feel the alcohol working, smoothing out the rough edges.

Fonteyn said Marshall did most of his work away from the office but there was nothing in his apartment to indicate it, not even a computer. There was a small desk in a corner of the living room with a stack of mail on it. I sat down, went through the desk drawers, then started on the mail.

Mostly utility bills and junk mail. Only two were of any interest. A flyer from Alkai Fitness offering a deal on tanning for members only and a bill from a cleaning company called Merry Maids for six hundred and forty dollars. That, at least, explained the clean apartment.

I stuffed them in my jacket. It wasn't much. I finished the scotch, rinsed the glass and put everything back the way it was.

I spent another ten minutes looking for a clue to the identity of the girlfriend or some kind of a hidey hole. I didn't find anything.

Before I left, I stood for a moment in the middle of the living room and looked around. It was almost like no one lived here. If Marshall had a girlfriend, I could find no trace of her. No makeup, spare tooth brush, hairbrush. Not even a long hair on the pillow. Nothing at all.

I locked the door behind me, hiked to my car and looked over the return addresses on Marshall's mail.

Alkai Fitness was the closest.

It was an upscale place with a juice bar, tanning salon and a small boutique that sold fashionable fitness apparel. A fit looking brunette in a tight, Alkai Fitness t-shirt smiled at me from behind the counter. Beyond her were rows of workout machines with a couple of dozen middle-aged men and women on them, working up a sweat to a soft rock beat piped into the room.

I asked to speak to the manager.

She pointed to some desks off to the side. They were all empty except for the furthest one. A guy was sitting there talking on the phone.

His name was Brad. I knew his name was Brad because it was embroidered over the pocket of his yellow Alkai Fitness polo shirt. He looked to be in his late twenties, tanned and fit. About what you'd expect to see in a fitness club manager. He hung up and gave me his best professional smile.

I showed him my Private Investigator photo ID.

"I'm looking for one of your members," I said. "Guy named Patrick Marshall."

The smile went away. "Why? Did he do something?"

"He's missing." I handed him the picture of Marshall. "Recognize him?"

He studied the photo. "Looks familiar. I've seen him around." He typed Marshall's name into his computer and peered at the screen. "Patrick Marshall. Joined two years ago. Pays every six months."

"Can you tell me the last time he was here?"

"Sure." He typed on the keyboard. "We scan membership cards when members come in, when they buy something at the juice bar, get a tan or buy some clothes. This system is amazing."

Big Brother knows all, I thought. As soon as the words passed through my head I remembered Zou Zou Gabonet getting up out of his chair in his office. Fucker was fast. My gut tightened and a slow throbbing started at the base of my skull.

Brad pointed to the screen. "Last time he was here was March 9, a week ago Monday."

"Did he come in on any kind of regular schedule?"

Brad tapped on the keys. "I'll go back to January first of this year." After a moment he said, "It looks like Monday, Wednesday and Friday were his usual days with a couple of Thursdays and Saturdays." Brad shrugged. "He likes to have a mango smoothie after his workout."

"The computer tells you all that?"

"Yes." Brad was proud of his little side street off the information highway. He pointed at the screen. "Monday, February second, six fourteen p.m., he bought two smoothies, a mango and a strawberry. Man was thirsty."

From where I sat I could look out over the main room, everybody sweating in their latest fashion statement. My headache was returning with a vengeance. I wanted a drink but pushed the thought aside and thought about what Brad had just told me.

"What about the next time he came in?" I asked.

"Wednesday the fourth."

"Did he have a smoothie?"

"Mango smoothie. Six eighteen p.m."

"Did he come in the next Friday?"

"Yep. But no smoothie on Friday."

I felt a faint current of interest. "Can you isolate the sales in the juice bar for any given day?"

"Sure. But...." Brad hesitated. "I actually shouldn't be giving out any of this information. I can get in trouble. I mean, this stuff is supposed to be private."

_If it's so private, what are you doing with it_ , I thought. "Humor me for a second," I said. "Bring up the sales in your juice bar for that Friday, February sixth between six p.m. and six thirty," I said. "My guess is you'll find somebody else bought a mango and a strawberry smoothie."

Brad thought it over for a moment, then tapped at the keyboard and waited for the results.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Marshall bought someone a smoothie. They paid him back." I leaned forward in my chair. "I'd like to know who it was."

Brad pursed his lips.

"Look, Brad," I said. "I can't get any kind of a line on Marshall. No friends, no family. It could be that Marshall's in some kind of trouble. Maybe this person knows something that could help me find him. No one's going to know what you tell me."

It took Brad a few moments to make his decision. "Marsha Brainard," he said.

I took out a pen. "Address and phone number?"

Brad shook his head. "I don't know. I could get in real trouble if anyone finds out I gave you this information."

"Like I said, Brad. You could be doing Marshall a real favor. And I'm not telling anyone. Promise."

He hesitated a moment longer then jotted them down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "I hope this helps," he said. "And please keep it quiet."

"Thanks Brad, you did good," I told him. "And don't worry."

It was one forty five. The clock was ticking. I wanted another drink and a nap. But what I really needed was to find Patrick Marshall and get another five grand to keep Zou Zou off my ass. I rubbed at my bruised shoulder and started the car. Fucking Zou Zou.

Chapter 5

I called the number Brad had given me for Marsha Brainard and got her answering machine. I left a message telling her who I was, that I needed to talk to her on an important matter and left my cell number.

Twenty minutes later I was drinking a beer in a Teriyaki bar waiting for my lunch when she called back.

"Mr. Tucker? I'm Marsha Brainard."

I explained to her that I was looking for Patrick Marshall.

She hesitated. "Why are you looking for Patrick?" she asked.

I told her how Fonteyn had hired me to find him.

"Maurice Fonteyn hired you?"

"That's right. Marshall didn't show up for work."

She was silent for a moment then said, "How did you get this number?"

I ignored her question. "How well do you know Patrick Marshall?"

"I can't help you," she said quickly. "I hardly know him and I haven't seen him since January. Sorry." She rang off.

The question was, why did she lie? She bought him a smoothie at the fitness club. No big deal, so why lie about it?

I finished my lunch feeling like I was starting to get somewhere. But there was something else I needed to do. I got the number for a downtown bar called Salvetti's and punched in the number. Billy White, a bookie I know, hangs out there. I didn't owe him any money and as far as I knew he wasn't affiliated with Zou Zou. I had to wait five minutes before Billy came on the line.

"Billy," I said. "Jay Tucker. What's the line on Western Kentucky and Gonzaga tonight?"

"Forget it, Jay," Billy said.

"What do you mean?"

"Words out on you, Jay. No bets till you pay the big man."

"What the fuck, Billy? He'll never know."

"No can do."

"I got cash, Billy."

That got his attention. "How much cash?"

"A thousand."

I let him think it over. "Come by at six. I'll meet you in the alley. And keep your fucking mouth shut about this." He hung up.

Fucking Zou Zou. The bastard owned my life.

Then I called Merry Maids. A girl named Sally said to come on over.

Chapter 6

Merry Maid's office was in a strip mall between a dry cleaners and a liquor store and had boxes of cleaning supplies stacked against the walls. I introduced myself to Sally Teague, the owner. She sat behind a green metal desk covered with a small pile of paper and a computer monitor, sucked on the last half of a cigarette and blew smoke into the room. She was pretty, a thin face with pale skin and dark smudges below green eyes, like she was working too hard. Long, red hair tied back in a bun with a loose strand hanging down the side of her face. I guessed she was in her early forties.

She looked at my business card. "Jay Tucker, private eye." she said. "It has a ring to it."

"Glad you like it," I said. "They let you smoke in here?"

She smiled. "I figure since it's my office and I pay for it, I'll do as I please. Does it bother you?"

"No ma'am. Like you said, it's your office."

"Let me guess." She leaned back and put her work shoes up on the desk. She wore faded jeans and a plaid shirt, a working girl. "Somebody thinks one of my girls has been stealing some of their precious shit?" Her tone said she'd been down this road before and wasn't particularly worried about it.

I fished out Marshall's bill from Merry Maids and handed it to her. "I'm looking for this guy, Patrick Marshall."

She took a final drag, stuffed the butt in the ashtray and looked over the bill. She cocked an eye at me. "Where'd you get this?"

I had a simple lie ready, but something told me that was the wrong way to play it. She seemed like a woman with a finely tuned bullshit detector. "I found it in his apartment. He's gone missing."

Her green eyes looked me over skeptically. "Missing, huh? Missing men don't really interest me." She said it like came from personal experience. She stuffed the bill back in the envelope and tossed it on her desk.

"Even ones that owe you six hundred and forty dollars?"

She took the time to pull out another cigarette and light it while she thought it over. "I don't know how I can help you, Jay."

"Do you know Patrick Marshall?"

"I've met him."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Two years ago. When he hired us."

"His boss hasn't seen him since last Thursday. Can't get hold of him. He works from home so it could be he was around last time your people cleaned his apartment. Maybe they saw him or talked to him?"

She shook her head. "He's never there when we clean."

"How do you know?"

"That's one I do myself."

"You clean it yourself?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because it's easy." She blew out smoke and gave me a half smile as she looked at me through the haze. "And if I clean it myself, I don't have to pay someone else to do it."

"You ever see anything laying around, like a travel brochure or something?"

"Or a plane ticket to Mexico?"

"Yeah." I smiled and found myself liking her.

"No," She studied my face. "How'd you get in his apartment?"

"The manager let me in," I said.

"Bullshit." She smiled when she said it and held her cigarette up in her left hand. I could see she didn't have a wedding ring. I pictured her working hard to build her business. Maybe she had some kids at home. A single mom.

"I gave him fifty and he gave me the key," I said. I didn't see how it mattered.

"Who hired you?" Sally asked.

"Maurice Fonteyn, Marshall's boss."

"Are you any good?"

The question surprised me and I wondered what she was after. "Any good at what?"

"Any good at finding people?"

I thought maybe she wanted to hire me to find someone, so I told her the truth. "Not particularly."

She nodded, watching me through a haze of smoke. "You look like you had a hard night, Jay."

"You could say that." This didn't seem to be going anywhere and Sally Teague was starting to make me nervous. I felt like she could see right through me. I stood. "Thanks for your time, Ms. Teague. If you think of anything please give me a call." I walked to the door.

"Hey, Jay?"

I turned.

"Why would someone pay six hundred and forty dollars to clean an apartment that hardly ever gets dirty?" she asked.

It was a good question. I should have thought of it.

"They wouldn't," I said.

She nodded. "Now you're getting somewhere." She wrote on a post-it note and handed it to me. "This is his other place. It was filthy. Took four of us two days to get it ready for him. Maybe you'll have better luck."

I took the note.

"And maybe you should lay off the booze for a while," she added. "Might help your investigative skills."

Like I thought, she could see right through me. "Thanks for the tip," I said and left.

Chapter 7

Brick buildings lined both sides of the narrow alley behind Salvetti's. There was a single light over the steel door and a full dumpster next to it. The sour smell of garbage filled the air. I handed Billy a thousand dollars and took Western Kentucky and three points against Gonzaga.

Billy was a small, wiry guy with a lined face and a fringe of gray hair around his bald head. He counted out the bills. "If the big man finds out about this he'll bust my fucking arms, Jay. I'm out on a limb for you."

"Don't worry about it," I told him.

"You're the one should be worried," he said as he pocketed the money. "Zou is pissed at you. That's a bad place to be."

"Let me worry about Zou Zou."

Billy shook his head at me, like I was some idiot child. "Game starts in half an hour," he said. "You want, you can watch it at the bar. Just remember, you got no bets with me."

"Don't spend any of my money," I said and went in, feeling good about the bet, feeling like my luck was turning around. They had four wide screen TV's in the bar, each tuned to a game. I sat at the bar, ordered scotch and a plate of nachos and watched the game.

Just before half time, Fonteyn called me. I stepped out in the hall where it was quiet to answer.

"You're supposed to check in, Tucker."

"I haven't found much yet," I said.

"What the hell have you been doing?"

"Do you know someone named Marsha Brainard?" I asked to deflect his attention.

There was a brief hesitation. "Yes. She's the wife of an acquaintance. Why?"

"Her name came up is all."

"Does she have something to do with this?"

"I doubt it."

"Is that it? Marsha Brainard?"

I wanted to get back to the game. "I also found out Marshall has another house."

Another hesitation. "What is it, a rental?"

"I'll check it out tomorrow."

"Where is it?"

I fished out the post-it note. "2716 Lynn Street. I'll give you a call in the morning, tell you what I find."

"Good. Call me tomorrow." He hung up.

I went back to the game. It was close and Gonzaga pulled it out at the end and won by two, which made my bet good. I won a thousand bucks.

I met Billy back in the alley.

"You want any of the action on the weekend games?" he asked me.

"Absolutely," I said. "Give me back my thousand. Keep my winnings for now. I'll let you know."

He had a little smile on his face as he handed me my cash. He'd been through this a thousand times and figured his money was coming right back to him. I had a different idea. My luck was back.

I stuck the grand in my wallet and headed home.

But as I drove to my place my thoughts turned back to Zou Zou and the ten grand I owed. That brought me back to earth.

I needed Patrick Marshall. I needed that five grand. I thought about going over to the address on Lynn Street and checking it out but it had been a long day and I was half in the bag. I needed sleep. Tomorrow, first thing.

It was almost eleven when I got home. I pulled a beer from the fridge, cleared some dirty dishes off the table and sat. I planned to finish the beer, take a shower and get a good nights sleep. Get up bright and early tomorrow, find Marshall, collect five grand and give it to Zou Zou. Simple.

I heard a key in the latch, the door opened and Lila walked into the room. I was surprised to see her. She usually worked the bar until it closed at two a.m. She was all in black - black high heeled boots, short black skirt, black silk blouse and black leather jacket. She put a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch on the table and turned to look at me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I got off early." She pulled a joint out of her jacket and a couple of small green pills then hung the jacket on the back of a chair. "I want to party," she said. "Just you and me." She lit up, took a deep hit, stepped up and put her arms around my neck and blew smoke gently into my face.

She kissed me and I felt the wet heat of her tongue in my mouth and my head was filled with the smell of weed mingled with her own heated scent.

She stepped back, unbuttoned her blouse and let it slide off her shoulders. The soft white of her breasts trying to bust out of a tiny black bra. Then she dropped the skirt to the floor and stepped out of it. Her small rose tattoo peeked over the band of thin, black panties. She rinsed two glasses in the sink, opened the scotch and poured, then put one of the pills in her mouth and washed it down. She put one of her booted feet up on the chair, giving me a view.

"You want some?" she asked.

At that point I said goodbye to any notion I had of an early night.

Drugs, sex and rock and roll, a night I wished I could remember. I passed out around two and woke again at five, my mouth as dry as dirt, my head still buzzing from the ecstasy. I got up, took a piss and drank three glasses of water. Lila was gone. That didn't bother me. She came and went as she pleased. I crawled back in bed and fell back asleep.

It was past ten when I woke again. My headache was back along with a low, tired buzz from the ex. I went to the bathroom and stood in the shower with my forehead leaning against the side of the stall and let the hot water wash over me until it started to run cold.

When I came out, Lila was sitting at the table, smoking a joint and sipping from a cup of Starbucks. There was another cup on the table. She looked as pale and washed out as I felt.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat across from her.

"How long you been here?" I asked her.

She pushed the extra cup across and gave me a tired smile. "Twenty minutes," she said. She handed me the joint and I took a hit and handed it back. She finished it and dropped the roach in a glass with the dregs of scotch in it. "This place is a sty. Let's go somewhere and get some breakfast."

"I got shit to do."

"Like what?"

"Like finding Fonteyn's missing employee."

She stood and came around the table, hiked up her skirt and straddled me. She put her arms around my neck and we kissed, long and slow, her tongue sweet and hot in my mouth. She began slowly working her hips. I grabbed her ass with both hands and helped lift her and she pulled the towel free, pulled her panties aside and guided me as she lowered herself slowly down.

Our faces were pressed together and our breath mingled as she moved over me, slowly at first, then faster. We gripped each other tightly, growling and reaching, gasping and driving into each other, the tension and heat building quickly then exploding in release.

It was over as quickly as it started.

"Jesus Christ, Tucker," she panted in my ear.

I caught my breath and said, "I've got to go."

She leaned back and pulled the hair out of her eyes. "You can't spare enough time for breakfast?"

I shook my head. Whatever she wanted from me, I didn't have it to give her.

"You're an asshole, Tucker." She stood and rearranged her panties then handed me the cup of coffee. "You look like you need this."

She walked to the door, paused and looked back at me. "Call me later?"

"Sure," I said.

"Liar." She walked out.

Twenty minutes later I was dressed and as ready for the day as I was likely to get. I turned on my cell as I headed for my car. There was a message waiting. Tony Renald, in charge of investigations for Plymouth Insurance. I called him, expecting him to give me some shit about nailing the asshole that was scamming them, my other case. I wasn't disappointed.

"Where the hell are my photos?" he asked.

"Something came up. I don't have them yet."

"Jesus, Tucker, how hard can it be?" Tony loved to chew me out. I put up with it because he was the only client I had left who would send me work.

"Tony," I said. "Take a breath. I'll get them. Something came up."

"Like what? A fifth of bourbon? When's the last time you were over there?"

"For fuck sakes Tony," I snapped.

He cut me off. "Take it easy, Jay. I got something for you."

"Like what?"

"I talked to Joe's ex-wife, Ida. She's still one of our many satisfied customers. She doesn't like Joe much."

"I don't blame her," I said. "What'd she say?"

"Guy loves to bowl. He's been in all kinds of leagues. Been using this one alley for years, Capital Bowl."

"I'll look into it," I said, impatient to get going.

"Shut up and listen, Jay. I called the alley. He's in a league over there right now. They play once a week. Wednesdays at one."

I shook my head. "Why am I surprised? The guy's as dumb as he looks."

The guy was Joe Phillips. Ordinary guy. Forty five years old, overweight, going bald. Worked in shipping and receiving at Todd Shipyard. He was involved in a minor car accident. Claimed he hurt his back and found a doctor who backed him up. Joe filed a big claim, disability, medical bills, all kinds of shit. Tony asked me to look into it, strictly a routine look at the guy. Turned out, accidents involving a back injury were sort of a habit Joe had. Twice before in Seattle and before that, twice in San Diego. Different insurance companies each time.

The next step was stake the guy out, catch him doing something he wasn't supposed to be able to do with his bad back and take a few photos. Game over.

Trouble with that was, Joe was a lazy bastard and all he wanted to do was sit around and watch TV. I watched his house all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday and his fat ass never left the couch.

I looked at my watch. Eleven ten. I wanted to check out the address Sally Teague had given me for Marshall. What the hell, I'd do it after.

"Okay," I said. "I'll get the photos."

Tony gave me the address of the alley and I headed out.

Instead of driving straight to Capitol Bowl, I drove past Joe Phillips house. His brown, '98 Honda Accord with the big dent in the fender was parked in the drive. I parked up the street, got my camera out of the trunk with the 150 telephoto, got back in and waited.

About half an hour later, Joe comes waltzing out of the house carrying a bowling bag. I got three shots of him walking to the car. I slumped down till he drove past, waited for him to turn the corner, then headed for Capitol Bowl.

It was clear the hell down in Renton, but I took some shortcuts, made good time and got there ahead of Joe. He pulled in to the parking lot about three minutes after I did and I got more shots of him going into the alley.

I opened the trunk, traded the telephoto for my little point and shoot and went in. It was a small league, Joe and a couple dozen overweight men were milling around the counter. Joe and three others wore matching blue shirts. The team, I assumed.

They had a bar so I ordered a beer, took a seat and waited for the games to begin. While I was sitting there I adjusted the camera for indoors, lay my jacket on the table partly covering the camera and lined up the shots. I stayed for the first game and got about ten good shots of Joe the bowler. He was pretty good. Bowled a one eighty seven.

What an idiot.

I was back in my car, ready to go when my cell rang. It was Marsha Brainard, the woman who supposedly barely knew Patrick Marshall. She wanted to see me.

Chapter 8

I met her at a dark little bar called Nexus, nearly empty this time of day. She was at a private booth way in the back. I asked the waitress to bring me a glass of beer.

"Marsha Brainard?"

She nodded and watched me warily as I slid in across from her. She looked to be around thirty, pretty, tanned, black slacks and a cream colored silk blouse. She looked like she spent some money on herself.

"You're Jay Tucker?"

I showed her my ID. A big cluster of diamonds sparkled on her finger as she studied my photo but her fingernails were chewed to the quick.

She handed it back. Short blond hair framed her face, a hint of makeup around blue eyes and perfect skin. She seemed nervous or scared about something but was hiding it pretty well.

The waitress came with my beer and dropped it off. I took a drink. "What's this about, Mrs. Brainard?"

She picked up her drink then put it down, grabbed her napkin and began twisting it between her fingers.

"I googled you, Mr. Tucker."

"So?"

"There was an article about how you helped find that boy last year. Danny Conrad."

I nodded, then waited through a long silence.

"I want to hire you," she said.

"To do what?" I asked.

"Find Patrick Marshall."

Probably the last thing I expected to hear. "Mrs. Brainard, I'm already looking for Marshall. You know that."

"I want you to find him for me, not Fonteyn. I can pay you. More than him."

"Why?" I asked.

"I think something may have happened to Pat." She glanced at her hands then looked back. "Fonteyn...may be involved."

I had a sense that I was wading into deep water and Fonteyn's illegal shit was floating in it. "Involved in what?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

I was in no mood. "That's the second time you've lied to me, Mrs. Brainard. And if you want my help, it better be the last."

We locked eyes momentarily, then she lowered hers. "Mr. Tucker, I have nowhere else to turn. You found that boy. Please. I'll pay as much as you want. Whatever Fonteyn is paying I'll double."

It would be completely unethical. But twenty grand?

"He's paying me ten thousand," I said.

She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a wad of folded cash and pushed it over to me. "This is a down payment. You'll get the rest as soon as you find him. Twenty thousand dollars."

I picked up the money and counted it. Eleven hundred and sixty dollars. I put it back on the table, not sure what to do.

"What's your relationship with Marshall?"

"We're...friends."

I stood. "Nice chatting with you." I started to leave.

"Wait. Please." She grabbed my arm. "We're lovers."

I sat back down. "Tell me what's going on. All of it."

She was nervous. "Is there some kind of investigator-client privilege, like a lawyer?"

"First of all, I haven't decided if you're my client yet. I'll try to protect your interest as much as I can," I said. "That's all I can give you."

I could see her struggling to say whatever it was that was on her mind. She had twisted the napkin in her hands into a tight knot.

"My husband's name is Howard Brainard. He owns and operates Point Narrows Savings and Loan. Maurice Fonteyn launders the money my husband has been stealing from the Bank."

I felt a hole opening in front of me.

"How does Marshall fit in?" I asked.

"He collects the money and figures out ways to hide it."

This was getting worse. "And?"

She looked down at her lap, then met my eyes. "We were supposed to meet this morning. We were leaving, running away together. But he never showed up." She bit her lip.

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Yesterday morning, around ten."

"Where were going to meet him?"

"At the airport. We had an eight am flight out of SeaTac."

"You've called him?"

"Of course. There's no answer." She shook her head. "I went to the house, the place where Pat was staying. He wasn't there. Something's wrong. Something's happened to him."

"Why do you think something's happened to him?" Even as I asked the question I thought I knew the answer. I just wanted to hear her say it.

She stared at the table, then looked at me, asking for understanding. "He took the money."

Of course he did. "How much money?"

"Two million."

Jesus Christ.

"What was the plan?"

She tried not to look at me. "Patrick took the money on Friday. He was staying at his other house, where we used to meet, waiting for my husband to leave town. I was staying home, playing the good wife. When I saw him yesterday, everything was fine. Then today, he didn't show up at the airport. Something's happened."

I looked at possibilities. One, Marshall dumped this little bunny, took his two mil and was long gone. Or what else? Fonteyn catches him. Then what? Kills the guy? Fonteyn? I couldn't see it. Not Fonteyn. But I could see my five grand disappearing into thin air.

I looked at the cash on the table. "Where's the two million?" I asked.

"He has it with him," she said. "Cash. We have to get to San Diego. That's where we were going." She leaned forward. "As soon as you find him I'll pay you the twenty thousand. I swear I will."

"Right." I picked up the money and put it in my pocket, pretty sure it was the last I would get from this case.

Chapter 9

The sky was low, gunmetal gray and spitting rain as I sat in my car across the street from a brown, two bedroom craftsman. There were weeds in the yard and a sagging porch. The whole neighborhood looked like it had given up.

Marsha Brainard and Patrick Marshall's love nest.

I rubbed at the three days worth of growth on my face.

Typically, Marsha Brainard thought her affair was some great love story. She was unhappy, married to an older man who was rich, cold, controlling and a thieving bastard. The two lovebirds met at a New Year's Eve party at her house. They were immediately attracted to each other. By the middle of January they were in love, doing the bop. By mid February they had decided to run away together and Marshall concocted his scheme to rip off Brainard and Fonteyn.

All that money. Illegal, untraceable. And Marshall knew how to get it. Move it from here to there. Hide it somehow or other. It was what he did. Two million in cash. Dumb as it sounded, it probably would have worked. Until I came along.

I drove around the block and parked on the far side, grabbed my thin, pig skin gloves from the trunk, then walked back down the alley. There was a dilapidated garage with a sprung door and a grease-stained cement floor next to the alley. I followed a narrow strip of cracked cement through tall, wet grass then pulled on the gloves and opened the back door with the key Brainard had given me.

Inside, the house was hushed and shadowed. I wandered through the kitchen, a few dirty dishes in the sink, empty frozen dinner package and a half empty bottle of rum on the counter. My footsteps were the only sound.

The living room was barely furnished with a couch, stuffed chair, coffee table, and TV. It looked like what it was, the bare minimum for a love nest. A hide out.

A short hall led to two bedrooms and a bathroom. King-sized bed in the larger bedroom and a small dresser. The bed was a tangle of blankets and sheets. I nosed through the dresser and closet. Some changes of clothes, spare underwear, socks, both men's and women's.

The bathroom had some of the stuff you might expect to find for a couple. Toothbrushes, body lotion, deodorant. The other bedroom was empty.

No suitcase. No computer. No sign of a struggle. No big bag of cash. Marshall was gone.

I went back to the kitchen, knowing I had fucked up. If I had come over yesterday instead of going to see Billy I might have caught up with him. I won a grand but missed the chance for a bigger score.

That's when I noticed the door. I had thought it was a closet or a pantry at first but when I opened it I saw the old wooden steps leading down. I flipped the switch at the top of the stairs but no light came on.

There was faint light down below, maybe from a basement window. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. An old dread told me not to go down there. I told myself I was being silly. Just take a quick look. Be sure.

The steps creaked with my weight and halfway down I noticed the smell, faint at first, but once I recognized it, it seemed to fill the air. The coppery smell of blood. My mouth went dry.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, tried to swallow and looked around. Dust motes floated in a shaft of gray light that filtered through a narrow, grime coated window. The place was crowded with ancient discarded crap. An old bed frame, piled boxes of molding books and old clothes, a rusted bicycle with no wheels, a couch with the stuffing falling out and piles of boxes of who knew what all over the place. The air was musty and damp and felt heavy and overlaid with that unmistakable smell of blood.

I could feel the stagnant air on my skin. The clicking sound of sharp little claws scurrying across cement came from a dark corner and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn't want to go back there but I had to see. I tried to breathe through my mouth as I picked my way through the garbage and debris, my heart pounding.

The smell grew stronger the closer I got. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I saw a thin, stained mattress on the floor. A man's foot wearing only a black sock stuck out from beneath it. The end of the sock was torn open and something had been gnawing at the toes. I fought back a wave of nausea.

I grabbed the edge of the mattress, flipped it over and instantly regretted it. A cluster of brown rats scattered into the surrounding debris. He was on his belly, his head turned to the side in a pool of black, congealed blood, something out of a horror show. His hands were tied behind his back with a black plastic electrical tie. His right eye was an empty black hole and part of his face was eaten away showing white bone and strips of dead flesh.

I forced myself to look. The face was unrecognizable, blood everywhere, but I knew I had found Patrick Marshall. I knelt and took a closer look. His mouth was gagged with a dark neck tie, probably his own. The blood came from a gaping wound on the front, right side of his head next to the floor. On the near side was a neat round hole. From the looks of the entry wound, the gun was less than a foot away when it was fired.

I swallowed again, reached out and fished his wallet from a back pocket.

I was tampering with a crime scene. I hesitated for a moment, then thought fuck it. This wasn't some random killing. And my ass was already hanging way out. I was probably the one that got him killed.

I made my way over to the window, opened the wallet in the grimy light and took out his drivers license. Patrick Marshall. He was thirty five years old when he died. The photo on his license showed a serious looking guy, a successful man on the way up in the world, going places.

Not any more.

I pulled out a wad of bills from the wallet and counted them. Two hundred and eighty dollars. Whoever killed him hadn't bothered about the small change. I put the bills in my pocket. He didn't need them any more.

I went back to the body and put the wallet back in his pocket. I left him laying on his belly, dropped the mattress back on top of him and stood there for a second. One stupid phone call and this was the result.

Then I noticed something white just inside the opening in the toe of his sock. The tip of a small piece of paper, folded up. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely get it out.

Suddenly the horror of the place closed in and panic seized me, obliterating thought. I crashed through boxes, knocking them over and ran up the rickety wooden steps. I slammed the door behind me and stood in the kitchen, panting for air, the image of Marshall's chewed face trapped in my mind. I grabbed the bottle of rum on the counter and poured it down my throat. It burned going down. I drank again, long deep swallows, then ran to the sink and threw up.

After a minute I turned on the water, rinsed my mouth and washed my face. Slowly I gained control and some semblance of rational thought returned. I unfolded the piece of paper with shaking hands. It was a pawn ticket. Patrick Marshall had pawned a set of golf clubs at Rudy's Pawn and received three hundred dollars in cash. He had thirty days to pay three hundred and sixty six dollars to get them back.

He had hidden the ticket in his sock. It seemed like a desperate act, something you do when you're out of time and someone's coming and you have to hide it right now.

And the golf clubs? He didn't need the money. So?

He was hiding something. What? Two million dollars?

I heard a car pass by in the street and knew it was time to go. I went out the back door and locked it behind me, cut across the alley and through the yard on the other side and was in my car in less than thirty seconds. I turned down the first side street I came to and beat it the hell out of there.

Chapter 10

I was badly shaken, driving like a zombie. Marshall's death was on me and the image of the nightmare in that basement was stirring up the memories of Danny Conrad.

I found myself near my office, parked on a side street and went up to my apartment. There were two inches left in the bottle of scotch from last night. I took a long swallow and it burned all the way down. First Danny Conrad. Now Patrick Marshall. The circumstances were different and yet felt the same. Cold-blooded. Brutal. The thick smell of blood. The fucking rats. My own failure to stop it.

It felt like something inside of me was trying to rip it's way out and when it did, I thought it would kill me. I took another drink trying to dull the guilt and rage I felt building inside. It wasn't about Marshall. Fuck Marshall. But his murder was the catalyst that was unlocking all my buried feelings about Danny Conrad.

I finished the bottle, then threw it across the room where it dented the wall and bounced across the linoleum. I sat at the table with my head in my hands as a terrible darkness filled me with savage desires. I wanted to smash and kill and burn. I wanted to be the instrument of destruction for the man who killed Danny Conrad. I flung my arm across the table sending dirty glasses and coffee cups flying across the room. But my rage was impotent and without direction.

I paced the room and drank the scotch and when that was gone I found three bottles of beer in the fridge and drank those. The booze finally began to work its way into my psyche, dulling my anger but leaving it festering inside.

My thoughts began to focus. I couldn't do anything about Danny. Danny's killer was long gone. But what about Marshall?

I washed my face in the sink then opened the window, breathing deep of the damp air and letting in the city sounds. I sat back down and tried to think it through. Marshall was a thief whose cardinal sin had been to steal from his masters. It had gotten him killed. And whoever did it had no compunction about it. That was the reality I was dealing with and I'd better be ready for it.

I went to my closet, grabbed the case that held my gun, took it back to the table and took out my Glock 17. I picked it up and saw immediately that the gun was loaded, the magazine locked into position. It froze me. I never left it loaded. Not drunk, not stoned, not ever.

I sniffed the barrel. The gun had been fired recently. Not by me. I popped the magazine and unloaded it. The magazine held fifteen rounds. I counted thirteen plus one in the chamber. One missing. I reloaded the magazine as an image of Marshall laying in his blood flashed through my mind. A single shot to the head. One missing bullet.

I stared out the window trying to get my head around what the fuck was going on. The sky was gray and there was little traffic. Then a cop car cruised slowly by and pulled over on the far side of the street. Two cops got out, clustered together and looked around. One pointed towards my office and they started walking across the street. An alarm went off in my head. What were the cops doing here? I looked at the gun in my hand and knew that it wasn't a coincidence.

I had lots of questions and no answers but there was one thing I knew for sure - now was not the time to talk to the cops. I stuck the gun in my belt, pulled on my jacket and went down the back stairs and was in the alley before the cops got there. I jogged to the cross street and to my car without being seen, pulled a u-turn and headed out.

Chapter 11

I drove through downtown, made random turns and kept one eye on the rear view mirror. After five blocks I was fairly certain no one was following me and headed south. I needed a place to lay low until I could figure this out.

First question: What were the cops doing at my door? Answer: Someone could have seen me going into Marshall's house, got my license number and called the cops. Or? Someone was setting me up for Marshall's murder.

Second question: Who killed Marshall? Unknown. But it had to be tied to Brainard and Fonteyn.

Third question: What did Marshall hide in his golf bag?

Rudy's Pawn was on Highway 99, south of the airport, at the end of a block of older, two story clapboard buildings. A red neon sign above the door stood out against the dull lead gray of the sky. It had a big plate glass window in front displaying guitars, power tools and a big lawnmower.

I parked in front and a bell dinged as I went through the door.

A fat guy with beady eyes and a beard leaned his belly on a glass counter that held an array of knives, jewelry and watches. I handed him the ticket and he studied it briefly, then went in the back and came out with a full set of fairly new golf clubs in a big red and black bag and lugged them with him behind the counter.

"Nice clubs," he said, "but you ain't the guy that brought them in."

I had the lie ready. "I bought them from him," I said. I took out four one hundred dollar bills and handed them across. "Keep the change."

He took the money then looked at the ticket. "You got a bill of sale?"

"No. The deal was I gave him three hundred cash, then I pay off the loan and I get the clubs."

The guy pursed his lips, studied me. "How do I know this won't come back on me?"

He stared at me. I stared back.

"How much for the fucking clubs?" I said.

He scratched his beard and thought about it. "Three hundred more."

I peeled off three hundreds and put them on the counter.

He reached for the money but I kept my hand on it. "Forget you ever saw me." I said.

He shrugged, then nodded. I took my hand away and he picked up the money with a smug look on his face, then dragged the bag around the counter. I hoisted it to my shoulder as he stuffed the bills in his pocket.

He watched me through the window until I got in my car. I drove south on Highway 99 for another couple of miles until I found a cheap motel that suited my purpose. Anonymous looking, two stories high with parking in the back hidden from the street. I checked in under the name John Smith, used a fake license number and requested a room in the back. I parked behind the building then hauled the golf clubs up to my second floor room, pulled the curtains and locked myself in.

It was a cheap room, double bed, TV, a sink and mirror and a small bathroom.

I leaned the golf bag against the bed and went through all the pockets. A few golf balls and some tees. No money. Then I started pulling out the clubs one at a time and dropping them on the bed. The five iron got stuck as I tried to pull it out. I worked it out of the bag and saw why. There was a spiral notebook wrapped tightly around the handle and held in place with two rubber bands.

Patrick Marshall's big secret. I sat on the edge of the bed, removed the notebook and opened it.

It was some kind of a ledger. Eight columns wide. Rows of entries written in black pen in neat, cramped writing. The entries were labeled with single letters, each entry dated and followed by numbers in the columns. The dates were spaced well apart. The first was dated April 16, 2007. The second was May 24, 2007. I thumbed quickly through the first ten pages then flipped to the last entry. The last date was March 13, 2009. Last Friday. There were no numbers listed in the columns next to the entry.

I figured the numbers had to be the money Marshall moved around but I couldn't make any sense of it. Then I found something weird. Taped to the back cover of the notebook was a small key. It looked like the key to a padlock or some kind of lock box. There was no indication what lock it might open.

I threw the ledger on the bed in disgust.

I put the clubs back in the bag then lay down on the bed. I was worn out and my head was spinning with questions. Maybe it didn't matter if I knew what the notebook meant. It was important otherwise Marshall wouldn't have bothered hiding it. Did Fonteyn know about it? I wondered what kind of leverage the notebook might get me and how I could use it.

I suddenly got a whiff of my own body. The odor of stale sweat and fear clung to me like I had been wading through a swamp.

I checked the door and peeked through the curtains. It was growing dark. A cold rain was falling and the asphalt parking area was slick and black and nearly empty. I pulled a chair over to the door and tipped it so the top fit under the door handle, then went in the bathroom, stripped and put the Glock on the edge of the tub. I showered, my mind sluggishly trying to work it out. A wave of fatigue washed over me. I needed food and sleep and a drink. I didn't think the cops would find me here.

I dried off and rinsed my tee-shirt and underwear in the sink and hung them on the heater to dry. I wiped condensation off the mirror and looked at myself. I looked like shit. Dark bags under my eyes like I'd just come off a three day bender. Which I had.

I put on my pants, shoes, shirt and jacket and went out into the rain, walking the sidewalk along the highway looking for a place to eat. I found a joint with a neon sign in the window that said _Pizza_ and ordered takeout. The girl behind the counter said there was a liquor store a few blocks further. I bought a pint of vodka, picked up my pizza on the way back to the motel.

The whole time I was thinking about Marshall and Fonteyn.

I put the chair back under the doorknob, then opened the pint and drank and ate pizza sitting on the side of the bed.

Fonteyn was behind it. Had to be. I gave him Marshall's address and Marshall ended up dead. But I couldn't imagine Maurice Fonteyn doing the actual killing and I didn't think it was Howard Brainard either. I never met the man, but he was the head of a Savings and Loan. A crook, yes, but not a cold-blooded murderer. Whoever did it came prepared, tied Marshall's hands with the electrical ties, dragged him down to the basement and shot him point blank in the head. It was professional.

Fonteyn called somebody else. And that somebody came over and executed Marshall. So where did that leave me?

I heard footsteps in the hall, got up and pulled the gun. The footsteps passed by. I cracked the door and got a look at a heavy woman going down the hall. I closed the door and put the chair back under the knob and breathed again.

I asked myself, is this how you want to die? Scared shitless, waiting for someone to show up and put a bullet your head?

My stomach did a slow flip and I sat down heavily on the bed as more thoughts tumbled through my mind. I looked at the gun in my hand. How the hell would someone get my gun? And then I knew how. And when. And who. And I knew someone would be coming. Either the cops or the killers.

It was a trap. I got drunk and high and fell right into it and now it was closing. I was one of the rats in Marshall's basement, running and hiding. I picked up the vodka, drank deeply then walked to the bathroom. Booze wasn't going to help me. I hesitated over the sink, then poured the rest of it down the drain.

I was on empty, emotionally and physically exhausted. I took off my shoes and shirt crawled into bed with my pants on and slipped the gun under the pillow.

I closed my eyes and the image of Danny Conrad, my nightly companion, faded from view and I fell asleep.

Chapter 12

I woke at five, padded to the window and checked outside. Still dark, still raining, the distant sound of traffic on the highway.

There was a complimentary coffee pot by the sink and I made a pot and turned on the TV. I dressed and ate cold pizza while I listened to the local news. Patrick Marshall was the lead story. The cops were looking for a 'person of interest'. I figured that was me. I drank coffee and thought about the day ahead.

I felt rested, relatively steady, minus my normal hangover. A cold burn had taken hold of me, deep and strong, like a slow, dark river. I hadn't felt this way for a long time.

During the night the pieces started falling into place in my mind. The whole thing with Marshall had been a setup from the start. Lila sent me to Fonteyn and Fonteyn sent me to find Marshall. Once I told Fonteyn about Marshall's other address, he called someone. Lila gave the killers my gun. After they murdered Marshall, she put it back. I was out of it the whole time, drunk and stoned. She made sure of that. But I was the one that poured the scotch down my throat and rode the high.

And if all that were true, then the killers were undoubtedly Riley Scanon and Johnny Brill. They were more than capable of it. And Scanon and Brill didn't wipe their asses unless Zou Zou Gabonet told them to. But I couldn't figure out why Zou Zou would set me up?

I pegged Fonteyn for the weak link. I was going to ask him that question and a few others. But first I needed to stash the notebook and the key, Marshall's insurance policy, for all the good it did him. Now it was mine. I wrapped the notebook back around the five iron and stuck the club back in the bag, put the original pawn ticket in one of the zippered pockets.

The skinny guy at the desk in the lobby directed me to Silver Dollar Loans, another pawn shop. It wasn't far. I paid for my room, loaded the car and drove over. They gave me two fifty for the clubs and another pawn ticket. I thought about hiding it in my sock but it felt creepy, bad juju. I put the ticket in the glove box.

I drove to the airport and parked on the fifth floor in long term parking, space J-53. The car would be safe enough there. I opened the trunk, grabbed my mini-recorder, then locked up, went down and grabbed a cab from in front of the terminal. It was nine fifteen.

I had the cabbie drop me at South Center Mall. It wasn't busy this early in the day. I bought a Mariner's jacket and cap at the team store, changed in the men's room and left my old jacket in a stall. Then I found a pay phone and called Fonteyn's private number on the back of his card.

"Hello?" he answered.

I had rehearsed what I wanted to say. Short and sweet. "Marshall kept a notebook tracking all the money. The dates, who it came from, where it went. It will put you in jail for twenty years and tie you to his murder."

"Who is this?"

"You know fucking well who this is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the money laundering scheme you and Marshall and Brainard have been running. I'm talking about how you had him murdered."

"You're crazy. The cops are looking for you. You killed him." He tried to put conviction in his voice but couldn't quite pull it off.

"Shut up and listen, asshole," I said. "The first entry is dated April 16, 2007. The next is May 24. Check it out for yourself." I hung up. I wasn't sure giving him the dates would work, but I figured a man in his position would keep some kind of record for insurance. Just like Marshall had.

I gave him fifteen minutes to stew and called back.

"Well?" I said.

"What do you want?" Fonteyn said.

Marshall's death was all about money. It was the language that all these assholes spoke. So I knew if I asked for money they would understand it. I figured Zou Zou had gotten ten percent. That seemed about right.

"Two hundred thousand. I'll call you in one hour. Be in your office." I hung up before he could give me any bullshit excuses. He had the money. Probably in a bag under his desk.

I waited in front of the mall until a cab dropped off a fare, then had the cabbie take me downtown and drop me off a few blocks from Fonteyn's building. The rain had passed but the streets were still wet and low clouds hung overhead. A chill wind scattered debris in the gutters.

I went in the front door and straight to a bank of phone booths opposite a small lounge area and called Fonteyn. It had been about forty minutes since my last call. That was good. I wanted him off balance.

"Yes."

He sounded tense. Good.

"Bring the money downstairs and go out the front door. Go left to the corner and wait. You've got five minutes."

"Wait," he said. "I don't have it yet."

"Then you're fucked," I said and hung up. He had it. But I really didn't care either way. I wanted him moving.

I took a seat in the lounge with a view of the elevators twenty feet away and waited. A few people came and went. This could get tricky if someone were on the elevator with Fonteyn or waiting to get on. I would have to play it by ear.

A business guy in a suit came in and stood waiting for the elevator. He got on and went up. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table, walked over and stood near the elevators pretending to read. The other elevator came down and two women stepped off. They were talking to each other and walked by without paying any attention to me.

The seconds ticked past and I was starting to feel exposed, waiting for someone to come along and notice me. Then the first elevator returned and there was Fonteyn, an oversized briefcase in hand. He was alone. As he came out I stepped in front of him and pushed him back. The doors slid closed and I stuck the Glock in his face and hit the button for the parking garage in the basement.

"Turn around. Put your hands out and lean against the wall."

He did as he was told.

I quickly searched him, took his cell phone and put it in my pocket then held his collar from behind and faced him to the door with the gun in his back.

"Listen," he said. "I couldn't..."

"Shut up." I slammed him against the door.

The elevator opened and we stepped out to a parking garage. The faint echo of footsteps sounded from somewhere in the gloom but there was no one in sight.

I stabbed the barrel hard into his ribs and heard him grunt with pain. "Where's your car?"

He pointed down an aisle. I kept the gun in his back and walked him down until he pointed to a black Ford Expedition. I had him unlock the car, then I took the keys and the briefcase. I put him in the driver's seat, went quickly around and got in the passenger side and handed him the keys.

"Keep your mouth shut and do what I say."

"What are you doing?" he asked as he put the keys into the ignition. "Where's the notebook?"

I slammed the butt of the pistol down on his shoulder, right on the bone. He cried out and bent forward, clutching at his shoulder in pain. It felt good to hit him.

I pulled him upright. "Drive."

He was in obvious pain and now I could see real fear on his face. Good. I wanted him scared. I wanted him so scared he would spill his guts, turn in his own mother. I wanted him to beg like I imagined Marshall had begged.

I directed him through random turns heading generally east, towards the freeway. As we drove through downtown, I checked behind us to see if we were being followed. I didn't see anyone. I was sure he had called Zou Zou and told him what the deal was, but if they were around I was hoping they were still waiting for him to come out the front door.

I had him get on I-5, head north, hold the speed steady at sixty five. We went through Seattle, got off south of Everett and headed west, wound our way through a commercial area and finally onto Clover Road, going west towards Puget Sound. As soon as we pulled on to Clover he knew where we were headed.

His crooked little dream of wealth. Larson's Point.

Chapter 13

Clover Road started as a wide residential throughway and finally morphed into a narrow two-lane blacktop that curved through rural fields and clumps of evergreens as it worked westward towards the water. After ten miles, the road turned sharply north but we turned off on a gravel lane that narrowed quickly to two tire tracks with tall weeds between them and thin woods and fenced fields on both sides. The tracks twisted through deepening trees until we came to a pile of boulders blocking the way. Barbed wire fencing was strung among the trees on either side of the boulders. Beyond, the tracks disappeared into deep forest.

Larson's Point.

The place was something of a miracle. Over two hundred acres of thick, second growth forest on a ridged peninsula jutting out into Puget Sound. Privately owned, undeveloped waterfront land.

I had Fonteyn turn off the engine and give me the keys.

"What are we doing here?" He tried to put some bluster into his voice but couldn't quite pull it off.

I set the briefcase on my lap and popped it open. Six rolled bundles of twenty dollar bills held together with rubber bands.

"I tried to tell you," Fonteyn said. "It's all I had on hand. I didn't have time to get what you wanted."

"How much is in here?"

"Forty thousand."

"Where's the money you got from Marshall?"

"I don't know anything about that."

He was lying, trying to be cagey, believing there was a way out. I intended to destroy that belief.

"Take off your shoes," I said.

"What?"

I pointed the gun. "No more talk. Do it now."

He took them off. "I can get more money," he said. "I can get you the full two hundred thousand. Just give me a little time."

"Shut up. Take out the laces."

He did as he was told. I threw the shoes in the back, tied the laces together into one longer strand, got out and motioned him to crawl over the seats towards me. I dragged his fat ass out, leaned him against the car and tied his hands behind his back with the laces, as tight as I could get them.

"What do you want?" he said. There was an edge of panic in his voice. "This is crazy. You want more money? I can get it. I swear."

"This is how they did it to Marshall," I said. "They tied his hands, took him down to the basement and shot him in the head." I took off his glasses and tossed them in the front seat. I wanted him uncomfortable. I wanted him to feel lost and alone.

"I need those," he whined. "I can't see shit without them."

I ignored him, locked the car, reached in my pocket and turned on the recorder. Then I pushed Fonteyn towards the boulders. It was still raining, a light drizzle. Fonteyn walked gingerly in his thin black socks on the wet ground.

"Can I have my shoes at least? Please?"

"You won't need them," I said.

I hauled him over the boulders and we followed what remained of the road, a single track through tall grass, the woods gradually encroaching on both sides. Water dripped from overhanging boughs. We were on a low ridge and here and there through the trees you could catch a glimpse of Puget Sound.

"What are you going to do?" Fonteyn gasped, breathing hard as he stumbled along in front of me.

"Not much further," I said.

"What the fuck do you want?" His voice rose, desperate.

The woods had a deep, ancient feel, dark under a high canopy of branches from the towering fir and hemlock and cedar. Cool and damp. We walked for ten minutes and the trail narrowed. I spotted a large, decayed stump, the remains of the original old growth forest, probably logged a hundred years ago. It was off the trail, thirty feet into the forest. A large maple, a more recent blow down, lay next to it. I pushed him towards the stump, then down on his knees at the base.

He knelt in the pile of crumbled mulch, his head leaning against the rotted wood, panting like a dog. I sat on the log next to him and placed the barrel of my gun against the side of his head.

"No, no. Please." His eyes were screwed shut and tears ran down his face. "I can make you rich." He was begging now. "Look around you. This is a fucking gold mine. This land is worth millions. I'll cut you in. Please."

"Tell me about Marshall."

He caught his breath. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about Marshall and the money laundering."

He licked his lips, seeing a glimmer of hope. Then he started talking. I kept him going. Amounts, accounts, whatever he could remember. He would drift off subject, wanting me to know how much money I could have if I let him go. How much the land was worth. How rich he could make me.

"This timber alone is worth a million," he said. "Cut these fucking trees down and every single lot has a view."

"Who killed Marshall?" I asked.

"I don't know. Honest to God. I'd tell you if I knew."

"Who did you call after I gave you his address?"

He paused. "Look," he said. "Marshall was stealing the money. He brought it on himself. Why the fuck should you care?"

I put the gun against his head.

"Howard Brainard," he said quickly.

"You telling me Brainard killed him?"

"He knows people."

"What people?"

"I don't know. I swear. I don't know anything about it." Fonteyn swallowed hard. "Brainard told me to hire you to find out where Marshall was, then call him. That's all I did."

I couldn't listen to him any more. He made me sick. His greed. His lies. His fat little face. His entire fucking being.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Shut the fuck up, Fonteyn."

I sat there and listened to a rush of wind through the branches. It died off and a cascade of drops fell to the ground. I heard a movement behind me in the trees and I turned my head.

"Don't fucking move, Tucker," Johnny Brill said. He stepped out from behind a big Cedar, a .44 Magnum pointed at my head. I couldn't believe I let this idiot sneak up on me.

"Drop it," he said.

I had no choice. I dropped my gun. Johnny fucking Brill.

"Brill?" Fonteyn said. He turned his head and squinted. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"We held back on Clover Road so he wouldn't see us," Brill said. "We figured where you were going."

Fonteyn had been waiting for him. Knew he was coming. I was a fucking idiot. Scanon and Brill had obviously tailed us and I had missed them. Now I was going to pay for it. Bitter disappointment filled me.

"Stand up and turn around," Brill said to me.

I did as he said. My brain was racing. I scanned the trees, figuring Scanon had to be close but I didn't see him. I thought about running, through the trees towards the water. Maybe if I got in the water I could swim for it. But I was standing at the apex of the triangle formed by the stump and the maple log I had been sitting on. Brill was three feet away and I would have to dive over the log. There was almost no chance I would make it. But I didn't see I had any choice. Dive over the log, roll and run and hope to hell Brill was the worst shot ever.

"Cut me loose, Brill," Fonteyn said. "Then give me a gun so I can kill this cocksucker myself."

Fonteyn was on my left struggling against the shoe laces that bound his hands. Naturally the fucker had lied. If he knew Johnny Brill, then he knew who killed Marshall. He was all the way in it.

"Sure," Brill told him. "Relax."

I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. It happened fast. Brill took a step, the gun came up and exploded, two feet from Fonteyn's head. The shot was sharp and loud and echoed through the trees. Fonteyn went down instantly, dead before what was left of his head hit the ground. It was a chance to run for it but I missed it, caught by surprise, too slow to react.

Brill grabbed my collar and dug the gun into my back.

"Your turn, Tucker."

All he had to do was pull the trigger. But if there was one thing you could count on with Brill, it was that he would do something stupid.

He tapped the barrel of the gun against my cheek.

"Say goodnight, sweetheart," he said.

Maybe it was a line he heard in a movie somewhere and he had been dying to say it ever since. He finally got his wish.

I spun hard right, elbow high, powered by adrenaline and fear. I caught him on the nose with my elbow. The bone splintered and blood gushed down his face. I grabbed his neck and brought my knee up hard into his balls, then rammed his head down as I brought my knee up again and smashed it into his face.

He went down hard and lay on his side clutching his balls, blood pouring from his nose.

I bent to pick up his gun but before I could grab it another gunshot exploded close by and a bullet whickered past my face. I dropped behind Brill's back, close against him, and buried my face in the thick carpet of evergreen needles, ferns and low brush, willing myself into the ground as blood pounded through my veins.

Two more shots in quick succession. The first hit the log next to me and sent chips flying. The second hit Brill. I heard it, a small thunk, and felt the shock wave travel through his body. He gave a tiny yelp, then shuddered briefly and lay perfectly still.

Scanon. And he was close. Twenty or thirty feet. Over by the trail. Brill made lousy cover. All Scanon had to do was walk up and shoot me.

"Johnny?" Scanon shouted.

Brill's gun had fallen a few feet from his hands, on the other side of his body. I would have to expose myself to get it. I would be an easy target. Then I remembered my own gun. I had dropped it somewhere close by. I felt around with my hands through the thick undergrowth.

"Brill?" Scanon called again.

Brill was dead. But I didn't want Scanon to know that.

"He's hurt bad, Scanon," I shouted. "You shot him."

Scanon was quiet for a moment. "Looks dead to me," he said calmly. Then two measured shots, both right into Brill. "How about now, Tucker? Is he dead yet?"

I scooted my arm forward as far as I dared feeling for my gun in the brush and ferns, wondering what was keeping Scanon. Did he think I was armed? My hand found the barrel. I worked it closer with two fingers and got my hand around the handle and drew it in. I took a quick look and saw that the barrel was clear.

"Let's talk this over, Scanon," I said.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I got something you want."

"What would that be?" he said.

"Marshall's notebook," I said.

"What makes you think I give a shit about some notebook?"

I could hear him creeping through the brush, trying to keep quiet about it, angling to my left, looking for a clear shot.

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Eliminating some minor problems," Scanon said.

I poked my head up and fired two quick rounds at where I thought he was.

Scanon fired back, two shots, both wild. I crowded behind Brill's body, got my feet under me then jumped up and vaulted over the maple log, landing in a thicket of old branches and brush. I scrambled to my knees, crawled along the back side of the log. Then I heard Scanon crashing through the trees, moving away. I caught a glimpse of him running, heading for the trail and the cars. I fired twice more but he kept moving.

I let him go and slumped behind the log and took a deep breath, relief flooding through me. Then I realized Scanon could be circling around. I crouched behind the log and scanned the trees and listened. The forest was silent. I could hear my own heart pounding, a gust of wind. Nothing else.

I climbed over the log, checked Brill and Fonteyn. Both dead.

I started after Scanon, moving cautiously tree to tree, my gun ready in my hand, checking the trees ahead, listening for any sound. I had made enough stupid mistakes for one day. A few more in a long line of fuck ups.

I found a bright splash of blood where I first fired. A trail of blood led off. Lots of blood.

I got to the trail. More blood, running in a rough line towards the road. I drifted right and followed the trail from the cover of the trees.

I found Scanon about fifty feet further. He was sitting on the ground, his back against the trunk of a big Hemlock, his feet splayed out on the trail. He had fashioned a tourniquet out of his belt and wrapped it around his upper thigh. But not tight enough and not soon enough. He sat in a gathering pool of his own dark blood. His face was waxy white. His eyes followed me listlessly as I approached.

It was a lucky shot that got him. Good luck for me, bad luck for Scanon. The bullet had gone through his thigh, nicked the artery. I was surprised he had gotten as far as he had.

"Call an ambulance," he said.

I knelt beside him, took his pistol from where it lay on the ground and tossed it down the trail. There weren't going to be any ambulances today.

"Which one of you killed Marshall?" I asked.

"You killed him, asshole."

"Where's the two million?"

"Call an ambulance and I'll tell you."

I didn't need him to tell me. I knew who had the money. I stood and looked down at him, pulled out what I thought was my phone but it was the recorder, still recording. I put it back and fished my phone out of the other pocket and opened it. I knelt again.

"Did you use my gun to kill him?" I asked. "Tell me and I'll call."

"Fuck you, Tucker." His voice was weak and his head began to droop.

"Did Lila give it to you?"

His eyes fluttered and when he spoke his voice was barely a whisper.

"Fuck you."

I closed my phone and left him there.

Chapter 14

I walked up the trail to the road, my hands shaking from the residue of adrenaline still in my veins. I was layered in cold sweat, wishing I had a drink and pushing the thought away as hard as I could.

There was a dark blue Chevy Malibu parked behind Fonteyn's SUV. Scanon and Brill, I presumed. The passenger window of Fonteyn's car was shattered, the briefcase open and empty on the seat in a litter of broken glass. Scanon must have known about the money, then sent Brill on ahead so he could get it and search the car. That's why he was late to the shoot out. If he had been there on time, I'd be dead. There was a lesson there somewhere.

I leaned against the hood of the SUV, closed my eyes, tipped my head back and let the cold rain fall on my face. Maybe it was some kind of grace or maybe just blind, dumb luck. But I was glad to be alive. And I was glad that they were dead.

I could feel the blood pumping through my veins and the chill breeze against my skin and I could smell the rain and wet earth and green grass and evergreens. For what seemed like a long time I stood without thought or motion.

Slowly, my thoughts began to intrude.

I felt soiled by the violence and no amount of rain was going to wash it away. It seemed as though death were a tangible presence, standing just beyond view in the woods, watching and waiting. I was alive and there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for it and it didn't quite feel right. Why did I deserve to live? I had fingered Marshall, gotten Fonteyn killed. And before that, I had failed Danny Conrad.

I felt like I needed to reclaim my right to be alive.

I was still in all kinds of trouble. Zou Zou wanted me out of the picture, either dead or in prison. I didn't know why or even if he had a reason. The smart move was to keep my mouth shut, get an attorney. I thought about it, but in the end, it felt like a cop out. It was my mess. I'd gotten myself here by trying to hide from the truth behind an endless stream of booze, sex and dope. It didn't work. I didn't want a fucking lawyer. The ghost of Danny Conrad was still there, waiting for justice. And I was still here, unable to give it to him. I could never fix things for Danny but maybe I could fix this.

I listened to the recording I had. The sound quality was good but it made my skin crawl to hear Fonteyn spilling his guts, obviously scared to death. In addition to Brainard and his stolen money, he named some other people who were involved in payoffs. I didn't recognize the names. Then Brill's voice broke in and the gun shot that killed Fonteyn. Then Brill- 'Say goodnight sweetheart.' It sounded as stupid on the recording as it had in real life. I listened to the rest of it, erased the last part where I spoke to Scanon. I didn't want the cops to hear what was said between us, especially the part where Scanon said I killed Marshall. Then I shut it off.

I knew the recording was worthless as far as prosecuting any of the people Fonteyn had named. Fonteyn was obviously under duress. But it was enough to get the right cop interested. And I thought I knew who the right cop was.

I opened my cell and found the number for Sergeant Meacham and punched the button. We weren't exactly pals. He didn't like private investigators in general and me in particular, but we had managed to work together, however briefly. He was smart, honest, obnoxious and relentless in his pursuit of bad guys. To the point that he was willing to break the rules when necessary. That was a trait I was counting on.

"Meacham," he answered.

"Jay Tucker."

"Well, well. Mr. Private Eye. We've been looking for you."

"You know where Larson's Point is?"

"Not off hand."

I gave him directions.

"What's at Larson's Point?" he asked.

"Three dead bodies."

There was a pause. "Anybody I know?"

"Riley Scanon, Johnny Brill and a guy named Maurice Fonteyn."

There was another moment of silence as he digested the names. Scanon and Brill were well known to law enforcement.

"Are you there?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Stay put." He hung up.

Chapter 15

The interrogation room smelled like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Meacham and his partner, Detective John Parker, sat on one side of the gray metal table with me on the other. Meacham was a heavy set guy, brown hair turning gray and hard green eyes. Parker was a younger, smaller version, lean, with a macho attitude. They were both in shirtsleeves, their jackets hanging on the back of their chairs, empty holsters on their belts, the big two-way mirror on the wall behind them. I imagined someone was on the other side of the glass, watching and listening.

So far they hadn't read me my rights. I took that as a good sign.

Meacham flipped on the black recorder sitting in the middle of the table, stated the date and time and all of our names, then got down to business.

"You have information regarding the murder of Patrick Marshall?" he asked.

I kept it simple, the same story I told them at Larson's Point. The only part I left out was going into Marshall's basement and finding his body. I didn't want any part of that. I told them where I stashed the golf clubs and the notebook.

Meacham pulled out my digital recorder, fast forwarded through it, then played the part he was looking for – in the woods, me asking Fonteyn who he called. Fonteyn's answer – Howard Brainard.

"He's lying," I said.

"How do you know? Parker asked.

"Because of what comes next."

The recording continued. Brill shows up and Fonteyn asks, "where the fuck have you been?"

"He's been waiting for Brill," I said. "It's obvious he knows him."

"You saying Fonteyn hired Brill to kill Marshall?" Parker asked.

"No," I said. "Brill and Scanon work for Zou Zou Gabonet. Fonteyn hired Zou Zou to get his two million back. Zou Zou sends Scanon and Brill to get the money and they kill Marshall for stealing it."

Meacham eyes lit up at the mention of Zou Zou. "Why come after you?" he asked. "Why kill Fonteyn?"

"I think he was cleaning up the mess, getting rid of anyone who could tie him to Marshall's murder. I think Zou Zou has the two million and doesn't want to give it back."

Meacham looked at me. "What's your connection to Gabonet?"

It was a tricky question. For a homicide cop, paying off a ten grand debt by committing murder was a reasonable assumption to make. So if I told them about the money I owed Zou Zou, it could confuse things and point a finger right at me. I wanted them to keep looking at Zou Zou and Scanon and Brill.

"I've met him, been in his bar. I know he runs pretty much all the vice in South Seattle," I said.

Meacham cocked his head. Right then I was certain he already knew about the money I owed.

"And I owe him ten grand," I added.

"I heard it was twelve," Meacham responded.

"I paid it down with some of the money Fonteyn gave me."

"How do you end up owing that scumbag ten grand?"

"Betting on USC," I said. "They had a bad year."

"And Fonteyn gave you five thousand cash, right?" Parker asked. "Isn't that what you said?"

"That's right."

"That seems like a lot of money for an advance," Parker said. "Maybe you were supposed to do more than just find him?"

I didn't like where this was going. I looked at Meacham. He stared at me, waiting for my answer.

"Listen to the recording," I said. "Fonteyn said he called Brainard with Marshall's address."

"You said he was lying."

"He is lying. He knows Brill. What the fuck does that tell you?"

Parker leaned in. "You're a pretty cool customer, Tucker. Walk out of the woods leaving three dead bodies. I think you did Marshall. Pay off your debts, make a little cash."

"I didn't kill Marshall," I said. "Listen to the fucking recording."

Parker stood, leaned over the table, being a hard ass. "Where's the two million?"

"Where do you think, dumb ass?"

"Take it easy," Meacham said.

There was a sharp rap on the door and a guy stuck his head in, motioned for the two of them. Meacham turned off the recorder.

"Sit tight," he said walked out.

A cold trickle of sweat ran down my side. I thought it was clear from what Fonteyn said on the recording that I wasn't involved in Marshall's death. But they didn't buy it. They had something, I could feel it. It was too soon for a ballistics test on my gun. So what then? And then I realized what it was. A shell casing left in the basement. If it was from my gun my prints would be all over it. It wouldn't take long to check for prints.

And Lila was my alibi, the person who set me up.

They let me sweat it out alone in the interrogation room for an hour. Then Meacham came back in, sat down and turned on the recorder.

"We just finished talking to Marsha Brainard," he said.

"And?"

"She backs up your story."

I felt some of the tension release from my shoulders. Some, but not all.

"We also got the notebook," Meacham said. "Tell me about it."

"I couldn't make any sense of it."

I knew there was a solution to the puzzle of what the letters and numbers in the notebook meant. It was locked away somewhere and I believed that the key in the notebook opened the lock. And if there was a good place to hide the lock, it would be with the rats and piles of crap in that nightmare basement in Marshall's house. But it was out of my hands. I could only hope that the cops would figure it out and that the secrets the notebook contained would give them some big fish to fry. A big case for the cops and the Prosecuting Attorney meant more leverage for me.

But the main issue was still my gun.

"There's something else," I said.

"What's that?"

I told Meacham that after I heard of Marshall's murder, I got out my gun and discovered it had been fired.

"Someone took it out of my apartment, used it, then put it back. I think maybe it was used to kill Marshall."

"That's pretty convenient," Meacham said. "Especially since we just matched your prints to one we found on a shell casing in Marshall's basement."

There it was.

"It's a set up," I said.

"You have any proof?"

I hesitated. Part of me didn't want to believe that Lila would set me up for murder and another part was afraid of what she would tell them. But I had an idea. It was a long shot and I needed Meacham to see it.

"Lila Marsh," I said. I told him who she was and what we were doing the night Marshall was killed.

Parker came in and sat down.

I ignored him. Parker wasn't going to help me in any way. I needed to hook Meacham. "If you bring her in, she'll lie, finger me for Marshall's murder and get a lawyer. You'll never touch her. And she's the only person left alive who can connect Marshall to Zou Zou Gabonet."

That was the bait for Meacham. Zou Zou Gabonet.

"What kind of bullshit are you feeding us now?" Parker said.

Meacham was thinking it through.

"You got an idea?" Meacham asked.

"Don't tell me you're buying this crap?" Parker said.

"Shut up, John," Meacham said, looking at me.

"Let me talk to her," I said. "I'll wear a wire."

Meacham gave me a humorless smile. "We don't do wires anymore, Tucker. Everything's wireless now."

Chapter 16

Lila left Ruckus at two thirty-five am and Meacham and I watched her walk to her car through the windshield of the darkened cruiser. She drove off and we followed, staying well behind. We figured she was going home but Meacham wanted to keep an eye on her in case she had another plan. She went south on the freeway, wound her way through Renton and finally pulled into a large condominium complex. I knew she had a condo somewhere, but in the two months or so that we'd been seeing each other, I'd never seen it. I realized how little I really knew of her.

Meacham pulled over outside the entrance and turned off the lights. We waited, giving her time to get into her condo, then drove in, found an empty spot and parked. Meacham picked up his radio.

"This is Meacham."

The unmarked police van was already in place.

"Ready when you are," Parker said.

"Okay, Tucker, you're up," Meacham said. "Do a check."

The wireless device was disguised as a big bulky wrist watch, the kind you might see a diver wear. It was clunky looking but overall not too bad of a disguise. They told me it had an effective broadcast range of three to five hundred feet.

"You hear me, Parker?" I said.

Meacham's radio crackled. "I hear you."

I got out and walked across the parking lot. At three in the morning, the complex was dark and silent, the sounds of the city distant and muted. At the door there were rows of intercom buttons with names beside them. Lila Marsh was in 201.

I pushed her button.

Nothing. I pushed it again.

"Who is it?" The cheap intercom speaker couldn't hide the nervousness in her voice at the unexpected visitor at three am.

"Jay."

A brief silence.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"How did you know where I live?"

I ignored her question. "It's about Fonteyn," I said.

"I don't give a shit about Fonteyn. Go away."

"He's dead," I said.

Another silence, longer this time. Despite my certainty that Lila had set me up, I couldn't believe she was a cold-blooded killer and I hoped that the news about Fonteyn would shake her.

I waited, knowing that if I couldn't get in, this whole operation was finished, leaving me hanging in the wind.

The door buzzed. I went in, crossed a small lobby and headed up the stairs.

She was at the end of a short hall, standing in her doorway wearing her normal work attire, tight jeans and a skin tight red tee shirt that spelled Ruckus across her breasts. She looked good in red. She motioned me in and shut the door.

She seemed nervous. "Keep your voice down" she said.

We were standing in her living room, nicely furnished with matching dark leather couch and chairs.

I studied her face. She wouldn't look me in the eye.

"Johnny Brill killed Fonteyn."

She looked at me then. "How do you know?"

"I was there. It happened right next to me. Brill blew his brains out."

She swallowed and her eyes darted past me at the hall, then came back. "What happened?"

"I took Fonteyn out to the woods," I said, "a place called Larson's Point. Ever heard of it?"

She crossed her arms and kept her voice just above a whisper. "No I never fucking heard of it, Jay. What the fuck happened? Why did you take Fonteyn to the woods?"

"I wanted to hear his confession, Lila. I wanted to know who killed Patrick Marshall."

"And who the fuck is Patrick Marshall?"

She either really didn't know or she was a great actress.

"He's the guy Fonteyn was looking for," I said. "The job you got for me. The guy who stole two million dollars."

She seemed stunned, then turned quickly and walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of scotch and a glass from the cupboard. Her hands shook as she poured an inch of booze into the glass, tipped back her head and downed it, then poured another before she turned to face me.

"You want a drink?" she asked. She was shaken but she was tough and smart and pulled herself together. If she didn't know before, she did now - she was an accessory to murder.

I really did want a drink. "No thanks."

She drank it herself. "Tell me what happened."

"Scanon and Brill followed us to Larson's Point. They planned to kill us both."

"Why?"

"Fonteyn could tie them to Marshall's murder. Maybe they figured I could too. You're probably next on the list."

"Me? Why me?"

She was all innocence but it wasn't that good of an act.

"Because you can tie Zou Zou to Marshall's murder. When you gave them my gun, what did you think they were going to do with it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She finished her drink, studied me briefly, turned around and poured another.

"That won't help you," I said.

She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder. "You should know," she said and drained it. "Where are Scanon and Brill now?" she asked with her back to me.

"They're dead," I said. "Scanon, Brill and Fonteyn. And, of course, Patrick Marshall. All dead."

She stood still, staring at the sink, working it out.

She finally said, "Why are you here?"

"Because I want to know why you did it. You gave them my gun and put it back in my closet. You set me up for murder." I took a step towards her. "Why?"

She turned, leaned against the sink and crossed her arms and looked right at me.

"I thought we were friends," I said.

"We were never friends, Jay. We just fuck each other."

"The cops are looking for me," I said. "Give me a reason not to tell them about you."

There was movement in the hall and I turned quickly.

"Mom?" a voice said.

He was as big as a grown man but as he moved closer and I got a good look at him I realized he was just a kid. Maybe thirteen or fourteen and already six feet tall, eye to eye with me.

"Mom?" he said. "Is everything okay?"

"Go back to bed, Sammy," Lila said.

I stared at him. He wore pajama bottoms and a tee shirt and was lanky and awkward, like he hadn't yet grown into his body. He had a few adolescent pimples and dark curly hair.

"What are you looking at?" he said.

And it dawned on me. He had his mothers nose and mouth and his fathers size and skin color. A blend of Lila and Zou Zou. And I knew the hold that Zou Zou had on her.

She went to him, squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek. "It's okay. Go back to bed."

He gave me a look, yawned and shuffled off, disappearing through a door.

"Zou Zou's son," I said.

"He's _my_ son."

"You're telling me Zou Zou's not his father?"

"Fuck you, Tucker. I don't have to tell you anything."

"Is he the reason you took my gun?"

She hung her head and put her hands over her face. "Jesus Christ." When she looked up her face was streaked with tears.

"I was eighteen," she said, "Young and stupid, dancing at the club. Zou Zou and I hooked up. I was his girl. It didn't take long before I realized what a psycho he was, but by then I was knocked up." She crossed her arms. "Zou Zou didn't give a shit. It wasn't his problem. I left and kept the baby. I told myself I was never going back."

She went to the sink and splashed water on her face and dried off with a dish towel. "A year ago I was out of work," she said. "I had no money. I was about to get evicted. I was desperate. I called Zou Zou and he gave me a job tending bar."

"Does Sam know him? Know what he does?"

"No. Zou Zou never gave a shit about him. And I keep Sam as far away from Zou Zou as I can. I don't want him around that kind of life."

"What happened?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Zou Zou called me into his fucking cave about a week ago. Said he had a favor he needed me to do. He wanted me to hook you up with Fonteyn." She hugged herself tightly, like it hurt her to talk about it. "I said no. I didn't want any part of his schemes. Then he started talking about Sam. He knew what school he went to. Knew who his friends were." She stopped talking and started rocking slowly back and forth.

"Did he threaten him?"

"He said it was time for Sam to grow up and join his daddy's business. He said he would take a personal interest, train him, show him the ropes."

"So you set me up with Fonteyn."

She nodded, looking at the floor.

"And the gun?"

"That evening I was at the bar. Scanon said Zou Zou wanted to see me. Zou said he had one more thing for me to do. If I didn't do it, Sam would get hurt. He asked if I knew where you kept your gun. He told me to get you fucked up, give it to Brill and put it back in the morning." She wouldn't look at me.

I lifted her chin and looked her in the eyes. My life for her son's, that was the choice she was given. I didn't blame her for making the one she did.

"Accessory to murder," I said. "You could get twenty years to life."

"All I ever was to you was a piece of ass," she said. "A convenient fuck. Don't pretend like you give a shit."

She was right. I used her. Men had been using her forever. They still were.

"Who's using you now, Lila?," I said. "They tied Marshall's hands and shot him in the head. You helped them do it."

"Maybe he had it coming."

Maybe he did, who was I to say? "The cops want Zou Zou," I told her. "You can cut a deal. You willing to go down for that fat fucker?"

She dropped her eyes and stared at the floor, the weight of it coming down on her. The she raised her face.

"You're just another drunk asshole, Tucker. Just like all the others."

I felt like shit, like it was my fault. Maybe it was. "Make a deal," I said and walked out.

I passed Meacham and Parker on the stairs as they were going up.

"Good work," Meacham said as we passed each other. "Wait in the car"

Lila was on her way to jail, at least temporarily, and I guessed that her son was on his way into the state foster system. I was off the hook but I couldn't see anything good about it.

Chapter 17

I followed the story on the news and in the papers while I went through an eight week rehab. It was a big story. Political corruption, sex and murder. The key in the notebook led to a lock box hidden in Marshall's basement which contained a list of accounts and the code that explained the letters and numbers in the notebook. All of Fonteyn's and Brainard's schemes were laid bare.

Howard Brainard was picked up in Arizona trying to sneak across the border into Mexico under false ID. And there were others. Brainard's accountant, a King County council member taking payoffs and a dot-com millionaire with his fingers in cocaine smuggling. The cops and the Prosecuting Attorney were in heaven. Careers were turning golden.

But the big catch was the one person who wasn't implicated in the money laundering. Former home town football hero, Zou Zou Gabonet, accused of multiple murders. He was in the King County Jail, held without bail and had hired Devon Blake, the best defense attorney in Seattle. Blake couldn't get him out of jail but he managed to delay the trial for several months. It was finally scheduled for early August.

Lila had taken a deal to testify against Zou Zou. Marsha Brainard and I were also witnesses but had supporting roles. Lila was the star. It was her testimony that was going to put him away forever.

Three days before I got out of rehab I was in the lounge having coffee when one of my new found friends called out from the corner where she was watching TV.

"Hey Tucker, you need to see this."

I took my coffee over and heard the reporter as he repeated the breaking news. Lila Marsh was gunned down in front of her condominium along with a second year cop named Roger Harris who was supposed to be guarding her. They were both dead at the scene.

I called Meacham.

"What about Sam?" I asked.

"Foster care," Meacham said. "He's going in the system. There's nothing you can do about it, Jay. It's over. Stay away from it."

"What about Zou Zou?"

"He's cutting a deal," Meacham said, his voice filled with anger and disgust. "Sixty months for promoting prostitution."

I couldn't think of anything to say.

When I got out of rehab I found that no one had claimed Lila's remains so I took it upon myself. I had her body cremated and picked up her ashes in a small, plastic urn on a Thursday morning. I drove east on I-90 for an hour, deep into the Cascades. I got off on a gravel forest service road a few miles from Snoqualmie Pass and followed it as it wound along the side of rugged, wooded mountains. After about ten miles I stopped at a trail head and hiked up a steep trail for an hour. At the top of the ridge, the land dropped away in front of me exposing a vast sea of mountains and jagged, snow capped peaks stretching off into a distant haze.

I buried her there beneath a tall fir, a good, clean place.

The next morning I was sitting in front of a sheet of thick glass, holding a phone to my ear and staring at Zou Zou Gabonet. The orange jump suit he wore was zipped halfway down his chest and still stretched tight across his shoulders. He had a big smile on his face.

"Tucker, my man. How you doing?"

"You want to know what Scanon said when he shot Brill?" I asked.

He looked puzzled "Why would I give a shit?"

"Scanon shot him twice, then asked me, 'is he dead yet?'"

"Was he?"

"Dead as hell," I said.

"Bullets do that."

"Every time I think about you Zou Zou, I think about that question. Is he dead yet?"

"I look dead to you?" he said.

"No. But I look forward to the day."

He laughed. "That day comes for everyone, Tucker. One day you're walking down the street, some gangbanger pop you in the head just to steal your coat."

"Like the guy you hired to kill Lila?"

"Tucker, it hurts me to hear you say that. I would never hurt the mother of my child." He actually looked like I had hurt his feelings.

"One other thing," he said. "I believe you owe me some money."

"I think we're even on that score," I said.

He shrugged. "Maybe you're right. I'll think about it."

"One last question," I said. "Why did you set me up?"

He studied me for a moment and shook his head. "Naturally, I had nothing to do with it," he said, "but Scanon didn't like you. He figured you for a drunk and deadbeat. Plus, you got that superior attitude, like you think you're better than everyone." A smile spread across his face. "Maybe it was a spur of the moment thing. Like the way we always thought of you, Tucker. A bad joke."

Zou Zou Gabonet was an unnatural human being. A freak of nature. I couldn't even guess at what went on in his mind. But I knew that killing meant nothing to him. Like turning off a light or swatting a mosquito. The only emotion I felt toward him was a sense of morbid fascination and a feeling that he remained an unpleasant but necessary duty that I had yet to perform. I didn't hate him, but I knew he needed to be destroyed. Like a mad dog. The world would be a better and safer place when he was dead.

"Five years is a long time," I said. "A lot can happen in the joint. If you make it out, I'll be around."

"You sure about that?" he said.

I left him there and went to an AA meeting. Afterwards, I met up with Tony from Plymouth Insurance. He had work for me.

###

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Larson's Point. I hope that you enjoyed it. If you are so inclined, please consider writing a review.

This book could not have been completed without the assistance of Melissa Miller, editor extraordinaire, and Astrid Amara, whose books can be found on-line. My sincere thanks to them both for their efforts and sound advice.

I am currently working on the next Jay Tucker adventure and expect it to be completed by the fall of 2011. Stay tuned.

Sincerely,

Jerry Kilgore

About the Author

Jerry Kilgore lives in the Pacific Northwest where he spends as much time as possible adventuring with his wife, Saralee, and dog Bisbee.
