A novel by Scott Newton

2014

Chapter one

            Brad Keen had the blues, just a little. He had been a security officer for the Kentucky Derby for 10 years. He’d once hoped he was going to grow into the job, become an important part of the operation, find some success and happiness. He liked the Kentucky Derby.

            He liked the fine-looking, fast horses. He liked the fine-looking, fast women. The women wore hats, the result being extra care was taken toward completing the outfit. The women of the Kentucky Derby always looked like a million dollars.

            The derby was a party enhanced by variety. There were young and old, black and white, rich and poor at the Kentucky Derby. Everyone had a mint julep in one hand, and a racing form and cash in the other. When you were at the party, people said it was the best party in the world.

            Brad Keen made a decision never to return to Louisville. He was going to go down in history as the man who successfully robbed the Kentucky Derby of $6.4 million. He laughed as that would show his girlfriend what he thought, if she could see it. He knew she wouldn’t, and he was sad because he would miss the Kentucky Derby and his girlfriend Kenya.

            The handle for the Kentucky Derby the previous year was $123 million. All bets were made in cash. Brad couldn’t come up with a plan to make off with all the money, but he and a helicopter pilot could split $6.4 million. It was a pretty good plan.

            It was a nice day in Louisville. It was going to be hot, but that never bothered Brad. He was slender, five-foot-10 and ½ inches tall, thick, straight brown hair and John Kennedy good looks. He grew up poor, and thought he could move up in the world working at the Kentucky Derby. William Devlin, the old chief of security, liked Brad and gave him a full-time job. Brad knew how to trouble-shoot the security cameras, operate the computer system, keep peace in the horse stalls and make friends with the variety of people who showed up at the Kentucky Derby every year to work.

            William Devlin thought Brad was a fine young man and he was going to teach him the ins and outs of the Kentucky Derby.

            Brad did his part by taking classes in police work and management. He participated in computer training for a month each year with other full-time employees. When something was broken, or a camera didn’t work, or there was a problem in the paddocks, Brad took it on unless it was so serious it had to go to the derby board of directors.

            William Devlin got old, a process helped along by the fact he drank too much, and he became a kind of professor emeritus. A new security director was hired, and Brad thought him an empty suit. He looked good, said the right things, but his thinking seemed to stop there. They kept William Devlin around, but he didn’t have any power.

            Brad stopped receiving his Christmas bonus, which hurt his pride. He was not called when a camera broke. The security director called the company instead, although Brad was quite good with the surveillance system. Brad was told he no longer needed to attend the meetings of the derby board of directors.

            The future no longer looked so promising. Brad considered joining a police force somewhere, or studying computers, or maybe even getting a law degree. What he was really looking for was a way to become more successful in the here and now. He was 28 years old and impatient. He could not fathom how long it might take him to build a career somewhere else. He did not consider that perhaps other people his age had been in similar situations and that moves that seemed risky had a way of working out with determination and hard work.

            His girlfriend Kenya was hot. A five-foot-11 former high school and college basketball star, she was pretty and self-assured. She always needed money. She was never happy with Brad’s earning power. Lately she had had some dates with an older man.

            Brad was friends with a 60-year-old helicopter pilot named Thom Cromwell. He worked the derby each year on the medical team as a helicopter pilot. Thom was confident, even cocky, although his arms were skinny, his pot belly a little more pronounced and his hair line a little receded. Still, he seemed always to have a girlfriend and people assumed he was successful although he dressed casually and had never had a high-paying job. Confidence was an amazing asset.

            Brad had been working long hours in preparation for the Kentucky Derby. The early races had been run and people were still showing up in limousines. It was fashionable for some people in Louisville to show up for the namesake race late in the afternoon, then have dinner and drinks at the Tower, the exclusive club for Derby Foundation members. Strictly high roller stuff.

            Brad went to the cage, the area behind the betting windows, and picked up two cases to be taken to the vault. The vault was a block-brick building a little way from the betting windows. For security, it had windows only 6 inches tall and a heavy steel door. Two security people inside, and two outside. All armed, rent-a-cops.

            Not all cash was taken out of the cage. The betting windows were open and would be for another few hours. Money was needed to make change or pay off bets. Money was not moved from the cage to the vault until it was decided that it was excess.

            Brad took two cases, scheduled for transport to the vault, and put them on a cart. He logged into the computer using someone else’s name and entered them as delivered. A breach of process. Only a security guard inside the vault was allowed to do this.

            Brad wheeled the cart outside the cage and covered it with a thin blanket with a red cross insignia on both sides. Instead of going to the vault, he went to the medical aid station about 50 yards away. Thom Cromwell helped Brad load the two cases on the helicopter. The cases were aluminum, 3 feet long, 2 feet wide and a foot tall with easy snap fasteners. Each case contained $3.2 million. Brad got in the helicopter, passenger side.

            Thom Cromwell called the derby dispatch office. “I’m taking the heart patient to Louisville General on the orders of Dr. Session.” He smiled at Brad.

            The dispatcher, a woman, said OK. This was expected as the derby hired doctors every year, and it was never the same people. It would take a while before someone figured out there was no Dr. Session. It was standard procedure to call a heart attack a “heart patient” over the radio. The dispatcher wouldn’t hold up this kind of call.

            Brad quite liked riding in the helicopter. Things looked different from the air. They had $6.4 million in cash and no one was chasing them. There was very little traffic away from the derby track. The town was green from recent spring rains. They landed at the Bartlesville airport, a small landing strip in a town about 10 miles from Louisville. They landed next to a few other helicopters. The helicopter they were in had signs on each door, “Kentucky Derby, emergency escort.”

            The Bartlesville airport was a sleepy place, but a man stepped out of a building and said hello. “We weren’t expecting derby folks,” he said.

            “We have to deliver some damn movie equipment,” Thom said. “I’m not happy about it, if you can’t tell.”

            The man, maybe 50 with a brush haircut, laughed. “I know what it’s like to work for someone if that’s what you mean,” he said.

            Brad and Thom carried the two cases, one at a time, to Thom’s Cessna 182 airplane. Thom asked for permission to use the runway, was granted permission, and off they flew. About 40 miles west of Louisville, they were in an agricultural area. Thom set down on a dirt road, turned into some trees for cover, and there was a 2005 Ford Escort purchased by Brad for the trip west. There were suitcases in the back seat, and they put the two aluminum cases in the trunk. Brad cut some branches and camouflaged the plane as well as he could. They drove the car to Seattle without incident, stopping only for gas and coffee.

Chapter two

            Thom had a room rented in a woman’s name in Seattle. Thom and Brad had agreed they would split up and Thom was going to Seattle, so Brad Keen decided on Portland, Oregon, although he had never been there before. They vowed not to provide any information about the other if caught. Plead complete ignorance.

            On the drive west, Thom told Brad about his military experience. This was where he learned to fly a helicopter. He told him about three relationships, and a string of jobs trying to make a living as a pilot. Thom’s story about his different relationships with women were complicated and after a while Brad couldn’t follow the story line. Still, Brad liked having company and hated to leave. He knew he was going to be lonely for a while. Thom was convinced it was best if they spit up. It seemed he couldn’t wait to get out of the car.

            “Take care now,” Thom said. “Try to manage one thing at a time until you can establish an identity and get the hang of day-to-day life. Don’t contact Kenya or any of your old friends. If you drink, don’t ever tell anyone about your experiences in Louisville or the Kentucky Derby.”

            Brad laughed. “I’ve spent my entire life in Louisville.”

            Thom smiled. He had not been sleeping lately and looked his age. “Everything is different now. Enjoy your life and don’t get caught.”

            “OK, I got it,” Brad said.

            His first mistake was taking an exit into downtown Portland during rush hour on a Monday morning. He liked looking at the sights, but he had to pay attention to traffic. He saw nice hotels but knew they wouldn’t take cash. He saw the Willamette River but didn’t know how to pronounce the name. The word Willamette.

            This was a pretty city with nice skyscrapers, big trees and a river through it, but what he really needed was a hotel room. He followed Burnside Street east for several miles, finally coming to a run-down area and pulled into a motel parking lot. It was an old motel but appeared to have been well maintained.

            The desk clerk appeared to be about 30 with long hair and wire-rim glasses. When Brad told him he didn’t have any identification, the clerk said he could rent him a room for $500 a week. Brad was relieved but wondered if the clerk was keeping some of the money for himself. Maybe the clerk wished he had said $1,000. Anyway, $500 seemed a little high.

            He parked in front of room 9 and put his suitcase in the room. He worried the desk clerk would see him move a shiny aluminum case into his room and would come look in the case when Brad was gone. But, he couldn’t leave $3.2 million in the car so he carried the case in. He stayed in his room all day. At 8 p.m., when the desk clerk got off work, Brad went to the grocery store. He bought drinks, food and a bag of ice. He didn’t have a refrigerator in his room so he put the bag of ice in the shower stall along with some beer and a quart of milk.

            He had purchased several magazines. He sat in an easy chair, drank beer and read magazines. Finally at midnight he was tired enough to go to bed. He did not know how he was going to manage this, his life in the underground, but when he woke up in the morning it would be Tuesday, and he had left Louisville on Saturday. Next he would have to get rid of the car. It all seemed overwhelming, but he finally fell into a deep sleep, which was needed.

            Brad was paranoid about the motel clerk, but eventually had to leave the room to explore a little. He didn’t know how he was going to get rid of the car, or how he was going to get identification. One day he discovered the large Post Office located near Broadway Street. Immigrants always go to large Post Offices to get passports or find needed forms. And, on a street across from the Post Office there was a sign that said “Passport Photos.”

            He went inside and a man, a Pakistani, sold him a passport photo. The room was small with only a camera and a counter with nothing on it. Brad asked if the man could get him a driver’s license. “I think so,” the man said.

            “Could you get me a birth certificate and a Social Security number?” Brad said. He was nervous, but almost certain this man was going to solve his problems.

            “It will take a week and cost $3,000,” the man said. He was matter of fact, all business. He kept the photo for the driver’s license.

            “Do I pay you now?”

            “Pay me when you come back. Cash only.”

            Brad had to stifle a laugh. Cash was the only thing he could manage right now.

            He found an auto trader newspaper and sold his car cheap. He gave the man who purchased it a fake name and address. When he went back to the passport photo office, he was amazed. The identification of a man about his age and description was provided. He handed over $3,000 without another word being said. Brad didn’t know if this was going to work, but it looked as though it would. The documents looked authentic.

            He would now go by the name Melvin Brick. He wondered what had happened to Melvin Brick, and how he happened to have Melvin’s birth certificate, Social Security number and driver’s license, but he would have to take his chances.

Chapter three

            Bob Tintente had offered to marry Leanne Shiff, a detective for the Portland police department. They had dated for a year. He said he was in favor of having children with her if she was so inclined. He was a registered nurse at Portland Providence Hospital, smarter than her, she was sure. Nurses took tests all the time and it did something for their confidence. She liked that he was a confident person.

            He was a good athlete. She could beat him about half the time in a game of one-on-one basketball; most men didn’t fare that well against her. He was also a strong runner. She liked his lean build. He was losing a little hair, but not much and it didn’t take away from his looks, in her opinion.

            She knew what it was she really liked about him. When he was with her, he paid attention to her. Was she too cold or too hot? Was her dinner OK? If they were at an event, say a police picnic or a hospital fund raiser, he always asked how she was doing. Introduced her to people, included her in conversations, made jokes with her or told her insider information when they were alone. He had a good personality and could make conversation with anyone. What she liked was that he always focused on her first, as though he liked her or something.

            She said, casually, sure she would marry him and she was interested in children. At the time, the Portland police were having a bit of a renaissance. Uniformed officers were being recruited and pay raises were in place. The city was offering all kinds of incentives in the way of classes. They wanted an educated, smart police force.

            The classes included languages, computer skills, motorcycle riding, self-defense, target shooting, car-chase driving, investigations and other topics. Leanne’s friend, Weather Williams, was taking flying lessons. The police department agreed to pay half of his expenses, and he had completed the first stage, getting his pilot’s license. A police supervisor said it was a good idea for policemen to have pilot’s licenses.

            Leanne was lost in thought as she floated over the city with Weather Williams. She liked looking at the city from the air. One could easily see how all the roads, rivers and valleys connected. It was informative.

            She was also thinking about her relationship with Bob, which had been good. Recently, an old girlfriend had shown up. Her name was Neydelin and she was pretty and Hispanic. A knockout really. Bob was expecting Leanne one evening, and Neydelin showed up too. That’s how Leanne happened to meet Neydelin.

            Bob told her later he had dated Neydelin about a year. She had an affair with a friend Barry, a successful lawyer, and dated him a year. Bob didn’t try to get her back after he learned she was having an affair. Now Neydelin was on his porch wondering how he was doing and perhaps disappointed to have met Leanne. Leanne left to give them privacy.

            Bob said later he told Neydelin he was not getting back together with her. He made a point of saying he had not slept with her. Leanne believed him, but also reminded him they were not married. He could get back with Neydelin if he wanted. He assured her he did not plan to do this.

            All this occurred about a week ago, and everything seemed fine, but she couldn’t help thinking about Neydelin. Leanne was not insecure, but Neydelin was a looker.

            “A penny for your thoughts,” Weather Williams said.

            Leanne smiled. “Thinking about some things, but I don’t think there are any problems,” she said.

            “OK, good,” Weather said.

            They were flying over Forest Park, a large expanse of green in the city of Portland. Leanne thought she recognized some of the Forest Park trail system she had hiked.

            “Weather, look. There’s a motorcycle on the trail,” she said. “The trail through Macleay Park, Balch Creek.”

            He flew a little closer, and indeed there was a motorcycle down on the pedestrian hiking trail. The trail went from Thurston Street up to the Stone House, which was built during the depression as a rest room and decommissioned after the Columbus Day storm in 1962. Most people in Portland knew about the Stone House. It was a well-known landmark, a fine-looking, stone building people continually felt needed to be spray painted with graffiti. The trail was steep in one place, about 1,000 feet of thin clay dirt and scree, small pebbles. A person on a trail motorbike would have a difficult time in this stretch. In addition to the steep section, there were tree roots and rocks throughout the rest of the trail.

            They also noticed what appeared to be a police raid on a house near the Thurston Street bridge, over on NW Wilson Street. It was possible the motorcycle came out of a garage or the yard just before the police pulled up, and went on the trail to avoid being chased by a police car.

            “It’s curious,” Weather said. “We’ll follow him.”

            At the top of the trail, the motorcycle came out on Skyline Boulevard, went back into the city and to a large, older house in Northeast Portland. The motorcycle rider pulled up in the grass, under the shade of a tree and went in the house. Leanne made sure to mark the location in her brain. She could tell the motorcycle was a Honda 250. When she worked tomorrow, she might make a stop at this house and look around.

Chapter four

            Leanne found out there was a raid on the Wilson Street house, and stolen items recovered. The main suspects had been arrested without incident. Leanne drove to the house she had seen the day before in Northeast Portland. There was a large garage with a 250 Honda standing in the shade. A woman came out of the house, said the motorcycle belonged to a friend and went inside. In a few minutes, a man came out. He was about five-foot-10, well built and handsome. Very handsome, like maybe he was a movie star she should recognize.

            “I’m here out of curiosity,” Leanne said. “Yesterday, I saw a man on a motorcycle ride up a very difficult trail, Holman Trail.”

            He smiled. “That was me. Should I not have been on that trail?”

            “About 1,000 feet of it is straight uphill. That wasn’t a problem?”

            “Oh sure, I had to keep the gas on all the way up, the slightest acceleration.”

            “My father managed a car dealership service center. He knew cars, but also he used to bring home motorcycles. He’d fix them, ride them a little. My sister and I both rode motorcycles. I’m a little impressed you were able to ride that trail.”

            “Thank you if you’re complimenting me,” he said.

            “I’m a police detective. I saw you riding away from a police raid. They got all the people they were looking for, charged some of them for dealing in stolen goods. Were you involved?”

            “No,” he said. “I don’t steal stuff. I’ve gone for a joy ride or two in my life, but I don’t believe in stealing from people.”

            “Just the same, do you care if I look at your driver’s license?”

             “I’ll go in the house and get it.” He came out with a young woman, very pretty. Leanne had been thinking of Neydelin, how pretty she was, and now here was another one, pretty with a good body. Leanne had always considered herself pretty with a good body, but lately she felt she was being surrounded by the beautiful people.

            “Hi, I’m Dannie,” she said.

            “Leanne Shiff, detective for the Portland Police. Mind if I check your friend’s identification?”

            “Dean doesn’t mind,” she said. Dean handed her his driver’s license. Leanne went to the computer in her 4Runner and ran his name. No warrants or other information popped up. The driver’s license said he was from the town of Saint Helens.

            She handed the license back. “Your record’s clean. I’ll overlook the fact you rode a motorcycle on a pedestrian trail. Have you moved to Portland?”

            “I’ve only recently met Dannie. I’m hoping we take the time to get to know one another.” He put his arm round her waist, and she smiled at him, and then at Leanne.

            “Do you have a job?”

            “I think I’m about to get hired to sell auto parts, Bell’s Auto Parts on Northeast 22nd Street. It’s not confirmed but I was told it wouldn’t be a problem.”

            Leanne nodded. “Nice to meet you both. You’re certainly a handsome pair. Dean, stay off the hiking trails with your motorcycle. I had to say that, officially. Personally, I think you’re a heck of a rider. Take care now.”

            Leanne had work to do. It seemed the detectives always had too much work to do, but she decided to drive to Saint Helens, about 15 miles away. When she got to town, she turned onto a road called the Old Portland Highway. It was scenic, very old timey, as if the area had been left behind and it was still 1968. She drove to the shore of the Columbia River. It was a pretty day and the water was blue, looked very clean, and appeared to go about a mile across. There was a marina and people out sailing. She saw a policeman and waved him down.

            After talking a few minutes, John invited her to get into his police car. They sat and watched the sail boats as Leanne asked about Dean Stillman. John knew all about him, having gone to school with him.

            “He moved to town as a sophomore and immediately started on the football and basketball team. He was really something as an athlete. His mother I think was a free spirit and they moved around some, but he went to high school here. After he graduated, he worked as a mechanic at the airport. He’s not certified to work on aircraft but Will at the airport is and he supervised him.

            “I know Dean flew an airplane he’d been working on to Hillsboro. The owner of the airplane threw a fit, but Will bailed him out. Talked people out of pressing charges. Will loved that boy, I’ll tell you. Dean moved on after that, and I haven’t seen or heard anything more of him for a year or so.”

            Leanne told the policeman about seeing him ride the hiking trail in Forest Park on a 250 Honda. The policeman John laughed at the story. “It takes a lot of excitement to keep Dean interested,” John said.

            The next day, someone stole an airplane at the Troutdale airport, east of Portland, and flew it to Sisters. The larger airport serving Bend-Redmond is in Redmond, but the remote Sisters airport was popular with some of the private pilots who had homes at resorts in the central Oregon mountains nearby. No one saw who flew the airplane in. Upon hearing this report, Leanne drove immediately to the house in Northeast Portland where she had met Dean the day before.

            The woman she had first seen was there. The woman said she did not know where Dean or Dannie had gone. Leanne went to Bell’s Auto Parts and no one knew who Dean Stillman was. Leanne went back to the office and talked to her supervisor, Robert Nilson. He said the information was interesting, but none of the airports were within the city of Portland’s jurisdiction. He told Leanne to write a police report and send it to the Oregon State Police. Leanne wondered if anyone would read it. She was a little discouraged. She felt as though she had some important information and was sending it off into a black hole.

Chapter five

            David Scott Stamp looked at the mural in the Portland River Mall cafeteria with Jay Green and shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” he said.

            In the painting there was a hiking trail, apparently in Forest Park, with beautiful trees, a river, and many hikers of all ages with dogs. On the side of the trail were many little, colored bags. Plastic poop bags in blue, green, yellow and red.

            “In real life, I hate seeing those bags of poop. Now it’s on the wall of a mall where we sometimes eat. That’s disgusting,” David said.

            “People in Portland love dogs, and dog owners are not weirded out by bags of poop. It’s a fact of life with them. What do you care? It doesn’t hurt you,” Jay said.

            “I don’t like television commercials that show rashes, or talk about men grooming down there, or talk about constipation. If you have constipation, go into a drug store and ask the pharmacist for something. Don’t show people on TV looking really smug because they’ve just had a bowel movement. I can think of this woman actress I’d just like to slap after she gives that knowing smile, like she just had good sex but it was a bowel movement. Disgusting”

            Jay laughed. He was eating pizza. David had tacos. They liked the food in this cafeteria at the mall. It was pretty good, and not as expensive as some places. Jay had a job at a grocery store stocking shelves on the evening shift. David lost his job as a janitor at a church. Before that he had worked construction. Before that he had worked as a flagger on road projects.

            Jay was overweight, content with a simple life, accepting. David and Jay had been friends in school, though they were different. David wanted pretty women to date him. He wanted to make more money, have more responsibility at work. He had been the same in school. He wanted things but learning was too much hard work. In every job David had, he was low man on the totem pole. Maybe all young people started at the bottom, but David thought that idea was very much outdated.

            David had been staying with Jay in a small apartment. Jay paid the rent, bought the groceries and did not complain. David was pretty funny and always had an opinion, like with the mural. Jay thought the mural was nice enough, but David ranted as though he were an important art critic. That was funny. Jay at least could see the humor in it.

            David was always trying to think of scams for making money. He said if his mother and father died he would secretly bury them and not tell anyone so he could collect the Social Security money for himself. Jay used to laugh hard at this one. David also talked at different times about picking up beer and pop bottles and cans for the deposit money, breaking and entering, shoplifting and breaking into automatic teller machines. He was going to learn to drive heavy equipment so he could pull out ATMs and haul them away. He assumed he would have to learn to drive a CAT, a Caterpillar tractor, then a truck.

            The mural on the Portland River Mall inspired a new plan. There are dogs with prosperous owners. “I am going to kidnap a dog,” David said.

            Jay and David were done eating. They walked about eight blocks to their apartment. All the way, David was talking about how his plan was going to work. First he was going to highjack a dog walker with a gun. He had a 9mm Glock. Then he was going to try and pick out a dog and ask the address of the owner from the person walking the dog. He didn’t, however, want to fight a man in case he accidently picked out a tough guy. He might kidnap a dog from a woman dog walker. Briefly he considered highjacking a dog-grooming truck.

            David’s plans were usually stream of consciousness. Jay got ready to go to work. He was not worried. David seemed serious about the plan, but he couldn’t think of a realistic way to put a dog-kidnapping scenario into action. Jay went to work at 3, and was a little busy and stopped thinking about David.

            David, meanwhile, was thinking of neighborhoods. There were houses on the Claremont Golf Course that seemed to have a lot of potential, but he ended up going into Portland’s West Hills. Although there are rich people in the West Hills, some of the homes are owned by middle-class people, maybe a couple with both people working.

            David walked by many houses. He looked in some windows. He snuck around the back and peered over fences. He was about to give up when he saw a nice house with a young woman inside. Old enough to own a house but still young. When he went to the back, a dachshund was sniffing round in a garden.

            “This is the place,” David said. He opened the gate. The dog looked up at him. It was a nice evening. The dog was about 20 feet away.

            “Come here, boy. Good doggie,” David said. He hoped the dog would run up to him. He could pick it up and head out the gate before the woman came looking for her dachshund. But the dog just looked up at him.

            David tried again. He tried to sound a little friendlier, like he couldn’t wait to see the dog. “Come on, he’s a good dog.”

            The dog just looked on. David went over to pick him up. The moment he leaned over the dog took off, ran about 20 feet from him. “Dammit,” he said.

            As he got near, the dog ran again. “I’m not playing,” David said.

            When David went near him a third time, the dog ran again, this time up the steps to the house where it scratched the door. The dog jumped down as David approached the steps. David chased him at full speed now, and cornered the dog at the back of the yard where the dog ran out of fence. He was in the corner. David picked it up and headed for the gate. First the dog bit him. Then it began barking.

            As David closed the gate behind him, he heard the woman open the back door. “Hercules,” she called. David ran to get away from the house. In his mind, he imagined her going out the gate, looking up and down the sidewalk, looking around. He ran about four blocks and his car was not in view of the house, not even close. He put the dog down next to him and was short of breath. He was not used to running.

            David remembered he had not looked at the house number. “Dammit,” he said. He would have to come back another time. The woman would be out looking for her dog tonight.

            David thought of dogs and realized he knew almost nothing about them. A dachshund was German, right? With short legs and a long body, he always thought of them with a sense of humor, but this dog had run from him, alerted the homeowner, bit him and barked. It was like the dog knew David was up to no good.

            David had seen pictures of dingos from Australia, and the Tasmanian wolf, a marsupial appearing to be half dog and half cat. There was a German shepherd that used to chase him when he was young. His neighbor kept a labrador that would go into water and retrieve ducks, but David had never seen him work. He had never tasted duck.

            He regretted his life as he drove to the apartment. His parents had both worked and his mother said she was too busy to keep a pet. He often wondered if his father or mother had been more prosperous, maybe he would’ve learned to hunt ducks and travel the world. Maybe he would’ve learned accounting, worked in a bank with a pretty girlfriend who required jewelry for birthdays and Christmas. His mother had only a few pieces of jewelry.

            The apartment had one bedroom, which was Jay’s, and a small yard. David slept on the couch. The fence wasn’t secure so he put the dog on a rope and left it outside for a while. Then he got a bowl and put water down for the dog in the kitchen. Jay got home about 15 minutes after midnight.

            When Jay entered the apartment, the dog ran to him

            “We have a dog now?” Jay said.

            “His name’s Hercules, but I call him Ransom,” David said with a laugh. David was in a good mood because he knew Jay had some weed. They liked to smoke after Jay got off work. David was getting desperate for money and didn’t have any weed. Jay took two beers out of the refrigerator and handed David one. He went in his room and got a wood box with some marijuana in it, and rolled a joint. They sat in silence and took a few puffs, then left the joint in the ashtray for later.

            Jay seemed calm, but he told David he was angry. “You just keep messing up and it makes it hard to be your friend. Your brother has a job driving a truck for San Francisco Bakery. He’s happy. In school, you’d find things that interested you and do OK, but you always found a way to mess it up. First you got in trouble trying to sell cocaine. Then you broke into those houses and served three months. Are you really going to kidnap this dog?”

            “He is kidnapped, but I haven’t sent a ransom note yet. This idea’s different. People are obsessed with pets and the owner lives in a $500,000 home and I’m going to make some money off it,” David said.

            “You’re joking,” Jay said. “How much?”

            “A hundred thousand dollars.”

            “Oh, for god’s sake, man.” Jay was disgusted with David.

            “You think that’s too much?” David said.

Chapter six

            Karen Skironski was a blonde, strong young woman who had studied hard, landed in medical school because of excellent grades, and become a doctor. Pretty and smart with a medical degree, it seemed she had life figured out. The problem was, she had never figured on having so much debt. She had school loans, a home loan, and a car loan. Although she earned a good income, she never seemed to end up with much money.

            She asked herself if all the hard work was worth it. The answer was that someday she’d get the debt paid down and probably have a nice life. Most of the time she was in a good mood, and she found her job challenging but she liked it.

            Her parents were farmers. They worked hard and were happy as well. Karen and her brothers and sisters had pets, but she could not ever remember taking a dog or cat to a veterinarian. They might call a veterinarian if they had trouble with the cattle, a sizeable investment, but pets lived a natural life and were put down if they were too old or in pain. Karen could not once remember buying a prescription for a pet, or paying for a veterinarian’s visit. And now she had a ransom note for $100,000.

            It all seemed crazy to her. She loved her little dachshund, Hercules, but paying that much money for a pet seemed unreasonable. It was two days after the kidnapping, and Karen Skironski was happy to finally get to see a detective about it. She had even wondered if a pet kidnapping was too small an ordeal for the Portland police, but she’d called in to report the kidnapping and they had assigned a detective to call on her.

            Leanne Shiff listened to the doctor’s story with interest. People involved in kidnapping did all sorts of unrealistic things. They would demand $30 million, then say they would accept $3 million. People involved in kidnappings got caught, but often only after they had killed the victim. It was usually people who were kidnapped, not pets. Leanne loved her father, but she knew he would never pay $100,000 to get a dog back. She didn’t know what she would do.

            Leanne met the doctor in Dr. Skironski’s office, and liked her right away. The night the dog went missing Karen put a few “missing” posters up in the neighborhood, and called the pet shelter the next day, but that was all. Karen was working a lot of hours. She hadn’t made any efforts on behalf of Hercules for a day and a half and felt guilty about it. This morning, she found the ransom note. It was typed. She handed it to Leanne and asked for advice on what to do. She said she could come up with $100,000, but didn’t really want to. She’d have to borrow the money.

            Leanne nodded as she talked to Karen, and said she empathized, but said it was an unusual case and she was not sure how to proceed.

            “However, my boss is experienced, and he may have ideas. Also sometimes in meetings we discuss odd cases, kind of troubleshoot. Sometimes people come up with ideas I never would have considered. So, not all is lost. Let me work on it.”

            “What do I do in the meantime?” Karen said.

            “If you can, let’s stall. I’ll do a stakeout near your house. Maybe the note has some clues. Perhaps he’ll come back with an offer of $10,000. If he’s not very smart, maybe we’ll catch him and Hercules will be OK.”

            “I’m willing to stall,” Karen said. “I don’t think I’m willing to pay $100,000 to get a dachshund back. Do you think I’m a bad person?”

            “No. Of course not,” Leanne said. “I can’t think of what the profile of this guy might be like, but I’d like to catch him and see for myself.”

Chapter seven

            Leanne went with a member of the digital surveillance team to Karen Skironski’s house in the West Hills of Portland. Cinder, her real name, like Leanne, was a former athlete. She was a pole vaulter. “My father said I was a spark, thus the name Cinder,” she said. “Later he joked I would burn down a lot of marriages, but he was just joking. He was a kidder.”

            Cinder was driving a van with no markings to identify it as a police vehicle. She put a camera just under the eave of the house. If someone came up on the porch, it would catch his or her image and part of the street as well. Movement would trigger the camera to start recording.

            Leanne had wanted to place more cameras, but was told to start with one. Leanne had met with Dr. Skironski Wednesday morning. They placed the camera Wednesday afternoon.

            After placing the camera, Cinder looked at the neighborhood. “Leanne, if you get permission I can see several more ways to surveille the house. Just let me know.”

            “Thanks” Leanne said. “Personally, I think if we get one note, we’ll get more. I think he’ll be back. I don’t know. I’ve not got much experience with kidnapping.”

            Cinder nodded. “Who does?” Leanne thought Cinder a pretty woman. “Looks like you’ve got a rocking body,” Leanne said. “Did you really used to launch yourself into the air with a pole-vaulting pole?”

            “I did,” she said, and laughed. “It was a rush. I was on the professional circuit for a while, but there are better professional women vaulters. I heard you were an athlete.”

            “I played basketball at Colorado State University,” Leanne said. “I always liked being part of a team.” Leanne remembered the time she got mud in her eye playing high school soccer. She knelt down and washed out her eye with water from a puddle of cold water and went on playing. It was a cold, rainy day. Her father would always brag on her, tell people how tough she was. She realized she missed her father, Leanne living in Oregon and her parents in Colorado.

            She thought if she had a couple of children, she bet her parents would spend more time in Portland. She found it interesting that she was having thoughts recently about having babies.

            The camera worked the first night. Leanne could check it with her smart phone. There was an image of a man in black pants, black t-shirt with writing on it, a baseball cap. They figured out the writing on the shirt was “Blazers,” the name of the local, professional basketball team, the Portland Trail Blazers. The hat said Wilson as in Wilson High School.

            The man in the digital video was David Scott Stamp, although the police did not know that. He was wearing a bandana. He left a note, typed like the first one on an electric typewriter, in a paper bag, which was stapled to one of the wood columns in front of the house. The note said: “It is time to pay the ransom. If you do not pay immediately there could be an accident. Don’t involve the police. Leave the money on your porch in a paper bag. If I see anyone I will not look in the bag and this increases the chance for an accident. Don’t be stupid.”

            When Leanne checked the camera, she was driving her 4Runner. She didn’t stop her car. She would talk to Dr. Skironski later. She didn’t know if the kidnapper was watching the house.

            Dr. Skironski and Leanne crafted a reply. It read: “Greetings, my dog’s name is Hercules. I got him when he was a puppy. I was playing with him and said he was strong and named him Hercules. He is very dear to me. Please don’t hurt him. I am a young doctor with a lot of debt. School debt, a mortgage, a car payment, a business loan. I have applied for a second mortgage on the house. The banker said it will likely be approved but a manager in Denver has to OK it. I told them I needed the matter tended to immediately.”

            Leanne and Cinder returned to the house and placed two more cameras. One on the back of a car parked strategically on the street, and another aiming chest high on a tree in the yard.

            David would tie Hercules on a thin rope in the backyard of Jay’s apartment. The apartment had a fence but a small dog would find several ways out as it was in disrepair. He bought dried food for the dog, but Hercules would not eat it. Jay brought home fresh dog food, which Hercules would eat. Jay began sleeping with Hercules at night.

            By Friday, David was anxious for his money. He went up at night, about 2 a.m., and looked all round the house before going to the porch. He was nervous but could find no evidence of anyone outside in the neighborhood. There was a paper bag on the porch and he took it. Later, when he read the note in the car, he was upset that there wasn’t any money in the bag.

            He wrote a note at the apartment, went up about 4 a.m. and left the bag on the porch He stapled the paper bag to a wood column. It said: “Hurry the fuck up. You should have left cash as a show of good faith.”

            When Leanne went to Karen’s office, the two of them had a good laugh at David’s first line. Leanne showed Karen the video from all three cameras. David was dressed the same. The pictures were dark. “I’d hoped to see a car, something to identify him, but he must be walking into your neighborhood. I think he comes from the neighbor’s back yard, not on the street or sidewalk. I’ll get the OK to start doing more surveillance now.”

            “Do you think he’ll hurt Hercules?” the doctor said.

            “We already know he’s frustrated,” Leanne said. “We need to wrap this up if we can.”

            That night, Leanne parked her car on the street and kept a lookout. In the morning, it was light early because it was summer, and Leanne walked to the house about 5 a.m. and saw there was a new bag. She read the note.

            It said, “Stop messing around or receive Hercules’s ear in the mail.”

            Leanne checked the cameras. The camera on the street and the one in the tree didn’t show anything. The camera in the eave of the roof showed only some hands stapling the paper bag to the decorative column.

            By looking at real estate records, David figured out who he was working with. He had Dr. Karen Skironski’s phone number, personal and office, and address. No more trips to the house.

            In the morning, Jay found that David had Googled how to remove an ear. He found a technical description and a diagram. Jay told David to stop messing around and return the dog. Jay had never been part of the plan, although he had let David keep the dog in the apartment. Jay thought the police might consider him an accomplice. Also he was offended that David would actually consider disfiguring an animal. It was cruel.

            David was frustrated by the back and forth, the amount of time it was taking to get his money. He had read some books about the mafia. He admired the hard-core tactics of the criminals. He was glad he had made the threat. He hoped it would motivate the doctor to pay him. He also knew he was incapable of cutting the ear off a dog. He could figure out how to do it, but didn’t have the nerve to actually cut into the dog.

            Jay had made the dog his pet. He was walking it in the mornings. Also, if David did get caught, really no harm had occurred as a result of his actions. But, if the dog was disfigured, a judge or prosecutor might get upset and make an example out of him. David was not very knowledgeable about the legal system, but he knew this much.

            Leanne called Karen to talk about the case. “We’ve spent a week on this case, and I feel we’re no further along,” Karen said. “This last note kind of scares me. I think of what a horrifying experience it would be for Hercules. I haven’t made any efforts to pay the kidnapper, but maybe I should.”

            “A man kidnapped a dog,” Leanne said, “and I’m having a hard time getting anyone at the police department excited about it. We have murders and rapes here, you know. But you have my full attention. I’ll work surveillance every night. I’ll stick with you every minute the rest of the way. I think you’ve played this right. You wrote notes that make you a sympathetic character. You’ve strung him along. I know you are feeling the stress, but think how frustrated he must be. I think we’re at the breaking point.”

            Karen sighed. “Police work, man, I don’t know how you do it.”

            “OK, listen Dr. Skironski. I think you’ll get a note demanding payment. When you do, we’ll get him. We’ll come up with a plan and get him.”

            “You’re convincing, I’ll give you that,” Karen said. “OK, I’m playing the game. It makes me nervous, though.”

            Leanne ended the call. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have a plan.” She remembered being taken on a hike once with a serial killer. She didn’t have a plan then, either. Maybe she wasn’t a real police detective, just a phony. That is what she thought about.

            Her colleagues at the police department, those serious law enforcement people who would always talk over a case, had dismissed her about this one. The men liked to make jokes. “I heard someone kidnapped a canary once,” one man said as others laughed. No one cared about catching a man who kidnapped a dachshund. Leanne had to put on what she called her hard face. Something will happen and I’ll know what to do, she told herself.

Chapter eight

            Dr. Skironski received a call at work Monday, just before 5 p.m. David said, “Bring the money in a paper bag to the restaurant Little Italy at 30th and Hawthorne in one hour. If I see a policeman, I won’t show myself but I will mail you an ear.”

            Dr. Skironski did not say that she had not put together any cash beyond a few hundred dollars. She said OK, then she called Leanne.

            David was proud of himself. His message was brief but he had sounded like a badass. He liked the restaurant called Little Italy. It had good food, but he wouldn’t be eating. What he liked was the hallway to the back, where there were rest rooms. Then a back door. Then a number of streets or alleyways he could go down. He parked in an alley about four blocks from the restaurant and looked at his watch.

            He walked west several blocks, then walked to Hawthorne and went east. He had Hercules on a leash. One way or another, this was going to be the end of it. He tied one end of the leash to a light pole and left Hercules a few blocks from the restaurant.

            Leanne, parked in front of Little Italy, watched David enter. Karen Skironski came along five minutes later with a paper bag. She had put $100 in the bag. She didn’t really know why.

            David, sitting at a table in the restaurant, saw her and waved. He was wearing the Wilson High School baseball cap and a false beard. Karen had to keep herself from laughing. The beard didn’t look realistic. She sat down. David took the bag and looked into it. “You never even took me seriously, did you?” he said.

            “Of course I did. I’ve been sick over this,” Karen said. “Where’s Hercules?”

            Leanne entered the restaurant and sized up the situation in about 2 seconds. She pulled her Beretta 9 and said to David, “You are under arrest.”
            David jumped up and headed for the back.

            “Freeze,” Leanne said. But she wasn’t going to shoot in a public place, into a dark hallway, to stop a man from kidnapping a dachshund. She didn’t even have a bullet in the chamber of the gun. “The race is on,” she said. She couldn’t count the number of criminals she had chased.

            The only activity David Scott Stamp had succeeded in at Wilson High School was baseball. He was five-foot-8 and 170 pounds with a .300 batting average and the ability to play any position on the field. He went racing through the hallway, out the door into an alley going east-west, and then another one going north-south. He was running for all he was worth.

            When he turned south, he saw that Leanne was behind him. Jeez, she was tall and every bit as fast, that’s what David thought. He ran another half block, but was slowing down and finally they walked together. Leanne held the gun in her hand but did not aim it at him.

            “Cops are supposed to be fat,” he said. “And you’re wearing a track suit. The police department lets you dress like that?”

            “Yeah,” Leanne said, and laughed. “I hope you didn’t cut an ear off that dog.”      

            “No, I couldn’t do that. My roommate was treating the hostage like a pet.

            “It is a pet, for Christ sake,” Leanne said. “Just a couple of nice guys trying kidnapping on for size?”

            “No, just me,” David said. “Jay has a job. Let’s go this way, I’ll get the dog for you.”

            They walked back to Hawthorne. David took off his fake beard as they walked. David untied the leash from the light pole, and walked to the restaurant. Karen hugged the dog and everyone in the restaurant cheered. David felt as though Leanne was a celebrity.

            Leanne drove David to his car. The city was not going to jail him. He got a ticket for cruelty to animals. The district attorney might decide something else later. David asked what was going to happen to him.

            “If the judge likes dogs, you could get a big fine. You could get a lot of community service, too. It really wasn’t your best idea, huh?”

            “It would look better, when I see the judge, if I have a job, huh?” David said.

            “You know it would.”

            “Say Leanne,” David said, “would you go out on a date with me sometime, after I get a job. Say see a movie?”

Chapter nine

            A woman named Martina was monitoring internet traffic on her computer at the police station. A group of people had been organizing store robberies. A message would go out to about 200 people. They would show up to rob a place, grab some things and leave before the police showed up. They hit a clothing store, a jewelry store, a New Seasons grocery store, a shoe store. The store to be hit was announced beforehand on the internet. It seemed it would be easy to catch them.

            Instead it embarrassed the police the flash mobs had so much success. Because of the large number of people who would show up, a store could be easily and quickly wiped out. It generated a lot of publicity.

            Martina, who was leading the investigation, had a list of web addresses, but not all people were notified each time an event was announced. And, sometimes an event was announced but it was a false alarm.

            Martina and Leanne were friends. Martina, a Hispanic woman of about 30, was frustrated by this relatively new pattern of crime. A new employee without the experience of ever having been on patrol or knowing how the police detectives worked, she was not sure how she was doing.

            Leanne assured her all police personnel worked on cases, a while at times, unable to figure something out. Lead detective Robert Nilson called the effort to arrest members of the flash mob Operation Chaos.

            Sometimes, a case is so obvious you can figure it out and immediately make an arrest,” Leanne said. “But other times, the criminal is someone smart, or someone with a little experience or luck, and it’s harder. It’s OK, the detectives are used to the element of not knowing.”

            There’s a code, and I can’t figure it out,” Martina said. “I’ve called in two false alarms already and it’s embarrassing. We’re working with criminals, maybe high school kids, not cyber pros. I don’t know why I can’t figure out the code,” Martina said.

            “You will,” Leanne said. “You know how it works. You look at things and try to evaluate, and then when you least expect it the answer will hit you.”

            “It better happen pretty soon,” Martina said. Martina had hard copies of all the communications between members of the group, a large stack of paper. Certain nonsense phrases seemed to be thrown in, but she didn’t know if any of them had meaning. Or if there was an on-off switch in the code. Was it all a bunch of inside jokes? There were a number of web addresses, but not all people were contacted every time. Martina didn’t understand the significance of that, either.

There were two other employees in the cyber-crime unit, which was an innovation. Previously these two people had done statistical analysis, which was still a thing. They began to look at the messages and Leanne left.

            Leanne was driving to a house in southeast Portland when she received a text from Martina on the phone. It said, “Are you near Tip Top Cleaners at 22nd and Burnside? Wondering if Operation Chaos is there?”

            There was a neon sign from the 1950s at Tip Top Cleaners, beloved in Portland. The building was no longer used to clean or press clothes, but was an upscale clothing store. Luxury items, very che che. It had been in the news recently because out-of-town, celebrity visitors had been shopping there.

            Leanne was not a block away and she could already see a crowd of young people arriving. She pulled up, shut off the engine of the 4Runner and picked up her police radio. “Crowd seems to be swarming Tip Top Cleaners clothing business at 22nd and Burnside. Request assist.” Leanne gave her ID number.

            There was talk on the police radio so Leanne turned the radio down and took the Beretta 9 out of the holster. She was not 10 feet from her car when she felt a little overwhelmed by the crowds of young people coming at her. They were all headed to the entrance. For some it appeared to be a lark, but other people looked serious and a few looked serious and mean.

            “Leanne stepped in the entrance and saw three sales people overwhelmed and huddled near the cash register. They had fear in their eyes and appeared ready to run.

            “Police detective Leanne Shiff. Everybody flat on the floor now,” she shouted.

            Some people immediately left the building with clothes and she couldn’t stop them. They were telling others on the sidewalk there appeared to be a policeman in the store. There was a lot going on and Leanne tried to take it all in.

            “I don’t want trouble. Everyone flat on the floor. Now.” Three girls, maybe 15, got on the floor directly in front of her. They had already grabbed several outfits. Now they held them loosely as if deciding whether to keep them.

            A large group of boys were still taking clothes off the rack in back. They glared at Leanne. She saw one had a gun. Leanne racked her gun and held it up but did not aim at the boy. “Down,” she said. He remained standing. He was maybe 17 and looked like trouble. He could shoot her and still get away. That is what Leanne thought.

            About half of the boys got on the floor. Some were young, maybe 13 or 14, but others looked to be out of high school. The two girls and one boy next to the cash register got on the floor. They were the ones Leanne assumed were employees. She noticed name tags this time.

            On the other side of the store, several girls were still gathering up clothes. A few more people slipped out the entrance with clothes.

            Toward the front of the store, away from Leanne, was a boy who appeared to be about 14 and he had a gun. He laid down on the floor, but he still had the gun out. Leanne made eye contact with him. “Please don’t shoot that gun,” Leanne said. “I’m asking you nice.”

            She looked back at the older boy. She was holding her gun up but she didn’t aim it at him. The older boy was wearing jeans, boots, a navy cut jacket, curly black hair medium length, a hard face and body. He could shoot her, everyone could leave and possibly no one would get caught.

Leanne didn’t know if there were any working cameras in the building. There may have been cameras but they could’ve been reomoved by now. This crowd seemed to destroy everything, like a troop of army ants. She wondered if that’s what the young man was thinking, that he could shoot her and get away with it.

            “I told the guys in the back to get on the floor,” she shouted. It seemed everyone in the store was tense now, and they complied. There were maybe 20 boys who lay down.

            She looked up and the 14-year-old was standing up now, holding the gun up, like he was aiming it at her. “I am sure uncomfortable with you pointing that gun,” she said.

            She turned to a group of girls, still standing and sorting clothes. “Everyone on the floor. I told you.” The girls got down on the floor. There may have been 30 of them.

            The 14-year-old was wearing dirty gray pants and grubby tennis shoes. He had short hair, not a good haircut one could tell even from across the room. The gun looked to be a .380 caliber semiautomatic. Leanne knew there were a lot of them around in the underground economy.

            A girl near the door, with a handful of clothes, slipped out the front door. There were more young people outside but there was nothing Leanne could do about that. She was hoping she would’ve had backup by now. Where were all the patrol men and women?

            She looked back at the older boy. He had a 9mm 1911-style semiautomatic. Even though he was hard looking, he was not ugly. She was making eye contact with him.

            “Do you have experience with that gun?” she said.

            “Yes,” he said.

            “Just be careful,” Leanne said. “There are a lot of pretty girls in this room. You’d feel terrible if you hit one of them by accident.”

            He smiled. “I’m not going to shoot anyone,” he said. “Don’t shoot me. I’m going to put the gun on the floor.”

            He lowered himself slowly, put the gun down, pushed it away, then stood. “Is that OK?” he said.

            “Thank you very much,” Leanne said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt today.”

            She turned to the young boy. She had an audience as everyone was tense, lying on the floor, thinking about someone getting shot. The young boy didn’t seem to have the confidence the older boy had, nor the good looks. He looked poor, but also with a defiant air, like nobody was going to tell him what to do.

            “I could shoot a bullet over your head, and everyone would have time to run out of the store in a panic,” the boy said. The attention shifted from Leanne to the 14-year-old, which was possibly what he wanted, to be the center of attention.

            “I’ll let you leave,” Leanne said. “Put the gun away and go. I’m not going to shoot you. There are too many people in here. I’m not shooting unless I have to. One of the rules of handgun safety is to be aware of your environment.”

            The boy stood holding his gun on her. Leanne didn’t want to get shot, but she didn’t want to shoot and risk hitting someone. People were crowded up together and the odds of someone getting shot by accident seemed high. Not a moment later, backup arrived and the boy put the gun in his pocket and started inching toward the door.

Six police in uniforms stepped in the front door. Several detectives then arrived.

            Leanne dropped the Beretta 9, put the safety on and put it in her holster. “I’m glad to see all of you,” she said and smiled. Weather Smith, a uniformed policeman, was there. He was smiling.

            “Looks like you had it under control,” Weather said.

            “Nope,” she said. “No sir, the situation’s not under control.” The tension was broken. The young people and the police all laughed at the same time, although the police didn’t understand the joke they knew the situation was tense. There was a gun on the floor, but the young man had moved away, slipped out the moment the uniformed officers came in. Other people were dropping loads of clothing on the floor, hoping to not get charged with anything.

Weather Williams was still smiling when he caught the young boy trying to slip out the door. Everyone knew he had been pointing a gun at the detective and they wondered how the policeman would handle it.

“Hold on, son.” Weather said, grabbing his shoulder. “Let me see your gun.”

The boy held out the Savage 380.

“If this isn’t loaded, I’ll let you go,” Weather said. “Does it have a bullet in the chamber?”

“No,” the boy said. He did not seem as confident as when he held the gun.

“Let me see.”

The boy handed him the gun. Weather was unable to work the slide. He checked but there wasn’t a safety on the old gun, nothing to hold the slide in place.

“Son, you have a broken gun,” he said.

“Yes,” the boy said. Everyone was listening now. This was getting good.

“You knew the gun was broken? You knew you didn’t have a bullet in the chamber?”

“Yes,” the boy said. It wasn’t loud, but everyone could hear him.

Weather laughed. “Were you pissed off someone sold you a broken gun? How much did you pay for it?”

“$100,” he said.

“I’ll keep the gun. I’ll have it destroyed,” Weather said. “Let me tell you something. If a cop shoots a gun, he’s trying to kill you because he thinks he’s going to get killed. Why aren’t you in school, anyway? Why aren’t any of you in school?”

            Leanne filled the police in on what had occurred, the three employees were identified, and the police began getting the names of all the young people. It seemed every ethnic group and people of all sizes and shapes were arrested that day. Leanne was sure some of them were from upper middle-class families, so they couldn’t blame what they were doing on poverty. Everyone was handcuffed for transport to the police station, where parents would be called. A few of the men were older. People 18 and older would be charged as adults.

            Martina joined Leanne at the police station. “I broke the code,” she said.

            “Tell me,” Leanne said.

            “Fish on,” Martina said. “If any of the letters from the word fish, and any of the letters from the word on, were in the message, that meant the robbery was on. For example, in one of the texts were the letters ‘ish o.’ Fish on.”

            “Good job,” Leanne said.

            “Yeah, that’s great, a little late. And the next Operation Chaos will have something completely different going on. Son of a bitch.”

            “There are more fishing licenses in Oregon than there are registered voters. We got ’em today, anyway,” Leanne said. “I’ll buy you a beer after work.”

            “Just warning you, I’m going to get drunk,” Martina said. “And what is this again about fishing licenses?”

Chapter 10

            Leanne was in the VFW lounge in Parkrose and found it interesting. Mixed drinks were $2, a good price. There was food out, food that looked fresh and delicious. There were slot machines, not the electronic ones but the old style one-armed bandits. A few men sat at the bar.

            Her contact was Bernie, who described himself as a veteran and the manager of the Veterans of Foreign Wars club house. He was about 6-foot with a huge belly and a ready smile.

            “Let’s sit at a table,” he said, pointing to one. “Can I get you a Coke?”

            “No thanks.”

            “This is very controversial here, reporting a crime. Some people say we should handle it internally. Just telling you the situation,” Bernie said. “This is a place, the club house, where veterans can talk with people who have had similar experiences. It’s a place to bring the wives and have a little party on Saturday night. In addition to all that, we raise money for charities sometimes. The profits from the slot machines, for example, go to different charities depending on the mood of the members.”

            Leanne nodded.

            “So, as a cushion against hard times, we had $40,000 in the safe. We didn’t talk about it, but some members knew and there’s lots of loose talk here. Well, this weekend it was stolen. To my knowledge, five people know the combination to the safe. I’m one of them. We’ve talked about who had access, but the five people who know the combination all have alibis. For example, I was here Saturday night managing the party but I was never in the office. I was never in the office alone.”

            “OK,” Leanne said.

            “Two of the five were out of town., Roger and Bill. Jess was here but he wouldn’t have had a reason to go in the office, and no one saw him go in the office. Jimmy Brown was in for a drink Friday night, but drank it and left, didn’t go anywhere else in the building over the weekend.”

            “OK,” Leanne said. She wrote all the names in a notebook.

            “We have a guy who cleans every Sunday morning, Charlie. He does a good job. Has done it for years. He’s not altogether right in the head, if you know what I mean. He talks to people, but if you brought up something complicated, say a math problem or how photosynthesis works, he’d have a hard time with it.”

            “Who do you think did it?” Leanne said.

            “I think it’s Charlie. I think sometime he saw the combination, and maybe he’s been waiting for his chance.”

            “When did you discover the loss?”

            It was a Monday. “This morning. I put in money from the party Saturday night and that’s when I discovered the loss.”

            “Has the safe been messed with?”

            “I opened it this morning. That’s all.”

            “OK, I’ll have a tech come over and fingerprint it. Let’s see the office.”

            The office was a simple room, clean and organized. Leanne got phone numbers for the men who had the combination to the safe.

            Leanne looked at Bernie. “Are you having financial problems,” she said.

            “Everyone’s a suspect, huh?” Bernie said. “I get a salary for managing the club. I’ve got a four-plex. I live in one apartment and rent out the other three. The building’s paid for. I’m doing OK.”

            Leanne smiled, “No offense.”

            “A lot of people are going around today with suspicious thoughts,” Bernie said.

            The tech found only Bernie’s fingerprints on the safe, which had been wiped down recently. The person who opened the safe could have worn gloves, or wiped the safe down after opening it.

            The case took a lot of work. Leanne called the other four people with the combination to the safe, and went and interviewed Charlie at his apartment. It was a small, old place with used furniture. Charlie understood what the questioning was about but said he didn’t have the combination to the safe. She wrote up all the conversations.

            Two months later, Leanne received a call. It was Bernie. “Charlie showed up with a new car, a Ford Mustang,” Bernie said. “Some of the guys went to his house and found $8,000 in cash. Charlie admitted the car was purchased with VFW money, and the $8,000 was left over.”

            “Do you want to file charges?” Leanne said.

            “No, the guys worked him over pretty good. And, we have a new janitor. If Charlie hadn’t come to work in a new car, we wouldn’t have found out. That’s what I meant when I said he was a little slow. We recovered the car and the cash. But, I appreciate you came out anyway.”

            “OK,” Leanne said. “Thanks for letting me know how it turned out.”

            “No problem,” Bernie said. “You should come out some Friday and have a drink. You know, there’d be some decent guys interested in meeting you.”

            “Now Bernie, you know if I started drinking at the VFW I’d have to bust you for those slot machines, don’t you?”

            “I was just being friendly,” Bernie said. “I know you don’t care about those old slot machines.”

            She laughed. “I probably won’t start drinking at the VFW,” Leanne said, “but I could tell you folks have a good time down there some nights.”

Chapter 11

            It was an odd call. Early one morning she was called to the Multnomah Valley nursing home. Someone reported a stolen medication cart.

            “I’m not sure what a medication cart would look like,” Leanne told the nurse at Multnomah Valley. She was about 30 with black hair. She might have been pretty, but she looked tired, having just worked all night. Her name was Gayle.

            “Come on,” Gayle said. They took the steps up to the second floor, and parked in front of a patient’s room was a square cart. It was five-foot tall and had wheels.

            “It looked like this,” Gayle said. “It had all the patient medications from the first floor. You can see how each drawer locks. There were controlled substances in it.”

            “Do you know what happened?” Leanne said.

            “Dan Gorseman, the janitor, wheeled it out the back door at the end of his shift, shoved it into his pickup bed and drove off. Come down to my office and I’ll give you his address. There weren’t a lot of controlled substances in there, but enough he could party for a few weeks or a month. I doubt we’ll see Dan anymore.”

            Leanne collected the pertinent information, and drove to the address, but no one was home. She wrote a police report. A week later Dan Gorseman was found dead in a car on Glisan Street. He had run into a light pole in the middle of the night. A blood test showed he had hydrocodone, oxycodone, morphine, Prozac, Adderall and lorazepam in his system, plus marijuana and alcohol.

            Leanne got the information the next morning when she arrived at work. She also learned that a Beechcraft B200 Super King Air was stolen in Baker City. The cases weren’t related, but it struck Leanne her life was a revolving door. One exits, a new one shows up. She had been wondering if she was ever going to have any important cases again. Now she knew she was. Dean Stillman was going to give her headlines; it was just a feeling she had.

            Leanne talked to a patrolman from the Oregon State Police. He had read her police report and was beginning an investigation of Dean Stillman. He asked Leanne if she would interview Dean’s mother, who still lived in Saint Helens, and also check the house again in Portland, try to locate him.

            There was no evidence Dean had taken a Cessna 172 airplane in Troutdale to Sisters, but he was seen by a witness at the Baker City airport, and a man of similar description was seen at the McMinnville air field shortly after a Beechcraft Super King Air landed. Someone picked him up in McMinnville in a 10-year-old Volvo station wagon.

            Leanne went to Saint Helens to see Lee Stillman. She was pretty as Leanne had guessed, but beyond the age when she could have snared nearly any single man. She worked in a grocery store and lived with several people in a large house. She had her own room and shared a bathroom with another woman. She fixed coffee in the large, 1950s style communal kitchen and set out some cookies. Other people drifted through the kitchen during their visit but Lee seemed undisturbed by it.

            “I’m afraid I’m a rolling stone and Dean has caught it. Most of my drifting was in California. Dean could skate or ride a surfboard. He was a good athlete and always made friends. It was a carefree life when I was young. There were always men around to pick up the tab.” She laughed pleasantly, wistfully.

            It was September but the weather remained nice, sunny and warm. Leanne wore a top from Columbia Sportswear. It was a women’s PFG Tamiami II in crushed blue; she liked the long-sleeve angler’s shirt, which was flattering to the figure. Lee wore a faded men’s dress shirt and jeans. Lee liked Leanne, but said she did not know anything about all the airplanes Dean took.

            “I know about the one to Hillsboro, of course,” she said. “I used to have a tall boyfriend we called Lurch. He let Dean drive boats, cars and motorcycles. Taught him mechanics. Dean was 12 and 13. When we, Dean and I, moved to Oregon, to Saint Helens, and he worked for Will at the airport after high school, I knew he would be interested in airplanes. It would have been quite natural for him. I’m sure he learned everything about them, and then it would have been quite normal for him to want to fly one. He landed the plane in Hillsboro, a Cessna 182, without doing a bit of damage to it. It was all a big to do about nothing, in my opinion.”

            Leanne found she liked Lee. Leanne could never be as casual about life, money, a son, but Lee seemed to not even notice she was different, carefree. It was an effortless exercise for her. Perhaps Lee’s only regret was growing older and no longer being the life of the party. Lee did not know Dean’s current address. She hadn’t heard about an airplane being stolen in Troutdale and taken to Sisters, or one being stolen in Baker City and flown to McMinnville, though both events had been on the news. She didn’t know anyone who drove a blue Volvo station wagon. She didn’t know Dannie or anything about a job at Bell’s Auto Parts.

            Leanne went back to the house in Northeast Portland. Dannie came out and greeted her. She had not seen Dean. “Within three days, he cheated on me with my best friend. I haven’t seen him since. Good riddance to bad luck I say.”

            Leanne nodded. “I understand,” she said. She told Dannie about the stolen airplanes, and Dannie nodded. “I know about it,” she said. “I don’t care about him, but I know someone who is a friend of his. He said Dean has his eye on an airplane at the Portland airport. It seems ridiculous, but that’s what I heard.”

            There would be a lot of security at the Portland International Airport. Leanne could hardly believe someone would try to take a plane there. Nonetheless, she met with a member of the security force, the port authority police, and was shocked to find Dean had a job at the airport handling luggage. He had been hired a week ago. He was off duty at the time, the night Leanne was there, but would be back the next evening. Leanne made arrangements to come back the next night and observe him for a while, maybe talk to him.

            Leanne wrote up a report and discussed the issue with her supervisor, Robert Nilson. He said she should look for him. Dean Stillman was now a priority.

            She found the port police officer helpful, and Leanne watched Dean for about three hours as he maneuvered around the big jets loading and unloading luggage and performing numerous other jobs, assisting another man. The port police officer was gone, attending to other matters, when Leanne saw Dean take an electric cart, like a golf cart, and move from the passenger area toward the part of the airport grounds where smaller planes were kept.

Clouds had moved in, but it wasn’t raining. Leanne had to hurry. She walked a long way, over tarmac and grass, to sneak up on Dean. He had cut a chain securing a de Havilland Canada DHC-6 Twin Otter and had started it. He was doing a flight check.

            Dean looked up and saw her. “Go away, what are you doing?” he yelled over the sound of the engine.

            “You are under arrest,” Leanne said. She didn’t think she needed to pull out her gun.

            “You’re messing up everything,” Dean said, and he slipped quickly into the pilot’s seat. Leanne got in the seat beside him, using the door opposite him, just as the plane started moving.

            “I’m not going to shoot you, the two of us in an airplane. But turn it off and get out of the airplane,” she said. “Now. You are under arrest.”

            Dean was inching the plane forward toward the runway. She considered shooting him in the leg, but that didn’t make sense. She had handcuffs, but she wasn’t sure she could handcuff him and shut off the plane. He was a strong man, and she looked at the controls but it was taking her time to think of what all the controls were, the ones she recognized. Dean rolled onto the runway and took off.

            “Runway 29. I don’t see a flight plan. Please identify yourself. Runway 29. The de Havilland. You do not have permission to take off. Please identify yourself.” It was the tower.

            Leanne reached for the hand transmitter, but Dean grabbed it, unplugged it and tossed it in the back of the plane. “I’ll let you out at the coast,” Dean said.

            The tower was still trying to get the Beechcraft to identify itself, but Dean turned the volume off. The plane rose and he sped up to put the Portland International Airport in the rearview mirror. If there was a rearview mirror. After going safely past anywhere a jet might show up, Dean pulled up to 5,000 feet. He set a heading west.

            “I could let you off at the Oregon coast,” Dean said. “I’m going to Hawaii. I don’t want you along, but I don’t think you’d get out if I stopped at an airport on the Oregon coast. I’m not kidnapping you, by the way.”

            “I’m not making any promises about how a prosecutor would see this, but if you turn around and go back I’ll ask them to go easy on you. If we end up in Hawaii they’re going to throw the book at you. If you kill me, I’ll be pissed.”

            Dean laughed. “I don’t want to die,” he said. “I’m not a desperado. Look, I was going to fly to Hawaii, go back to the states, fly across the continent, set a record for logging the most miles ever recorded in stolen airplanes. I was going to write a book. Look, there’s a lot to it. Dodging security at small air fields, starting a variety of airplanes, knowing how to navigate, making sure there’s enough fuel to fly to the destination. See, take this plan today, I found an airplane with two secondary tanks filled with fuel. We’ll make Hawaii easily.”

            “Maybe you’ve already set the record,” Leanne said. “You can still write your book. We’ll set down on the coast.”

            “It has to be a dynamic story,” Dean said. “I want to sell it to the movies. Plus, you know I’m not the only one who has ever stolen an airplane. I don’t know what the record is. I just figured if I flew to Hawaii, and then across the mainland, I’d be set.”

            Leanne looked at him. She had forgotten how handsome he was. He was also likeable. His plan wasn’t the worst she had ever heard. He even had the backstory for it. His mother was a gypsy nomad.

            “I’m a law enforcement agent,” Leanne said. “Maybe your life could be a movie, but I’m not a director or a producer. I’m not a judge or a prosecutor who can say, ‘Hey, let’s cut the kid some slack.’ ”

            Dean looked at her.

            “I’m here, in a stolen plane, and when we land I’m pretty sure I’m arresting you. My sole purpose is to keep you from endangering people and stealing more airplanes. It’s so simple, it’s boring. In the meantime, I’m kind of stuck with you. I don’t know how to force you down without hurting you or causing us to wreck.”

            “OK, I’ll fly to Hawaii. Maybe then I’ll have enough miles for my story. I’ll behave. When we get to Hawaii, I’ll take the consequences, although you jumped in, I didn’t kidnap you.”

            Leanne laughed. They both put on seat belts. Leanne had handcuffs, a police ID and a Beretta 9. It would have to be enough. Her phone and purse were at the airport in Portland, locked in the 4Runner.

Chapter 12

            Leanne went to the rest room, then relaxed in one of the 14 passenger chairs in the back of the de Havilland. Her understanding was that Dean was cruising about 300 miles per hour and they would arrive in Hawaii in eight or nine hours. Dean had picked out a small airport on Oahu where he intended to land and make a quick get-away. Leanne planned to arrest him and take him back to Oregon. She didn’t know if there would be a fight, or if Dean had some kind of trick planned. There was nothing to do but wait out the flight.

            She went forward, to the pilot’s cabin, and sat by Dean. “This is a nice aircraft. So, what are you doing?”

            “I’m afraid it’s almost a $2 million airplane. I chose it because of the extra tanks, which allow us to go 2,575 miles to Hawaii. Also, a pilot’s license is all that’s required to fly it.”

            “You don’t have a pilot’s license.” Leanne said.

            “Well, there’s that,” Dean said and smiled. “And you weren’t kidnapped.”

Leanne laughed. “I’m already in trouble,” Dean said. “The Beechcraft, the one I stole in Baker City, was a fine plane. It was built in 1968, but I know it was worth a lot of money, maybe a million bucks, maybe 1.5. It was in great shape. I loved it.

            “The two Cessnas, well, they’re good planes, the 172 and the 182, anyway probably worth more than $200,000 plus for either one of them. The Cessna 182, the first plane I stole, was the larger, more powerful, more capable Cessna.

            “The Cessna 172, the plane I flew from Troutdale to Sisters, was a nice plane. It’s hard to price airplanes because I’m not a serious buyer who could negotiate a little. Of course, I’m not in trouble for that first flight I took. We worked that out. But I know people will be after me for these last three. I might have got away with stealing the Cessna 172 in Troutdale, but after I took a Beechcraft, and now a de Havilland, I knew they wouldn’t let that go.

            “I figure altogether I’ve flown 4,000 miles in 14 hours, averaging different speeds, and the mileage estimates could be a few miles off.”

            “You know, for a 23-year-old man, you’ve managed to get in a lot of trouble,” Leanne said.

            “You’re part of the story, you know,” Dean said.

            “Yes, I’ll be the person who shot you if you don’t come with me in Hawaii.”

            Dean laughed. “Listen to me a minute,” he said. “When you mentioned my bike riding, I was on a hiking trail on a motorcycle but you were in the air. It reminded me I loved that little joy ride I took two years ago, from Saint Helens to Hillsboro. Amongst my friends, I was a big hero for that. The owner of the plane was mad, but other people didn’t make a big deal out of it. It wasn’t like I was a bad kid.”

            “Sure, I believe it,” Leanne said. “You’re a charming person, people like you.”

            “Talking to you that day, I decided to get serious and see if I could pull off a bunch of flights. I’m digging this. I’ve flown some excellent small aircraft. I’ve been sneaking on and off airport grounds. I’m not making any money, but I’ll tell you this is more thrilling than robbing banks. My book is going to be gangbusters. And, I can claim to be a good guy. I haven’t so much as broken a pencil in any of the planes I’ve been in.”

            Leanne shook her head. “You could’ve joined the Navy or Air Force, and done this legit. I don’t respect you for this,” she said.

            “Oh, come on,” Dean said. “You like me.”

            “You are charming for a criminal,” Leanne said. “That’s not the same as being a good person out there in the world. A good person doesn’t steal million-dollar airplanes.”

            “This has auto-pilot,” Dean said. “I thought maybe we’d go back to the passenger area and take a little nap.”

            “I have a boyfriend,” Leanne said. “A guy I like.”

            “Come on,” Dean said. “I’m 23 and a lot of fun. You’re the inspiration for this. Don’t you want to consummate the deal?”

            “You’ve misread me,” Leanne said. “My boyfriend hasn’t done anything as daredevil as this, but he’s a cool guy in a way you’ll never understand. No, I’m not going to cheat on him. Two, I never expected to be a detective. It’s a good job and investigating crime is a worthwhile activity. I’m not in your gang. I’m going to bring you in.”

            “OK,” Dean said. “I don’t care what you say. It was cool to joyride in all those planes. I’m a working-class guy and I’d never get to fly a de Havilland in real life.”

            “You know Dean, I’m not your mother. I’m only 12 or 13 years older than you, but there are amazing people out there in the world doing amazing things, important things, and they didn’t rack up all those accomplishments by stealing airplanes. That’s all.”

            Dean looked at the heading, and then a bigger map, which showed them headed straight for Hawaii. That was good. He had to come up with a plan to get away when he got to Oahu. And he had to think up the plan pretty quickly. He had misread Leanne. He thought she might be interested in making out with him, maybe hanging out in the sack with him for a few days waiting for the heat to die down in Hawaii. Usually Dean had good luck with women.

Chapter 13

            The sun was just coming up when they saw the Hawaiian Islands. The light was faint and it was a pretty view. Leanne had resisted the opportunity to sleep the entire way. There were times in those early morning hours when she could have easily fallen asleep, but she didn’t trust Dean and forced herself to stay awake. She had made some coffee for them in the kitchen cabin.

They flew in slightly north of the islands and when they got to Oahu, Dean went immediately to the little airport on the east coast. It seemed there was no activity there. It was about 5 in the morning.

            Leanne was a little impressed. Dean not only knew where he was going, but he flew inland, circled an air strip once, and touched down as if he had been doing it all his life. Leanne took out the handcuffs. She planned to put them on him the moment the plane stopped. They were rolling down the air strip, almost to a stop, when Dean pulled out an Italian gun, a Tanfoglio 1911-style 9mm.

            “Jesus,” Leanne said, and she was surprised when he quickly hit her with it. He held it by the handle and slapped her forehead with the heavy metal, all-black barrel. It knocked her out. Dean shut off the Beechcraft and headed toward a dirt road on foot. Right on time he was picked up by a red Ford Escort, a rental car driven by a friend, Max. Back in Oregon Max drove a 10-year-old Volvo.

            Leanne was out for about 20 minutes before she began to hear voices. She was aware of a dream she was having. She was at a basketball game in high school and she and another player hit heads. She felt goofy, almost happy, and played the remaining two minutes of the game. Then, her teammates went into the locker room but she sat down in the stands. A friend sat next to her.

            “Are you OK?” her friend said. The friend was a woman she knew from Colorado State University, but the game she dreamed about was high school.

            “Yes,” Leanne said. “It sounds funny, but I can’t locate the locker room. I’m also not sure how to get home.”

              In those days, concussions were not treated as seriously as they are now. Leanne remembered that goofy feeling, but this time her head hurt. It was much worse than she remembered from that concussion in the high school game.

            Also, she saw Dean differently. She had viewed him as a handsome boy on a lark, but when he hit her with the gun he seemed more of a full-fledged criminal. Assaulting a police woman, or any policeman for that matter, with a real-life pistol whip seemed a mean thing. She liked him less.

            She opened her eyes and a man with black hair, about 40, said, “Are you OK?”

            “I was hit with the barrel of a gun. It must have knocked me out. Have I been asleep long?”

            “We heard the de Havilland come in about 20 minutes ago,” the man said. “My name’s George. This is a beautiful plane. Must go for about $2 million.”

            “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Leanne said. “I’m a police detective from Portland. I don’t know if the story has reached Hawaii, but there’s a man in Oregon who has been joy-riding in airplanes. I tried to arrest him last night.”

            “I heard about it on the news last night,” the man said. “Are you OK?”

            “My head hurts, but I think I’m all right. I need to call my boss in Portland, and talk to local law enforcement. May I use your phone. George handed Leanne his phone, and got in the seat of the de Havilland, started it and pulled the airplane up to the hanger. Leanne told Robert Nilson what happened, and then talked to the local sheriff in Hawaii.

            Anton James, the sheriff, picked her up and drove her to his modest office. Anton was about five-foot-6 with medium-length hair and a nice smile. His office was simple and organized.

She thought his brain was organized too as he began an effort to organize an island-wide search for Dean Stillman. He talked to the FBI, the Honolulu chief of police, the state attorney general and state Highway Patrol. He did all this in front of Leanne to demonstrate what he was doing to try and catch the joy-rider.

            A woman police officer came in and took Leanne to breakfast. They drank two bloody Mary’s before eating, then the woman took Leanne to her home and Leanne took a four-hour nap. When Leanne awoke, she was feeling refreshed and she went with the woman officer back to the sheriff’s office.

            “George said he saw a red Ford Escort this morning, so we checked car rental agencies throughout the state looking for it,” Anton said. “We also checked all hotels and other accommodations looking for people from Oregon in general and Saint Helens, Oregon, specifically. Dean Stillman may have been able to sneak around some small airports, but he’s not so skilled as to be able to outwit a state-wide law enforcement man hunt.

            “He may be able to fly some small airplanes, but now he’s facing serious charges and serious time. He’s on his way to a jail cell in Honolulu as we speak. We are working an extradition to Oregon and other details. We found a friend of his in a local hotel and the car was rented yesterday in Honolulu. They were in a room at the hotel.’’

            It was all out of Leanne’s hands now and she felt relief. The female sheriff’s deputy drove her across the island to Honolulu where she booked a flight back to Oregon that evening. She arrived in the morning, opened the 4Runner with the key fob she’d had in her pocket for almost 48 hours. Hawaii had been beautiful but she was glad to get back to Portland, her own car and go to her own house. Things familiar. Also the weird feeling in her head was receding.

            Robert Nilson asked her to participate in a press conference the next day, reminding her the public would be highly interested and this would be viewed as a definite example of the police doing its job. Leanne wore Vuori-brand Boyfriend Jogger pants in the color of black heather, the top a Halo Essential Hoodie in the color of salt heather, and Nike Pegasus Plus running shoes with a pink swish and a pink-colored strip up the front. She had a reputation to maintain for being well dressed in outdoor clothing.

            Later, Weather Williams visited Leanne’s small office at the police station. She had a desk with a high-powered computer on it, a couple of oversized chairs for visitors and a safe for her gun and ammunition. She received an allotment of bullets and practiced every week. She liked Weather. He had been a high school basketball star, same as Leanne, and he had an attitude similar to Leanne’s. He was serious about important problems, but had a sense of humor and didn’t like to hassle people. He wanted to be a detective like Leanne.

            “You did a good job on Dean Stillman,” Weather said. “It was an odd case and I’m impressed you were able to solve it so quickly.”

            Leanne nodded thanks. “At one time I liked the young man, but when he stole a $2 million, 14-seat passenger airplane my attitude changed. He was a big-time criminal in a hurry to make a name for himself.”

            “He hit you with a gun,” Weather said. “I guess he wasn’t such a good guy after all.”

            “No, he wasn’t,” Leanne said.  “That changed my attitude, too. But you know what it was really?”

            Weather shook his head.

            “We were over the Pacific Ocean. It was dark as hell and he was an inexperienced pilot. I jumped on the plane, so I guess I knew the risks, but it also occurred to me if Dean Stillman made some kind of error, and died, I was going to go with him. At that point, I didn’t like him.”

            Weather nodded. “At some point, a person doesn’t want any more craziness in his or her life. Even a detective.”

            “That’s it, part of it,” Leanne said.   

Chapter 14

            Brad Keen missed his Louisville girlfriend, Kenya Wilson. In Louisville, it was no secret that Brad Keen and Thom Cromwell robbed the Kentucky Derby. Thom Cromwell had already been arrested in Seattle. He didn’t tell police he thought Brad was in Portland.

            Kenya knew she was being followed at different times for perhaps six months, maybe longer because one never really knew for sure. The truth is, she enjoyed the infamy of being Brad’s girlfriend. She was photographed several times for articles and updates about the robbery. She liked posing in sexy outfits wearing big sunglasses and looking coy. The only problem was that she had never been able to enjoy the perks of being rich, not even for a little while.

            In time, law enforcement concluded Kenya hadn’t participated in planning the robbery, and didn’t know where to find Brad Keen. At least Kenya was not communicating with him. They monitored her phone.

            Brad had mastered a few of the arts related to living on the lam. He was now Melvin Brick with a driver’s license, credit card and a nice apartment. He’d made a few friends, but now, with money and some degree of knowledge, police didn’t know where he was. Brad thought Kenya would make a fuss over him now that he was rich. He thought she was a cool chick, although she had not always treated him well. She had a rocking body and great, good looks. Maybe she had a new respect for him now.

            Brad thought Kenya’s smart phone would be monitored by the police forever. They would always be looking to track down Brad Keen through her. However, he thought an old-fashioned idea, like a letter, would not be noticed. Certainly the police department would not monitor Kenya’s mail. At least, he hadn’t heard of this. He guessed that since the 1970s, with the advancements of the internet and smart phones, watching mailboxes was old hat.

            He had an envelope in nearly perfect condition, inside of which was an advertisement for a cruise. He took a sheet of clean, white typewriter paper and wrote: “Hey Kenya, I sure do miss you. If you want to come see me, write M. Brick, P.O. Box 12999, Portland, OR, 97080.”

            Kenya almost threw the letter away, unopened, but decided at the last minute to see what the cruise line was offering. Just for the hell of it. She was excited, receiving the note from Brad. She suddenly had a famous secret. Brad Keen was in Portland, Oregon, and she could see him if she wanted.

She began to make plans to leave Louisville. She liked Brad OK, but importantly she figured he had $3.2 million and it would be fun to spend some of that money. She might even get her hands on a piece of it.

            She didn’t know what happened to Brad after he split with Thom Cromwell. The police were tight lipped. She was curious, and she respected him a little more now that he had pulled off such a daring plan. In her mind, all rich people were probably crooks so what was the big deal about seeing a wanted man?

            They exchanged a few letters. Kenya didn’t tell anyone about her plan to move to Portland. She told friends she was just moving out of her apartment. Her life was packed up in two suitcases. She would never have thought she could pull this off. At the airport, she was on a watch list, but not the “do not fly” list. The Louisville police were notified she was traveling, and they called Robert Nilson in Portland. They explained who Kenya Wilson was. Leanne was assigned to follow her.

            Leanne saw Kenya exit the plane, get in a taxi and go to a bar called the Revenue Neutral in Northeast Portland. It was a nice place, suitable for her new elevated lifestyle, and she had an espresso martini. She was at a table with two suitcases at her feet.

            Leanne drove round the bar. There was not a back exit. Kenya would have to come out the front door. Leanne waited outside in her 4Runner. Brad watched Kenya enter the bar. No one followed her. No one new came in as she drank her drink. She finished it and ordered a second.

            Brad, wearing a bowler hat, went from a table in back up to her table at the front of the bar and sat down.

            “I didn’t recognize you,” Kenya said, giving him a big hug. “God, I have so many questions. How are you? I like the hat.”

            “I discovered the baseball-cap thing doesn’t work for me. I’m good,” he said. A waitress nodded at him to see if he wanted a drink, and he waved her off.

            “I’ve got a nice apartment to show you,” he said to Kenya. “I think you’ll like it, and I’ll give you a chance to settle in. Then, if you want, I’ll give you a little tour of Portland. Sorry the weather is cloudy and windy.”

            “Sure, we’ll get settled in first,” she said, giving him a nice smile. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you again. I’ve missed you.”

            “Nice of you to say,” he said. “Did you have any trouble? Do you think anyone suspects anything?”

            “I didn’t tell anyone I was going. Just packed up the apartment, gave some stuff away, and packed two bags. I treated the phone as if I was being monitored by the police. They followed me for a while, back in Louisville. I got on the flight without problems. I used a friend’s computer to buy the ticket. Everything seems good.”

            “That is so cool,” Brad said. “It’s fun having money, but I kept thinking it would be more fun if you were here to share it.”

            “I’m glad you missed me,” Kenya said. “It’ll be a new start for us.”

            Brad kissed her. It was nice. He was happy.

            Leanne watched them exit the bar. Leanne remembered reading that Kenya was a college center with a reputation as a good basketball player. Her movements were graceful, fluid. Leanne had fought many women like her for rebounds, strong with sharp elbows. She would’ve liked to talk to her about her basketball-playing days. Perhaps she would get a chance later.

            Brad carried the suitcases out of the bar, Revenue Neutral. Kenya had a purse and a small, Gucci backpack. The woman had style, Leanne thought. She was good looking and knew how to dress. With the heels on, she looked about six-foot-6. In reality, the heels put her at six-foot.

            Brad was driving a 1986 Porsche 944, older so not as expensive as newer-model Porsches. The finish was rough with some Bondo filler in spots. Still, Leanne was sure it was faster than the 4Runner. She keyed in the license plate number and got the owner as Melvin Brick. So, she knew who it was if she lost him. Leanne may have the man who robbed the Kentucky Derby in her sights. The thought excited Leanne.

            He drove east on I-84 and Leanne hung back and thought it was going OK. She followed him onto I-5 North and this was when Leanne wondered if he suspected her. He kept looking at the 4Runner in the rear-view mirror. He turned off suddenly onto the Fremont Bridge. This is a steel-tied arch bridge over the Willamette River. They were going west and thus were on the top deck of the open bridge and the wind was howling. One could see the river and the docks, and it was a dizzying view and most people slowed down, a little intimidated, but the Porsche sped up and was weaving through traffic. And possibly going back into Portland, back over the river. Leanne decided she had been spotted.

            The Porsche sped up, passed a truck, braked for a car in front of the truck, changed lanes. Leanne estimated he then sped up to about 100 miles per hour. She was going 80 and kept up, stayed in view, but she wouldn’t be with him for long. Leanne could feel the wind pull at the 4Runner. Brad was driving too fast to be safe.

            “Are we in a car chase?” Kenya said to Brad. “It’s kind of scary, going so fast up here.”

            He slid through his turn. At the end of the bridge there were two options, which led to several more. He could go south into the city on interstate 405 or north on US 30 into industrial Portland. Brad was committed now to industrial Portland.

            Leanne got on the police radio; she was afraid she was going to lose the Porsche. “This is detective Leanne Shiff on the Fremont Bridge, following a blue Porsche 944, year 1986, grey Bondo spots, going west at 100 miles per hour. A person of interest driving. Request immediate assist.” This would bring out the police, but she hoped she could follow him herself. She didn’t want to lose him. Leanne would consider that bad form.

            Leanne could see which way he turned off the bridge. Once in the industrial area, he sped up on the Nicolai Street straightaway. He was flying past people, weaving past a blue Volkswagen and then a new, red pickup truck. Leanne was sure Brad was going to cause someone to wreck.  She followed him as well as she could. Leanne sped up to 90 miles per hour, her siren on now and flashing lights on the dash board. She felt it would be unsafe to go any faster. She saw him turn right, way up ahead, on NW 29th Street. She had looked at this area when she was flying with Weather Williams. She knew there was a way out, if Brad went north quite a way, but it would not be obvious.

            Traffic here thinned out and the trucks drove slowly, so Brad zoomed around them. He was looking for a vacant warehouse to park in, wait for the police to go, but instead he found an active waterfront. There were ships in terminal 1 and 2. There was a foundry with the garage doors open, men inside in hard hats. Then Brad had to slam on the brakes for a man driving a forklift with a roll of wire. “Jesus,” Kenya said. There were some hard men with big muscles outside a welding shop.

            Leanne turned onto NW 29^th Street. Two police cars were suddenly behind her. She was pleased about this.

            Kenya saw that the streets looped around. “Do you have a plan?” Kenya said.

            Brad shook his head. He went from NW 29th Street to 31st Avenue and there was Leanne and the two police cars. Brad, unable to find a way out of the area, had accidentally circled back toward Nicolai. He cursed the day he wrote the letter to Kenya. It had been a stupid thing to do, a weak moment.

            The two police cars boxed in the Porsche, quickly and automatically as if they had practiced this maneuver a thousand times. Brad stepped out of the Porsche with his hands up. Kenya followed. There were two police men in one car, and a man and a woman in the other. They all pointed guns at Brad and Kenya. Leanne stepped up to him.

            “Are you Brad Keen?” she said.

            “Yes,” he said, and laughed.

            “What’s funny?” Leanne said. 

            “I didn’t even get to spend one night with my old girlfriend,” Brad said.

            “Nothing would have happened,” Kenya said.

            “You’ve got $3 million and still can’t make anything happen,” Leanne said. “That’s rough.” She meant it. She knew it was something Brad would have to think about for many years in prison. He finally caught up with his dream girl and she dissed him. More police cars pulled in.

            It was an overcast fall day, and after the car chase on the Fremont Bridge Leanne felt let down. All policemen are trained in car chases, and there are many guidelines to adhere to. Leanne had done fine, but at one point she had been scared. She decided maybe the next time she would not drive quite so fast. She would ask her father, a former manager at a car dealership, what he thought of her actions during the car chase.

            Leanne and Bob Tintente had some days off. Bob, a registered nurse, was making breakfast, at his house, and Leanne was trying to force her way out of bed. She staggered into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

            “I slept nine hours,” she said. “It doesn’t seem as though I should still be tired.”

            “There’s been a lot going on in your life,” Bob said. “I think you’ve earned a few days to be lazy.”

            “Breakfast looks good,” Leanne said. “I thought you’d quit eating meat.”

            He was making eggs, hash browns, toast and sausage. He was organized is what she thought.

            “We’re on vacation. I thought some sausage with breakfast would be good.”

            “You were right,” she said. “It smells great. Breakfast looks fantastic.”

            “Have you heard any more about the guy who robbed the Kentucky Derby?” Bob said.

            “Robert Nilson interviewed him. Brad Keen told Robert that after a period of time, he’d probably be viewed as a local hero. Robert broke out laughing. You can say farewell to the Kentucky Derby forever. They’ll never welcome you back.”

            Bob smiled. “You have a life like no other. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to keep you happy as a girlfriend.”

            “Of course you will,” Leanne said. “I’m happy now. I love you.”   

            “I’ve had an engagement ring in my safe for a year. Do you think there will ever be time to talk about getting married again?”

            She thought about Neydelin. She knew Bob hadn’t seen her for a year. If he was going to run off with Neydelin, he’d have done it by now. Anyway, that was a negative subject. He’d always made it clear he wanted to be with Leanne.

            On top of everything else, the most important thing, she liked it that when they were together he paid attention to her. They had a million private jokes. She was in love with him; that was for sure.

            “If you surprise me with a ring, I’ll say yes. You could give me the paper band from a cigar and I’d still say yes.”

            “Well now, that’s interesting, and it would certainly be more affordable.” He laughed and she smiled. He wasn’t cheap, just a joker. He’d be a generous husband.

            “What I was thinking about, as much as a wedding, is to stop practicing birth control. What do you think of that?”

            “I’m ready when you are,” Bob said. “I told you I’d like children.”

            He dished up breakfast and they sat at the table.

            “We don’t have to have any more serious talks for a while, do we?” he said.

            “No,” Leanne said.

            “Well then, some baby making sex sounds pretty good,” he said.

            “Oh for sure, that will have to be some enthusiastic stuff,” she said. “It would be OK to have breakfast first, don’t you think?”

            It was another private joke. They had watched a movie where a couple had made an elaborate meal then pushed the food and dishes to the floor and made love on the table. It was Charlie Sheen and Daryl Hannah in “Wall Street.” Leanne and Bob agreed the scene was a little over the top, and joked about it sometimes when they prepared a meal together. Leanne smiled, remembering the joke. Life with this guy was going to be good.