Murder Pro Bono Read online

  ISBN 978-1-59433-092-6

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-186-2

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2009922288

  Copyright 2009 by Don Porter

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Cover Design by Brian Parker

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  Murder Pro Bono is dedicated to the staff of KUAM, AM, FM, and TV on Guam. I spent two memorable years as the engineer for those stations and met a group of remarkable people. My wife, Deborah and I loved the island. Snorkeling in the lagoons was world class. We picked bananas, papayas, limes, avocados, growing wild in the jungles, and tropical flora doesn't get any better. Orchids on Guam grew like dandelions in Seattle, but it was the people we met there that made the experience memorable.

  Many old Hollywood movies featured lawn parties, and I had supposed they were imaginary until we attended some Chamorro weddings and fiestas. Dancing till dawn under tropical stars with a choice of three live bands was the way of life. And, nowhere else has cooking and sauces with lemon juice been raised to a fine art form.

  Unfortunately we went there on a two-year contract and as the contract was ending, the ABC affiliate in Hawaii was making us offers that we could not refuse. Reluctantly we left, but shall always cherish the memories and the friends on Guam.

  Other Books by Don Porter

  The Dealership

  Murder Stalks Hawaii

  ISBN 978-1-59433-063-6

  Dick and George, the Payne and Clark Detective Agency

  Deadly Detail Trade Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-59058-418-7

  Deadly Detail Hard Cover

  ISBN 1-59058-191-1

  Deadly Detail Soft Cover, Large Print,

  ISBN 1-59058-192-X

  Happy Hour

  ISBN 0-9706712-5-3

  Yukon Murders

  ISBN 13 978-0-9706712-9-5

  ISBN 10 0-9706712-9-6

  All are set in Alaska, All feature Alex Price, bush pilot.

  Content

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgements

  I have a faithful cadre of first readers, editors, commenters, and general critics that includes professional editors and authors. No one can edit their own material. You read what you thought you wrote or what you intended to write, and that may not be at all what is on the paper.

  My cadre not only guards against that sort of error, and find the typos, but they bring a wide variety of experiences to the process. While I write about places I've been and things I have done, a variety of viewpoints can always add.

  Editors include Joann Condit and C.J. Seidlitz; authors are Bill Marsik, Ivan Pierce, Gale Gill, Marjory Dobbin, and Joanne Taylor Moore.

  And, any married person who writes a book must be forever indebted to a supportive and long suffering spouse. My lovely young wife Deborah makes writing possible and life a pleasure.

  Foreword

  If you are one of the many fans of Louis L'Amour's fine Western series and can also lay claim to an acquaintance with Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer, yet lament that those two writers have headed off into the last sunset, take heart. Like the cavalry to the rescue, here comes Don G. Porter with Murder Pro Bono., a new installment in his Alaska-Hawaii detective series.

  Murder Pro Bono is Porter's latest book starring Dick Payne and his Hawaiian detective partner George Clark. Honolulu-based Payne & Clark Detective Agency has been hired to prove that a homeless man, O'Malley, didn't commit a murder. O'Malley lives under a Honolulu bridge with his “family”, a collection of oddball characters that you might reasonably expect to find living under a bridge. Hence the subtitle, a word play on itself, that later stretches into a still wider Family entanglement. East Coast Mafia Family soldiers have betrayed their own and absconded to the islands with six million dollars in cash, stashed in a duffel bag that becomes the centerpiece of Murder Pro Bono. Payne & Clark, O'Malley, avenging Mafia thugs, the FBI, and the Honolulu police are all in hot pursuit of the cash and each other.

  It's action, it's adventure, it's classic detective work with intriguing twists and turns—and count on a typically unexpected Porter ending!

  I met Don Porter in Alaska in the early ‘80s. He was a bush pilot. The guy could, and did, fly anything—fixed wing, rotary (helicopters), multi-engine—for 30 years and lived to tell about it. So did his passengers. I was fortunate enough to be one those passengers on many occasions. At the time, I was bending nails, dumping trucks, and writing for the only newspaper on the vast Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta—the Tundra Drums. Porter and I talked and worked ourselves into a sort of partnership. He did the flying, I did the ground work, looking for gold. In the end, the only real gold we found and managed to keep our hands on was a friendship that has lasted since those Alaska times.

  His books are like his flying: first rate and fun. These worthwhile easy reads inevitably teach you something you didn't even know you were interested in learning. Pick up one of the Don G. Porter books—there are quite a few now. Start with The Dealership. Sit back in your easy chair, strap on your lap belt, and be ready for take off. You're going to like the ride.

  Bill Marsik

  Chapter One

  “Dick, maybe he's a murderer, maybe not, but that's beside the point. Do you have any idea what pro bono means?” George was storming around the office, doing his raging-bull act: six strides from his desk to the windows, a contemptuous sniff at Honolulu below, a stomp to the filing cabinets. He jerked a steel drawer open and slammed it shut for a sound effect. His linebacker shoulders would have made the raging-bull act impressive, if he hadn't been wearing an outrageous orange-and-yellow aloha shirt. He was in a mood to throw things, but too cheap to risk breakage.

  George is Hawaiian, six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds, but he's the youngest in his family and the runt of the litter. His seven brothers and sisters, back on the taro farm in the Waipio Valley on the big island, average six-four and three hundred pounds. George wasn't much use on the farm, so maybe that's why they sent him to college. His Hawaiian genes make it difficult for him to look fierce, although the reality is far from the appearance. In the ancient culture, which some Hawaiian activists inexplicably wish to revive, if a commoner stepped on the shadow of an Alii his head would be instantly split with a club. George has the instincts, just not the demeanor.

  We had hooked up at the University of Washington where the football team threw us together. On those occasions when both of us were academically eligible to play, my job as quarterback was to hand the ball to George. He would run through the line and half way to the goal, dragging as many members of the opposing team as tried the tackle.

  We were still in the same mode, so I usually got to
call the plays, but once a play is in motion, look out for George. I'd been developing webbed feet and growing mold in Seattle. George lured me to Hawaii with the promise of perpetual sunshine. He delivered on that. His other promise, of a partnership in a lucrative and worry-free detective agency, is more problematic.

  I used an oil-on-troubled-waters tone. “Sure, George, pro bono is Latin for …”

  “Not the Latin meaning, we're dealing with English here. In English, pro bono means bankrupt.” On his next pass, he continued stomping, right through the receptionist's office and out the door. He slammed the outer door, but not hard enough to break the glass. It had cost us fifty dollars for the classy lettering: Payne and Clark, Detective Agency.

  His exit wasn't as traumatic as it might have been because it was three minutes before five, and since we weren't working on a case at the moment, it was quitting time, or pau hana—end work—as we say in Hawaii. Maggie, our receptionist, had already deserted her post, closed her romance novel—as usual, the only paper on the reception desk—and was putting on her jacket. She risked staying one minute on her own time to come in and park her cute little teenage tush on the edge of my desk.

  “George didn't like the idea much, huh?” She continued buttoning the jacket, but stopped short of covering her new figure enhancement device. When I was Maggie's age, twenty years ago, we called them falsies, but most things have politically correct names now. I don't recall falsies having nipples on them, but figure enhancement devices do.

  I pontificated. “He'll come around. This just takes a little getting used to.”

  “I hope so. Our new client is awful cute. Shall I start a file on O'Malley?” She extracted a miniature brush from her purse and ran it though her newly blonde bob.

  “Maggie, O'Malley is not our client. Our clients wear clean clothes and bathe. This bum hasn't seen a razor or a barber in years.”

  “Well, sure, he was a little scruffy, but didn't you notice his eyes? They were just too gorgeous.”

  “If he comes back, I'll be sure to notice. If his eyes were so gorgeous, why did you open the window while he was here?”

  “Well, it was a little hard to breathe after he came in, but heck, you didn't smell so good yourself after we climbed that mudslide.”

  The clock made the final tick to five, and Maggie was out the door, pulled by an invisible magnet. The mudslide she referred to was on the Big Island, outside Hilo, when we were working on the case of the murdered car dealers and the missing Daewoo. I may be just a little cynical, but I suspect that she didn't mention that by accident. She was reminding me that she was a heroine on that case, and also that the fee we collected would sustain us for a couple of months. I wouldn't like to admit that there is anything sexist about my cynicism, but I do credit women with a subtlety in thinking of nuances that would elude most men.

  I shut down my computer and the copier, changed George's screensaver to read cheapskate and shut it down. I left the fax machine on. Because of the time zones, stateside people sometimes fax us in the middle of the night, and one of them might be a client. The twenty-cup coffeepot was still half full, so I removed the grounds and unplugged it. The first few cups in the morning might be a little stale, but free. I was just locking the outside door when the phone rang. I made it to Maggie's phone on the third ring, in case it was a prospective client.

  “Payne and Clark, Detective Agency. Richard Payne speaking.”

  “Payne, Lieutenant Cochran here. I have a hairball in custody who claims to be a client of yours. He also claims that you're going to bail him out, and you'd better do it fast, before somebody gets hurt.”

  “Mind if I ask why you have him in custody?”

  “So far, it's assaulting police officers, disturbing the peace, and resisting arrest, but if he breaks up that cell, I'll add felony destruction of government property.”

  “He assaulted police officers, plural? As in, he was walking down the street and your guys attacked him?”

  “No, plural as in, two of my guys stopped for coffee in the Fort Street Mall. Your protégé jumped out from behind a building and started beating them with his fists. He tried to use a bench, but fortunately the benches are bolted down.”

  “He didn't give a reason?”

  “He was screaming that he didn't murder anybody, and you're going to prove it. Does that sound like a reason?”

  “Sounds to me like illegal racial profiling, harassment, and police brutality.”

  “Racial profiling, my kiester. Under the hair and dirt lurks an Irishman; name's O'Malley. Will you get down here?”

  “Oh, that hairball. I'm on the way.” I hung up the phone and went out again to lock up. I guess you could say the call was a client, but not quite what I had in mind.

  Cochran was looming, all six-feet-five of him leaning over the counter and scowling. “You're too late. I told you to hurry.”

  “Sorry you shouldn't arrest people during rush hour. Did you kill him?” Cochran was looking a little rough, like he'd been in a fight. The amazing thing about that was that Cochran is six foot five, and weighs around two fifty. As I remembered O'Malley he was closer to five foot six and, including the hair, weighs maybe one fifty. Cochran was leaning on the desk. The desk sergeant, who was seated, was missing several buttons from his uniform jacket, and an officer who was holding up the water cooler wasn't drinking. He was bathing a fresh black eye with the cold water. I was noticing broken chairs, some books on the floor, a general aura of disarray.

  “You were hit by a terrorist bombing?” I asked.

  “No, this is called resisting arrest. The other two guys are in the infirmary.”

  “So, you just decided to save the bother and let him go?”

  “No, he was bailed out, all nice and legal, by Pendergast; so now you can leave, too. Next time I call you, be on time.” Cochran turned around and stomped to his office, not unlike the way that George had stomped out of ours. He didn't have to tell me who Pendergast was.

  Pendergast is the sort of lawyer who wears diamond rings and gold chains. When the newspaper says that he's representing someone, that someone is apt to have a familiar name. His clients are usually charged with fraud, racketeering, maybe even murder, and they usually get off on a technicality. I was having trouble with picturing O'Malley as a client of ours, but his being a client of Pendergast's boggled my mind.

  I needed to sort things out. The best way to do that is over a rum and Coke. The best place to do it is 8 Fat Fat 8, a neighborhood bar on Beretania Street. I wasn't in a hurry to get home because Betty, my intended, had gone back to Des Moines for a visit with her parents.

  Beretania Street is No Parking-Tow Away during rush hour, but the Midas muffler, brake, and lube center next door to Fat Fat was closed for the night, so I stuck the Jag in a customers-only spot. I opened the bar door and sneaked a peek around it because the dartboard range is right inside. No darts flashed past my nose, so I figured it was safe to enter. Beyond the dart range are twenty booths, lit for atmosphere, and the bar is an island of light at the back.

  Normally, Cy, the Chinese bartender, would see George and me come in. He'd be mixing our drinks while we tested stools for stability. Cy saw me come in and waved, but didn't start mixing. George was sitting in his usual spot, had saved a stool for me, one with all four legs the same length for a change, and my drink was on the counter with the ice cubes almost melted.

  “What kept you?” Apparently George had forgotten that we were fighting.

  “I'm going to tell you, but I hope that is at least your second drink.”

  “Fourth. Pro bono cases absorb alcohol. Tell me the worst.”

  I sampled the rum and Coke. It was on the watery side, but still cold. I accepted it as a peace offering. “I'm glad you put it that way, because the worst is exactly what I have to tell. Apparently, O'Malley left our office, went down to the Fort Street Mall, and beat up a couple of police officers.”

  “Good.” George finished his drink.
Cy had been watching, and had a fresh gin and tonic mixed. George sampled it and approved. “Then O'Malley is in jail, and we can forget about him?”

  “Not quite. He was bailed out by Pendergast.”

  “Pendergast?” George almost choked on his drink, but recovered. “You do mean the Pendergast?”

  “None other. Seems like I heard somewhere that his rate is five hundred dollars per hour. Do you suppose that Pendergast goes in for pro bono?”

  “No. I believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy, but I do not believe that Pendergast does pro bono.”

  “Well, I'm with you, although I have some doubts about the Tooth Fairy; so how do you suppose O'Malley paid the fee?”

  George was thinking. I could tell by his wrinkled brow, but he was also sipping steadily. “I don't think the question is how, I think the question is who. Maybe O'Malley really did kill someone, on a contract basis, and this is part of his payoff.”

  “Or, maybe he really didn't kill anyone, but someone doesn't want him talking to the police.” I finished the watered-down drink and Cy was right on cue.

  George was finally nodding. “Maybe, just maybe, we ought to get involved with this O'Malley character.” He finished his drink. His fifth? Anyhow, the tone of the evening was set. We were going to do very little thinking, quite a lot of drinking, and go home in taxicabs.

  Chapter Two

  In the morning, I called a cab and held my head on with my hands while he drove me back to Midas. They had given the Jag a grease job and an oil change. Fair enough; they were running a special, and thirty-five dollars is cheap parking by Honolulu standards. Their other option was to have it impounded, which would have cost me a hundred-fifty or more. I tooled down Beretania, left on Bishop, and into the underground garage. I got lucky. An elevator came when I pushed the button, and it whisked me up to our office on the thirty-sixth floor. Catch one of those elevators during a shift change, and the commute from the basement to the top can take longer than the commute from Scarsdale to Manhattan.