Lead-Pipe Cinch Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  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

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  plumbing tips

  No more loafing around . . .

  Sheriff Mitchell led Barry to the edge of the moat, and I trailed along behind. The firefighters moved aside, clearing our view of the muddy bottom.

  The beams of heavy-duty flashlights cut through the mist in the moat. The reflected light cast crazy shadows, throwing the scene at the bottom into chaos.

  My brain struggled to make a recognizable image from the jumble. The moat itself was a place I knew well, and I could sort out the steep sides and the temporary bridge.

  But the bottom didn’t look right. As I looked harder I saw three paramedics, the reflective tape on their brown jackets spelling out “Clackamas Fire.”

  The fog shifted and I got a brief clear look at the scene below.

  I don’t know what I expected to see. But I didn’t expect to see a pair of hand-stitched Italian loafers motionless at the bottom of the moat.

  Their owner lay partway under the temporary bridge, his upper body hidden by the piers and planks. But I knew those shoes . . .

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Christy Evans

  SINK TRAP

  LEAD-PIPE CINCH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Neither the publisher nor the author is engaged in rendering professional advice or services to the individual reader. The ideas, projects, and suggestions contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for consulting with a professional. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising from any information or suggestion in this book.

  LEAD-PIPE CINCH

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18639-8

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This one is for my mother,

  who is nothing like Sandra,

  and for Steve,

  whose love and support makes everything possible.

  acknowledgments

  The list is long, and my memory is short, but I want to thank everyone who helped make this book a reality:

  Colleen, friend and first reader;

  Denise and Michelle, fabulous editors;

  Kris and Dean, mentors and friends who are there to talk me off the ledge when necessary;

  Sheldon McArthur, the Yoda of crime fiction, and bookseller guru;

  Jim, the “day job” boss who actually “gets it”;

  Pat and Shane, who trusted me enough to let me practice on their new vanity;

  All my OWN buddies, for being a cheering section;

  Especially to Cindie, for the coolest wrench ever;

  And to Steve, my husband, best friend, and biggest fan. I hope you always feel that way.

  chapter 1

  “Let’s get a move on, Neverall,” Sean Jacobs, the crew foreman, said as he gestured toward the muddy bottom of the trench. “The inspector’s due in an hour.”

  Mud sucked at my boots as I slipped down the steep side of the troublesome McComb moat project, a shovel banging clumsily against my leg.

  With permit hearings, never-ending inspections, and construction snafus, this job was fast becoming a plumber’s nightmare.

  The drainpipe we buried last week had to be uncovered this week. As the apprentice, I got all the bottom-of-the-barrel jobs. Or in this case, bottom of the moat.

  We were supposed to be done before the rain started, but this year summer limited itself to a few weeks of clear skies and temperatures in the high nineties. Now it was only October, and the Great North-wet was already living up to its nickname.

  I bit back a curse as the mud squished beneath my weathered steel-toed boots. No swearing on the job. It was one of the rules my boss, Barry Hickey, insisted upon. Barry had a lot of rules.

  I reached the muck at the bottom of the six-foot-deep trench and checked the marker stakes. Buried beneath fourteen inches of dirt—now mud—was the pipe in question. It had to be uncovered and inspected—again—before the concrete lining could be poured.

  This close to the recently erected bridge piers, the power equipment was useless. With the piers in place there was no room for a power shovel to maneuver. All this job required was a strong back and a lot of stubborn.

  Sean and I had reached a truce of sorts. Although he still didn’t believe a girl belonged on any kind of
construction crew, after working together all summer I felt as though I was slowly earning his respect.

  It was a familiar scenario. Several years in the boy’s club of Silicon Valley high tech had taught me how to adapt. When I left behind the Union Square wardrobe and the hundred-hour workweeks, I had come away with some hard-earned lessons.

  Not to mention a flattened bank account, a bruised ego, and a broken heart—all courtesy of some of the slimier boys in the club.

  By comparison, the thick mud at the bottom of the moat felt clean.

  I shifted another shovelful of ooze, depositing it behind me. Water, dark with the rich soil, ran back down into the hole I’d created, obscuring the bottom.

  I moved along the width of the moat, carefully uncovering a narrow trench. We would have to pump it dry for the inspector, but at least the rain had stopped. With luck, we could get the approval we needed and re-bury the pipe before the skies opened up again. The concrete, fortunately, would be someone else’s problem.

  Building a moat sounds simple. It’s nothing more than a ditch, dug in a circle instead of a straight line. It was the stuff that went inside that circle that was the problem.

  Power lines, cables, water lines, drainpipes—all the modern conveniences had to be fed to the McComb’s castle—and had to run under the moat. It was one of the requirements of the permit. A local ordinance said underground utilities. That meant at least a foot of dirt over every pipe and cable, and we were sticking to the letter of the agreement.

  It was a complex puzzle, feeding the latest technology to a state-of-the-art castle at the farthest reach of the grid. Three years ago, I would have been on the design team. As owner of Samurai Security, it was precisely the type of challenge I had looked for.

  Instead I was up to my ankles in mud, dressed in stained coveralls and work boots. I was shoveling the muck, my hands protected by heavy leather gloves. I wore no jewelry, except a battered plastic wristwatch.

  I was happier than I’d been in years.

  Above me I heard a vehicle crunch to a stop on the gravel apron next to the bridge supports. I glanced at my watch with a sinking feeling. The inspector was half an hour early, and we were nowhere near ready.

  “Hello, Mr. McComb,” I heard Sean say, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Chad McComb, the eccentric millionaire who wanted a castle and was willing to pay for it, was a welcome visitor at the job site. A retired Microsoft engineer who’d been hired so early in Microsoft’s history that his employee number was rumored to be only two digits long, McComb treated the contractors and their crews well.

  “Chad please, Sean.” I could hear the smile in McComb’s voice. “How’s the work going?”

  Sean sighed. “Another blasted inspection. We’re getting ready to pump out the rainwater. Inspector should be here in a few minutes.”

  “Won’t keep you, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Mr.—Chad. I’ll do that.”

  Footsteps rattled the boards over my head as McComb and a second person crossed the temporary bridge to the building site.

  “Watch your step there, Blake,” McComb said.

  My heart did a little flip at the mention of his name, and I shook my head, disgusted with myself. There must be thousands of Blakes in the world, and Blake Weston was ancient history. So why, after three years, did I still react to the mention of his name? Just because I was thinking of the boy’s club didn’t mean a member of it was going to magically appear, like some evil sorcerer conjured out of my thoughts.

  But before I could lift another shovelful of mud, I heard a voice that took my breath away as though I had been punched in the solar plexus.

  Blake Weston’s smooth voice, a rich baritone that used to give me goose bumps, answered McComb. “Certainly.”

  My veins were suddenly full of ice water. How could I be so sure, with only a single word? Maybe I just thought it sounded like my Blake. It had been three years, after all—just a coincidence.

  Blake and McComb were looking at the building site in front of them, not at the muddy moat below, when I stepped away from the supports to look up.

  I just had to look.

  And I wished I hadn’t.

  The profile, the slick dark hair, the confident bearing, were all instantly familiar. It wasn’t the power of suggestion, or a sound-alike, or some evil magic. It was Blake Weston.

  I ducked back under the temporary bridge, forcing my attention back to the job at hand. With luck, I could stay in the moat, hidden from sight, until Blake and McComb left.

  I strained to listen to their conversation, but they had moved away from the bridge.

  “Ready for the pump?” Sean called down.

  I froze, waiting for him to call me “Neverall,” and reveal my presence to the last person on earth I wanted to see. But for once he didn’t.

  “Yep,” I called back, pitching my voice low, and hoping it wouldn’t carry.

  On the other hand, would Blake even recognize my voice? If he didn’t, I wasn’t sure whether I would be relieved or insulted. But the two men gave no indication they had heard our exchange.

  A few minutes later, their footsteps muffled by the rhythmic thumping of the pump, Blake and McComb passed back across the temporary bridge and walked through the gravel.

  Unable to resist, I clambered a few feet up the side of the moat, peeking over the rim of the trench. I had to confirm what I already knew.

  One glance was all it took.

  The first thing I saw from that vantage point was a pair of hand-stitched Italian loafers, now speckled with mud from their owner’s trek through the construction site.

  How appropriate. Blake Weston would never wear sneakers or work boots, even on a muddy construction site.

  I hoped it was the last I would see of those despised loafers.

  No such luck.

  chapter 2

  I don’t remember much of the rest of that morning. I know that we somehow got the moat pumped mostly dry, and the inspector came and went, shaking his head and muttering about crazy people. I hoped he meant the McCombs and their project, but it could have been me.

  I wasn’t at my best.

  Of course, having a ghost rise up out of your past and walk by without seeing you can seriously mess up your day. But once I got over the initial shock, I wanted to know what Blake Weston, San Francisco man-about-town, was doing in Pine Ridge, Oregon?

  And what was he doing dragging his expensive Italian loafers through the mud of a construction site? The man I knew, all too well, took a cab if the fog was thick and might leave condensation on his Burberry raincoat.

  By the time I got off work, I was past curious and bordering on obsessive. I pulled my thirty-year-old Beetle into the driveway of my rental house without any sense of actually having driven anywhere. My mind was too full of Blake, and what he was doing here.

  Daisy and Buddha, the Airedale parts of my family, met me at the door. They were anxious to visit the backyard, and I let them out before I stepped into the garage to strip out of my muddy coveralls.

  I grabbed a clean T-shirt and jeans from the folded laundry and dashed for the bathroom, leaving the dirty coveralls in a heap. I’d take care of them later, but first I really wanted to be clean and dry and warm.

  I stepped out of the shower and towel-dried my short hair. Low-maintenance wardrobe, low-maintenance hair, low-maintenance car. I was learning to love my whole low-maintenance life.

  It was a far cry from the always-on-call, dry-clean only, high-maintenance lifestyle I’d had in San Francisco, and I liked it a lot.

  I always thought better on my feet with a leash in my hand. As soon as Daisy and Buddha saw me take the leashes off the hook by the door, they were ready to go. Soon we were on our way into the dusky evening, the dogs sniffing at all kinds of interesting bushes and weeds and me deep in thought.

  We made our nightly two-mile circuit, Daisy straining against the leash in her usual impat
ient fashion, and Buddha walking serenely. Although the dogs were littermates with the same obedience training and home, their personalities mirrored their names. I swore I would never again name a dog after a flighty fictional heroine. Who knew what might happen if I named a dog Scarlett?

  But speculating about dog names wasn’t enough to distract me from the real problem. What was Blake Weston doing in Pine Ridge, and why was he at the McComb construction site today?

  I didn’t trust Blake. Not after the role he played in the destruction of Samurai Security. No one in Pine Ridge knew why I’d come back from San Francisco, and I intended to keep it that way. But Blake’s presence could make it difficult to keep my secret.

  I would have to steer clear of him as much as possible, and hope he would be gone soon. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all I could come up with for now. If I knew what he was up to I might be able to build a better program, but for now this would have to do.

  My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the lighted display, pleased to see the number of my best friend, Sue Gibbons.

  “Dinner?” Sue said without preamble when I answered. “Tiny’s?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” I panted. “I’m walking the dogs, and we’re still a few blocks from home. Meet you there?”

  I hurried the dogs home, gave them each one of their favorite green treats, and grabbed my purse.

  Tiny’s was about a five-minute drive. In a town the size of Pine Ridge, most everything was a five-minute drive from everything else. Another low-maintenance option.

  It was an option I was learning to enjoy, after the years of Bay Area traffic followed by several months of Portland gridlock. It meant I didn’t have the luxury of hundreds of shopping, dining, and entertainment options, but Portland was less than an hour away when I needed a “big city” fix.

  To my mind, it was the best of both worlds.