In Canyon of Shame, the second part of The Bungalow Heaven Mystery Series, detective Peter McGinnis has to solve the murder of a forty-year-old woman discovered in Eaten Canyon in the San Gabriel Valley, California. What at first appears like a routine investigation, turns into a career-and reputation salvaging operation for the detective, who is not only the main witness in a prominent Black Lives Matter case but who becomes more and more entwined with the case the more facts he uncovers.
Chapter One
It was early on a Sunday in September. The sky was as blue as hydrangeas. McGinnis, who kept his receding salt-and-pepper hair protected from the carcinogenic sunrays under a linen newsboy hat that matched his tweed blazer, steered his 1970s Ford Futura down the sleepy residential street of Michigan Avenue, heading toward Nell’s Cafe. He and Nell had decided to spend the night separate since she had to get up at the crack of dawn. Still, he at least wanted to stop by before heading off to the racetracks. They were both busy people, and he had learned in his fifty-seven years that one way of making a relationship work was by simply showing up, even if that was all you did.
He pulled his old Futura to the curb and parked. He stepped out slowly, hoping nobody would notice how he was pulling himself up by using the frame of the door. The 310 pounds above his belt made such transitions increasingly difficult for the six-foot tall homicide detective. Huffing and puffing, he closed the rusty door carefully, making sure he didn’t unhinge it. He walked to the café and pushed open the glass door.
Nell, who was behind the counter, looked up as soon as the door opened, and smiled. “Morning, Peter. How did your night go?” She dropped the dough she was kneading, came out from behind the counter, and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Not as good as it would have with you by my side,” he said.
As tough as he could be while working, he had a soft spot for ginger-haired Nell. He felt fortunate to have found her after all that he had been through with Lauren.
“What are you up to today?” Nell asked, running a hand through her untamed curls.
“Clocker’s Corner. See if I can get a good tip for the races. Might as well risk a little bit, seeing that my career will most likely be over on Wednesday,” McGinnis said sarcastically.
“Why?” Nell’s forehead wrinkled.
McGinnis led her behind the counter so he could speak more quietly. “They asked me to testify. You know, the Tyrone Bastille case.”
“You mean the one who is now paraplegic because your colleague broke his back in the Seven Eleven shop on Rosemead?”
“That one.”
“Why would your career be over? You’re doing the right thing!” Nell switched a button on the espresso machine and steamed some milk for a cappuccino. An angry frown replaced her usually bright expression.
“Just because I’m doing the right thing, it doesn’t mean I’ll still be working there next month. Chief Bartholdo ordered the video to be destroyed. The only reason I agreed to testify is because Michael is my buddy. Otherwise, I would never do something that could harm another colleague. Michael’s been with the Pasadena police for thirty-nine years. That’s two years more than I’ve been there. He was in the patrol car with Fred when they took the call. Michael has the whole thing on camera and refused the chief’s order to destroy it. That’s why he’s without a job now.”
Nell served the cappuccino to a customer across the counter. “Last I checked, we live in a country ruled by law and order. If you do the right thing and don’t break any laws, you will be fine,” she said, then began filling a medium cup with dark coffee. She searched for a lid.
“That only applies if you don’t work for a guy who has a history of violence himself. Everybody at the Pasadena police knows about the skeletons in Bartholdo’s closet.”
“No wonder he’s trying to protect the guy who broke a black man’s back!” Nell said, fiddling with the lid. She handed him the lid and the coffee. “Want some hot coffee? Take it before I spill it.”
McGinnis took the cup. “Thank you, dear. You read me like a crime novel, don’t you?”
She smiled. McGinnis put the coffee cup on the counter and carefully put the lid on.
Nell took another customer’s order, then said to McGinnis quietly, “That leave any time to see you in between?”
“How about tonight?” McGinnis asked before taking a sip of the hot coffee.
Nell smiled from cheek to cheek. “That a date?”
“A date it is,” McGinnis said, breaking into a smile that could cheer up a serial killer.
Nell almost sang as she addressed the next customer. McGinnis squeezed out from behind the counter and headed toward the door.
“By the way, nice outfit!” she yelled after him.
“See you later!” McGinnis turned around and left Nell’s Café.
*
McGinnis passed through the open gates of Santa Anita Park. He felt at home in the old-fashioned, green Art Deco building of the twenties. An epoch, he nostalgically reminisced.
It was only seven thirty. The races would not start until eleven. He headed past the still-open gates and went through an arcade where, historically, racehorses had been stalled. The iron stalls were currently filled with show horses. Except for a stable boy who made sure no one stole them, there was no one there. McGinnis headed swiftly past the stalls and around the corner, moving past a few tractors and heading toward the tracks. He stood still for a moment to take in the view. His wish to buy a racehorse with his retirement money became more entrenched each time he came here. He did not need a house. Lauren was dead, and Nell already owned one. A racehorse was what would do the trick.
A handful of horse trainers were practice racing their horses in front of the backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains. A few onlookers were scattered in the near-empty stands. Horse trainers and owners huddled together at the café and on the arena seats, analyzing the practice runs. McGinnis knew why he kept coming here.
“Morning, Detective. Working on any interesting cases?” Martin Seger, a co-owner of Snow, one of the star contenders in the stables, asked McGinnis after walking up beside him.
“None that I know of,” McGinnis said.
“Just watchin’, huh?” Martin asked. He was an old acquaintance of McGinnis’s. They’d spent time together during the detective’s many visits to the tracks.
“Yeah, maybe looking for which horses will do the best. You heard anything?”
“I’m keeping my eye on Behold. He is making amazing time in the practice races.”
“Behold, you say?”
“Yes, sir.” Seger nodded and walked away.
McGinnis grabbed a chair and sat down. He pulled a pen out of his pocket, opened the program, and made a big circle around the race Behold would be in. He could tell from the numbers that the horse was an outsider. McGinnis jotted down the word win beside the horse’s name.
In front of him, the trainers were working out their horses on the tracks. Places like these made the detective forget that there was any evil in the world.
Then his telephone rang. “Damn it!” he cursed out loud.
He pulled the phone out of his side pocket. A few heads turned in his direction as he checked the number. Of course, it was the lieutenant.
“Does this have to happen on a race day?” he said through his teeth, trying not to attract any more negative attention.
“Detective!” he spat into the cell phone after answering the call. He listened, then answered, “Yes, I am well aware, thank you.”
McGinnis stood up and shuffled away from the terrace in front of the tracks. He knew this was a conversation no one needed to hear.
“What? Eaton Canyon?”
“Yes,” confirmed the voice on the other end.
“Where, exactly? I don’t have to hike all the way up to the waterfall, do I?” Despite his size, he actually had nothing against hiking, so long as it wasn’t for work.
“No. It’s on the Eastside, right behind the Tennis Club at Kinneloa Mesa.”
“Oh, shutterbusters. Right in front of the parking lot,” said the detective. “It’s going to be crazy trying to hide the body from the view of the crowd. It’s a madhouse out there on Sundays.”
“I’ve put some screens up,” said the lieutenant.
“Great idea,” said the detective. “What am I dealing with? Can you tell me anything?”
“A blonde in her forties. Shot in the head. Looks like she was dumped here. But forensics still have to confirm that. We’d need your input on that, too.”
“All right. I’ll see you there in a little while,” McGinnis said, then hung up. He carefully shoved the race program and his pen into the pocket of his tweed jacket.
A dead woman in the canyon. Why would anybody put her where people would see her right away? Must have wanted them to, he thought as he headed back toward his car, almost forgetting about the lost day at the track. McGinnis had the uncommon ability of temporarily forgetting about his sorrows when he became absorbed in a case.
Chapter Two
McGinnis had just passed under the 210 freeway on South Baldwin when his engine gave out. It coughed, spat, continued on like that for two puffs or so, and then died two yards away from Foothill Boulevard. Luckily, McGinnis had the presence of mind to pull over to the side of the road.
“Goddamn it!” he cursed. Quit the cursing already, he then told himself. Even though he was not religious, he’d had the firm belief since childhood that bad things happened to people who cursed too frequently, especially on a Sunday.
The front of his car was hidden by black smoke. McGinnis held his breath and bent down in his seat so he could pull the latch that opened the hood. It was a tight fit for him between the steering wheel and the seat, but somehow he managed to get down far enough to get ahold of that latch. Then he sat back up, opened the door—which squeaked as if it were about to fall off—panted, and pulled himself up and out of the car. Gravity was stronger since he was parked uphill, and he hated it. He hated himself, too, for having given up on working out. He walked around to the front of the car, a handkerchief covering his nose, bent down, and opened the hood.
“Oh gosh—” He stopped himself before he could curse again.
A cloud of black smoke blew into his face. The engine hissed. McGinnis ducked away and stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I guess that’s the end of my Futura,” he said out loud.
He pulled his phone out of his breast pocket and dialed the Auto Club. “Get me a tow truck. Engine’s dead. I’ll need to be dropped off,” he said when an agent answered.
“The truck will be there within thirty minutes,” the agent said.
“That’s great. Thank you.”
“You will be contacted via text as soon as the truck is near,” the agent said. “And please stay on the line for a brief survey.”
Hell no! McGinnis thought. “Thank you. I’ll just wait for the truck,” he said, then quickly hung up the phone.
He nervously paced up and down the road. I should probably call the lieutenant, let him know that I’ve been held up. He dialed the number.
“Savalas?” he asked when the lieutenant picked up, just to make sure.
“Yes, that’s me,” the lieutenant said.
“I’m having a little issue with my car here. Looks like I have to have it towed. But I’m on my way.”
“Where are you?” Savalas asked. “Maybe I can pick you up.”
“I’m on Baldwin, just south of Sierra Madre. It should be really easy to find. There’s no one else standing on the side of the road with a smoking engine. But no worries. I’ll have the truck drop me off.”
“Oh God!” Savalas said.
“Don’t curse,” McGinnis said. “I’ve already done enough of that today. It’s bad luck.”
“Sure, but I’ll come and pick you up. We really need you at the scene.”
McGinnis slid his phone back into the side pocket of his blazer, which, by some miracle, he kept wearing. The whole episode with the car had made him sweat rather intensely, and he now used his handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead.
“Well, whaddya know,” said the detective, impressed.
It had not even been ten minutes, and there came his truck. The truck pulled up in front of his dead car. The driver, a middle-aged guy who looked like he could handle anything hands-on, stepped out.
“You the guy who needs a tow?” the man shouted while simultaneously folding down the ramps.
“How did you guess that?” McGinnis said, then showed the man his membership card.
The tow truck driver took down his membership number. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s do this!”
Before McGinnis knew it, the driver was hauling the Futura on the ramps.
“Where to?” the driver asked when he was finished.
“Drop me off at the canyon. I’ll walk from there.”
“Eaton Canyon?”
The detective nodded.
“Sure. No problem. But what about the car? I restore old cars, you know.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. I’ve done about a dozen. Got a website and all. I’ll fix it for you at a special price. Never know when you need the help of a cop.”
“How did you know I’m a cop?” McGinnis asked, surprised.
“Are you kidding me? I live in Pasadena. Everybody knows it’s the homicide guy when your car pulls up at a crime scene.”
“What? How do you know about our crime scenes? I’ve never seen you before, at least not that I can remember.”
They got into the truck, and the truck driver started it and began heading uphill.
“I’m a PI,” the truck driver said, handing him a card.
McGinnis took it and studied the cheap logo, which showed a gun barrel and a blood splash.
“You’re not supposed to notice me,” the driver added. “I’m Zeke.” He extended his right hand while he steered with the left.
“McGinnis. Peter McGinnis,” the detective said as he stuffed the card into the pocket of his blazer. Never know when you need an undercover guy, he thought, shaking the man’s hand. “But then again, you probably already know that.”
“Of course I know. Detective Peter McGinnis, homicide division, city of Pasadena. I’m a big fan of yours.” Zeke cleared his throat quickly.
A fan? McGinnis thought, baffled.
“So you want me to take a look at this car of yours and make you an offer for restoration, or what?”
McGinnis snickered. “What? You’re a tow truck driver, a private investigator, and a mechanic all in one?”
“Exactly, man. I mean, Detective. You never know where the money comes from, if you know what I mean,” Zeke explained. “I’m still just learning the PI business. I check out crime scenes when I hear something. More of a hobby of mine. My specialties are marriage betrayal and old cars.”
McGinnis chuckled louder than the tow truck’s engine. “Well, my marriage already went down the drain several years ago, so I don’t have anything for you in that area.”
“But maybe I can help you save your car,” Zeke insisted.
“All right. I’ll let you take a look. The way things are going, it’s only going to land at the next junkyard, anyway.”
“Great, man. Oh, sorry. Detective, I mean. I’ll fix it up so beautifully that you’ll wonder why you didn’t ask me sooner.”
What’s the big deal, McGinnis thought. If this guy tries to steal my car, he’s only gonna save me the trouble of donating it to the next charity foundation. “Okay, pal,” he said. “I’ll let you have it. Just don’t try to pull any numbers with my plates and stuff, or else I’ll have you locked up in no time.”
“Don’t worry, man. I’m a good guy,” Zeke assured him.
*
Savalas, who had mistakenly been looking for the detective on the north end of Baldwin Avenue, had finally made it to South Baldwin. While passing by on the other side of the street, he’d seen McGinnis and the truck driver get in the truck. He’d honked his horn, but the detective hadn’t heard him. He couldn’t make a U-turn because there was a traffic island. Damn it! he had thought. I’m going to have to head to the next intersection. He’d accelerated and made an illegal U-turn before taking the freeway entrance.
Now, on South Baldwin, the truck stopped at a red light, waiting to turn left. Savalas smoothly pulled up next to the truck in the right lane, rolled down the window, and looked up. McGinnis looked down at him from the passenger seat in the truck.
“Everything all right, Detective?” Savalas grinned.
“Everything’s just going great,” the detective said. “I got a great man helping me out here.” He pointed at the driver.
“So you don’t need a ride, then?” the lieutenant asked.
“Nah, just wait for me at the site.”
“Sure,” Savalas said.
The traffic light changed. Savalas waited for the truck to turn left, followed, overtook it, and then sped off on Foothill Boulevard. Strange dude, that detective, he thought as he looked into the rearview mirror.
He had mixed feelings about McGinnis, who was technically his underling. He felt a little uncomfortable giving orders to someone who was seventeen years his senior and who had many more years of experience in crime investigation than he did. That was probably why he wound up doing all the paperwork, which McGinnis chronically neglected. Savalas felt that somebody had to do it and that it was more important for the detective to keep his mind free of such trivial things so that he could focus on the cases. The detective just seemed to have some investigative instincts that Savalas was still lacking. Because of that, he let McGinnis take the lead on many cases. Meanwhile, Savalas oversaw everything and made sure all proceedings were properly recorded, often without the detective’s knowledge.
What amazed him, too, was the detective’s private life. If it wasn’t enough that his wife had cheated on him and divorced him, she then had to die in a car accident caused by her drunk lover. What puzzled Savalas was that McGinnis had never said a bad word about his deceased ex-wife. On the contrary, he had the feeling that if she had survived the accident, the detective would have taken her back with open arms. It was only after the whole episode was finally over, and after the boyfriend had been arrested for involuntary manslaughter, that McGinnis had begun to let go of her and start dating other women. And now, even when he seemed to be in a permanent relationship with the owner of the café, he still visited Lauren’s grave regularly. Savalas believed that the detective’s level of commitment was visible in his relationships, and he could not help looking at the detective with admiration. Because of that admiration, he was more willing to make exceptions when the detective broke protocol, which normally wouldn’t be permitted.
Savalas was pondering over such things as he headed along the mountains on New York Drive. Suddenly, he heard a horn honk behind his vehicle. He looked into the rearview mirror. It was the tow truck. McGinnis was waving at him from the passenger side. Astonishingly, they had somehow managed to catch up with him and were about to overtake him.
Oh my God, Savalas thought, the detective is going to get there before me! I should maybe quit the daydreaming and focus on the road. He accelerated. He did not want to embarrass himself by arriving after the detective.
When the truck pulled up at the stoplight on Eaton Canyon Drive, McGinnis carefully climbed out of the passenger seat, clumsily holding on to the door. Once he was on solid ground, McGinnis quickly waved at the driver with his hat, then marched down the sandy roadside toward the lieutenant.
Savalas rolled down the window. “Ready for your ride now?”
McGinnis, who had the choice of either being comfortable or sweating a little bit more, got into the car.