Code Matters Read online

  Code Matters

  By Dave Balcom

  Copyright 2016

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go on line and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters and events in this book are fictional. Real places are mixed with fictitious places.

  DEDICATION

  To Susie and other gypsies who know that you have to sell a lot of houses to keep from living in just one for the rest of your life.

  Prologue

  Angela Rasmussen liked the look of the first man through the door of the house on Glenwood Avenue. Angela had been in the Fargo real estate game long enough to separate the “Looky-Lous” from the bona fide customers, and this gentleman, from his head of snow-white hair to the gleam of his black wing tips; the razor-sharp creases and tasteful jewelry, looked for all the world the “real deal” to her eye.

  “Welcome!” She greeted him with hand outstretched. He took her hand gently, but rather than just a formal shake, he brought his other hand forward, and carefully cradled her hand as if it were a bird that might take flight.

  “Good mornin’,” he said with just a hint of a southern drawl. “Thank you for your warm greeting.” She saw his eyes dancing behind his dazzling smile, and knew she was in the company of a gentleman.

  He freed her hand and began looking toward the living room that he could see from the expansive foyer. Angela handed him the sheet of particulars with her business card stapled in the corner.

  “May I ask your name?” She asked, returning his smile.

  “Charley Dade, ma’am, but most folks just call me C.D.”

  “Well, C.D., what brings you out here on this fine spring morning?”

  “I’m new to the area; just moved in from Tulsa, Oklahoma. My bride’s back there sewing up the loose ends while I’m at this end, lookin’ to, you know, start the frayin’ all over again.”

  He said all this with a certain amount of joy touched with diffident pride as he stepped around her to better see the living room.

  “Well, let me walk you through the place before it becomes too crowded. That sheet gives you all the particulars, but as you know it’s a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch with a fully finished, walk-out basement with a half-bath and wet bar.”

  She found C.D. to be an intent listener and a thoughtful questioner. As they stood on the broad patio that welcomed them to the meticulously-maintained backyard just outside the walk-out basement, he seemed lost in thought until he murmured, “So, Ms. Rasmussen.”

  “Call me Angela, please.”

  He nodded and continued, “So, Angela, why are the current owners selling this beautiful home?”

  “Mrs. Anderson is selling; Dr. Anderson died, and she cannot bear living with all of her memories so near at hand.” Her pity for the widow Anderson was evident in her voice. She had spent years in drama classes before she finally gave up her dreams of stage and screen in exchange for the six-figure income one could earn emoting to real estate clients.

  “Ahh, I can easily understand that. My gal will be here next week. I’ll certainly have this home on the short list for her to see.”

  “I’ll await your call. Oh, that’s the front door bell.”

  “Certainly, go back to your work. I’ll find my way back to my car from here.”

  “Very well. And, again, welcome to Fargo.”

  She watched him walk away, feeling very certain that they’d be doing business in the future. Then she turned and hurried to the stairs and her next conquest.

  Charley found Chloe in the rental down the street around the corner. She was still sitting behind the wheel, doing something with her nails. As he opened the passenger door, she pushed her tools into her purse and started the car, “Any good?”

  “Perfect. Dead doctor’s widow is selling to flee all the memories of the place.”

  “And it’s memorable?”

  “There’s a decent Picasso in the living room; there’s silver everywhere, and jade was apparently his favorite present to her. The jewelry box is full of the stuff, and there are four significant pieces in the master bedroom.”

  “What do you figure?”

  “If we can take our time we could probably settle for a hundred, but at our usual pace it’ll still bring in sixty or so.”

  She sent him a wicked smile, “As long as we make out, Sundance.”

  They rode in silence a few blocks.

  “When?” She finally asked.

  “Tonight. Widow’s in Minneapolis with her daughter. There’s an alarm system sticker on the door, but none of the windows is wired, and the smoke detectors are just that. I didn’t see any control panel for arming or disarming a system, so I’m pretty sure there is only a sticker on the window.”

  “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “Twenty minutes. I’ll go in alone and you can drive up as I’m ready to go. There’ll be too much weight for me to carry it very far. Have the trunk ajar, back up to the garage and the transfer will take less than 30 seconds.”

  “I love you, Charley.”

  “I know; a piece of luck for me.”

  They had a motel room on the edge of town. After eating a quiet dinner at a truck stop on I-94, they were in bed before eight. At 2 a.m. Charley, dressed in jeans, black running shoes, and a navy hooded sweatshirt, was at the widow’s basement door. Twenty seconds later he had overwhelmed the deadbolt and the door lock.

  Inside, working with the aid of a headlamp that had been taped to allow only a minimum spot of light, he managed to find his way to the stairs, and headed directly to the master bedroom where he found the jewelry and jade for the plucking.

  From the living room he took the painting off the wall, removed it from its frame and spooled it into a tube built to hold paper towels. He applied duct tape at each end to suit his purposes.

  Next he raided the dining room china cabinet of its three boxes of what he estimated to be top of the line silverware – formal service for 12 in each box – and added them to a shoulder bag similar to the bags traditionally used by newspaper carriers. The other bag held all the jewelry and jade. Then back downstairs, he raided the doctor’s wine cellar. He added six exquisite bottles of a 1964 Bordeaux that, if he’d ever dream of selling, would fetch ten thousand dollars. He carefully wrapped each bottle in bubble wrap before adding them to the bag with the tube containing the Picasso and the precious gems.

  At exactly 2:20, as Charley came around the corner of the attached garage, Chloe backed their rental into the driveway.

  Charley opened the trunk, placed the bags inside, and closed it up with barely a snick of the lock. He opened the passenger door and noted that Chloe had remembered to tape up all the courtesy lights. She engaged the transmission and quietly pulled out onto the street.

  There were no lights on in the neighboring homes as Chloe turned the corner, and at the same time switched on the car’s lights. She drove slowly away into the night.

  They dropped the rental at the airport, and rode the shuttle to long-term parking where they recovered their Suburban. They had checked out oof the motel before going to bed.

  As the spring night swallowed them, Charley went through the ritual of talking over the events of the last three days.

  “Anything we forgot?”

  Chloe let her eyes dart to him for a second, then focused on the barren highway. She had the big engine locked in at
70 miles an hour, but she was ever vigilant for critters or other unexpected issues that could bring their little enterprise to a screeching, embarrassing halt.

  “We never took our gloves off in the motel room; I wiped down the car while I was waiting for you. Did you collect everything you told me about?”

  “Oh, yes, and a little surprise too.”

  “You know I hate surprises.”

  “You’ll love these beauties.”

  “Did you find something for yourself, too?”

  “The doctor had a marvelous palate.”

  She smiled as North Dakota whizzed past her peripheral vision. “How so?”

  “Six bottles of fine old red wine from Bordeaux; a Cabernet Franc and Merlot blend.”

  “And?”

  “A Talisker single malt I found ceremoniously placed on the wet bar as I was exiting the basement.”

  “Which is the bigger find?”

  “The Chateau La Fleur goes for about $2,500 a bottle; the Scotch for about $150 a throw.”

  “Costly sips, indeed.” She then let her chuckle free and the throaty sound of her mirth caused a stir in him, just as it always had.

  “Let’s find a quiet place for weary travelers up ahead,” he suggested in response to the stir.

  “You can hold on for Great Falls, just as we planned,” she chided him, and then went sober, “Remember, we always follow the plan to the nth degree. They’re your rules, and they’ve kept us out of hot water for the past three years. I see no reason to deviate now. We’re not quitting this anytime soon; are we?”

  “No, the thrill of this has not diminished in the slightest,” he said half aloud, and with that he reclined his seat, shut his eyes, and fell into a fast, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 1

  “Is this the Jim Stanton who used to be a journalist?”

  I could hear the whiskey in that voice, and it triggered a memory, but I couldn’t put a name with it.

  “Some would say that.”

  “Jim, this is Chloe Middleton.”

  I sat back as if I’d been slapped, but I gathered myself in an instant, “How about that! It’s been a long time, Chloe. How are you guys?”

  It was her turn to pause, and then after a few seconds, “It’s not us at the moment, Jim. It’s just me; just Chloe.”

  “Oh, no; what happened?”

  “That’s just it; I don’t know, but I’m hoping you’ll help me find out.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Seattle.”

  “That where you live?”

  “Currently. We’ve lived just about everywhere in the past fifteen years, and we’ve never really lived anywhere.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not. Nobody would, but I remember so many times when Charley would tell me that if anything ever went completely crosswise I could always call on you for help. So,” and she stopped just short of sobbing, “everything’s pretty crosswise right now, and here I am.”

  I tried asking more questions, but it was soon clear that Chloe wasn’t tracking all that well. I finally caged an address out of her. I checked my phone and could see that it had trapped her number.

  “I’ll be there later today. I’ve have to tie up a few things here, and then I’ll head that way. Can you hold on ’til I drive up there?”

  “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  She had hung up. I sat there awash in memories for a few minutes, then bounced out of my chair and went looking for my wife.

  Jan Coldwell Stanton had been my wife for just over two years. I’d met her six years after my first wife, Sandy, died. I’d been in Michigan paying tribute to my memories of a childhood friend when I met Jan; she was then the owner-operator of a weekly newspaper in Mineral Valley, where my friend had died.

  Two years after that we’d been married right here in my house in the foothills of the Blue Mountains overlooking Oregon’s Columbia River basin.

  When I found her that September Wednesday morning she was transplanting herbs from her garden into a window box in the kitchen.

  She’s a tall woman, five-feet, ten-inches, and the years had been kind to her. I’m six-foot-five; shaggy and gnarled.

  “You look agitated, Mr. Stanton,” she said without looking up from her task.

  “Charley Delp is missing, and I have to go help find him.

  “Who is Charley Delp?”

  “I’m sorry; of course you don’t know Charley. He and Chloe were friends of mine – and Sandy’s – when we lived in Upstate New York.”

  “Lake City?”

  “Yeah. Charley was an ad manager for a competitor, but we hit it off. He loved to hunt and fish as much as I did. He was an avid waterfowl hunter, and boy, was he a good shot.” I let my voice trail off, thinking about those days and how much I had lost track of over the years.

  “So you have to?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Chloe called; said Charley had always told her if she needed help she should call me. Now she doesn’t know where he is – she’s all alone – and she called me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Seattle.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “I was thinking you might want to go along.”

  “How long will we be gone?”

  I just shook my head.

  She stood up and washed her hands in the sink, and after she dried them she put her arms around me.

  I looked down and she raised her lips to mine, then slid her face next to my ear. “You start packing; I’ll call the Nelsons and see if Judy can stay there for a few days,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t be gone longer than a few days, should we?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, let’s be movin’.”

  The neighbors down the road were more than ready to look after the wire-haired pointer, Judy. Often they acted as if we shared a joint-custody arrangement. We were on the road just two hours after Chloe’s call.

  Chapter 2

  It took a little more than four hours to reach the outskirts of Seattle, and I used that pleasant autumn drive to bring Jan up to speed on what I knew of Charley Delp and Chloe Middleton.

  “Charley must be 63 years old. When I met him he was about 6-feet tall; 200 pounds or so; looked a little soft but not obese. He was a good athlete, too, but mostly he was full of Irish good nature.

  “Like I said, we met when we both worked for competing newspapers in Upstate New York. Neither of us was native to the Finger Lakes region, and we became good friends because we shared a love for the outdoors.”

  “Where did he come from?” Jan asked.

  “Charley was always vague about his childhood and early years. His family was from the City, but he never talked much about them. He met Chloe at Dartmouth College. She was a senior, planning on graduating with a degree in psychology. He was a sophomore, majoring in draft dodging. Then, in the dead of winter as only New Hampshire knows it, Charley found that he was unfit for military service because of an almost total inability to hear high-pitched frequencies.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “The way Chloe tells it is the only version I know. It goes like this:

  “Charley had crashed this hoity-toity party in a private room at the Hanover Inn – very posh and all – and everyone at the party knew instantly that he didn’t belong there; everybody but Charley that is. Anyway, Hendrix playing the National Anthem breaks out on the sound system, and everybody stops talking and listens in awe. Everybody but Charley, that is. He takes a look around and asks out loud, ‘What’s the matter with all of you?’

  “A couple of people tried to shush him, Chloe always gets animated and laughing when she tells this part. Some of them actually hissed. Chloe admits she actually put her finger to her lips and scowled at him, but he didn’t seem to understand. He started to say something and she spat at him, ‘Shut up, you ass; it’s Jimi Hendrix!’

  “She said he smirked an
d carried on, ‘I’ve never heard what you all think is so great about that guy; most of the time, I think he’s playing a one-string guitar, and backwards at that.’

  “She said everybody ignored him for the rest of the song, but then one of the guys at the party turned to Charley and said, ‘If you can’t dig Hendrix, you don’t belong here at all,’ while pointing at the door, but then another guy, she recalled him as Robby somebody – he was pre-med, and was already talking about being an ENT specialist – he stepped between them. Chloe has two special voices for these guys, ‘It’s Charley, right?’ Robbie asked. Charley nodded, and Robbie started nodding. The other guy reached out to grab Charley’s arm, as if to escort him out of there, but Robbie knocked his hand away. ‘Our friend here didn’t say he didn’t like Hendrix, he said he couldn’t hear him the way we do. I think that’s probably true.’

  “He turned back to Charley, ‘Ever hear a train whistle while walking to class?’ Charley thought for a second, ‘Hear trains all the time, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard ’em whistle.’ ‘Ever hear the ambulance come on campus?’ Charley shook his head, looking around, and she said she could see him smiling in that smirky, embarrassed way he always had, then he says, ‘No; never.’

  “Robbie turned to the rest of them with a big smile, ‘Folks, I could be wrong, but I believe what you see here is a very, very fortunate man who will never serve one minute with Uncle Sam’s conscripted minions.’

  “She said they were all surprised, but he continued talking while shaking Charley’s hand, ‘Congrats, pal; I suggest you take yourself to the campus infirmary first thing Monday and ask to have your hearing tested. I think you are insensitive to high-frequency noise, and that’s a guaranteed pass to a life without military service!’”

  “Really?” Jan asked.

  “That’s the way she told it. I heard the story several times with Charley in the room, and he never complained or cried foul.”

  “What a story. Were they a fun couple?”

  “Yes, but I never understood how he operated the way he did. It seemed to me that everything came too easy for him. He seemed to become bored with success, almost disdainful, and then he was ready to move on to something new.