Drago #2a

Art LLC Spinella

Description

Second in the Drago Mystery Series.

A man literally in a tree puts Nick
on the trail of a hundred-year-old mystery that reaches into the present and brings bedlam to Bandon.

Nick Drago never was a cop.
Never a private detective. Didn't spy on the country's enemies or graduate law school.

Drago has been a logger, bouncer and DJ. Woodworker, welder and pilot.

The Oregon coastal town of Bandon is home. A quiet place surviving on tourism and first class golf courses.

And puzzles.

Nick Drago loves puzzles.

Sujets

• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456602086
• Langue: English

Extrait

Drago #2 A
 
 
by
Art Spinella
 
 
Copyright 2011 Art Spinella,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0208-6
 
 
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Art Spinella. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, companies or locales is entirely coincidental even though some Oregon locations are real. For a closer look at Bandon, go to www.Bandon.com
 
 
Cover design: D. T. Spillane
Audio book version in 2011 by Pasta Studios
 
 


The early reviews…
 
Drago #1, says Western World newspaper, "...is a 3D jigsaw puzzle of clues..."
 
and readers should "Grab your kevlar and fasten your seatbelts... for a breakneck tour of Coos County."
 
Kindle reviews:
 
"Couldn't put it down."
 
“Great read! My wife brought it home for me as a gift. Started reading and quickly got to the point I couldn't put it down. Great characters and engaging story. Can't wait for the next book to come out!”
Email review, "Darn you, Drago. You made me late for work!"
 
 
Let us know what you think. Email [e-mail]
To have your copy of Drago autographed, mail it to
PO Box 744, Bandon, Oregon 97411
Please include your return address.
 


DEDICATION
Stephen J. Cannell
Donald P. Bellisario
David Kimes
and, of course, Cookie
 
A very special thanks to:
Tracy, Chloe, Dakota, Ethan, Nina and John Aaron
Linda and Dick Bentley
Ted Dieterich
George and Ginger Dukovich
Nancy Galbraith
Dr. Jonathan Park
Ray and Dudi Wittwer
 
PROLOGUE
Who did it and why? The core to every mystery novel. But sometimes the author forgets that his or her readers aren’t just recipients of the story, but many want to be part of it.
For years I read the likes of Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes. And for years I tried to reach the solution before the last page was turned.
The Internet has changed much of this. For example, in Drago #2a it is possible to search for information that may lead to at least some of the solutions – or the foundations for the various mysteries. That’s cool.
So, to make Drago #2a even more interactive with you, dear reader, there is contained in this novel a clue that allows access to a secret page on the www.cnwmr.com/DRAGO website. That page contains added content including links to portions of the mystery, additional details on both Nick and Sal, photos of their hometown of Bandon, Oregon and other “stuff” some of which I won’t reveal here.
Clues to finding the clue: The User ID will be a single word six-letter entry. The Password is five letters.
Happy hunting.
Additionally, for the tech savvy reader there is a QR code that will reveal locations for added information that can make the Drago experience even more fulfilling.
And on a final note, you’ll notice this is Drago #2a . There’s a reason you’ll understand at the conclusion of this novel. Drago #2b may be awhile and will undoubtedly come after Drago #3 . But never fear. Nick won’t let you down. --Art Spinella
 
 
CHAPTER ONE
The cellphone buzzed in my shirt pocket.
Flipping it open, “Drago.”
“Nick. Chief Forte. Got a sec?”
“What’s up?”
“Need your help. I’ve got a man in a tree.”
“Call the fire department.”
“A logger would be better. I mean, IN the tree, not attached to it.”
I checked the calendar on the phone display. It didn’t surprise me that it was Monday. These kinds of calls always come on Monday.
“As in encased in a tree?” I asked.
“Come see for yourself, Nick. We’re at Bandon Dunes, new course. Can’t miss the crowd. And, uh, bring Sal.”
“You want me to bring Sal because you think Tatiana will come along. You’re a letch.”
“I’m the Chief of police in a small town. Allow me my foibles.”
I disconnected and hit the speed dial. Sal answered on the second ring and I repeated the man-in-the-tree line. He had the same reaction.
“I’ll be there in five,” he said. “Should I bring an axe?”
“No, Forte wants you to bring Tatiana.”
“Letch.”
Neither Tatiana nor Cookie cared to go along, electing instead to take Sal’s Prius to Coos Bay for some shopping.
Sal settled his 300 pounds into the passenger seat of the Crown Vic, pulled open the cup holder and dropped his ever-present ceramic and stainless-steel travel mug into the slot.
“Where are the donuts?”
“Didn’t have time to get them,” I answered. “We’ll make a stop afterwards.”
Sal harrumphed. Ever since hooking up with the Russian special ops agent Tatiana Malakova, Sal had been put on a donut restricted diet. He complained loudly about it, but most of it was bluster and bluff.
The ride to Bandon Dunes took barely 10 minutes under a perfectly cloudless blue sky. The blacktop two-lane shoulders its way through a forest of shore pine and Douglas fir along with the South Oregon Coast’s requisite brambles of blackberry bushes, ferns and huckleberry shrubs. Not to mention the bane of the area, gorse, a spikey, oily plant that refuses to die even when blasted with the harshest of defoliants and weed killers but will turn acres into a blazing inferno at the drop of a paper match.
The golf resort’s guard shack – a small glass building – was more for show than security and, as usual, was unmanned. We slid past the guest cottages nestled in the woods and made the swing toward the newest of the Dune’s courses, yet unnamed but sure to join the others which had been ranked among the top 10 in the country by a variety of golfing magazines and professionals.
The crowd of cop cars and an assortment of pickups were scattered like jacks along both sides of the road. Being August, nearly three months of dry weather meant most were washed and waxed, the colors looking like someone dumped a handful of Skittles on a green placemat.
Uniformed cops and plaid-shirted onlookers stood around a felled tree. As Sal and I approached, Chief Forte broke away. After 26 years on LAPD, he took the Chief’s job in Bandon. Sandy hair going gray and a medium build, Forte is fit, tough and thick necked. He looks like a cop.
“Gentlemen, this is as odd as it gets.”
We followed him across a strip of fairway-to-be to the center of the onlookers. Most of the faces I recognized, some grunted greetings, others simply nodded.
As we walked, Forte explained, “The course designer wanted a bit more rough along the east edge of hole 12 so that meant removing about a dozen trees.” He nodded toward the far side of the fairway. “He called in a tree service and they started removing some of a stand when one of the guys found this.”
A large Madrone lay on its side, the remaining stump roughly three feet high. In the middle of the stump were skeletal remains of what looked like foot bones, pale white and lacking any apparent flesh or remnants of clothing. Chainsaw marks sliced across the bones a few inches above the ankles.
In the tree now prone, what appeared to be the stub ends of two shinbones.
“That’s a guy in a tree alright,” I said to Forte who was standing quietly nearby, hands on his hips. “Any guess how old the tree is?”
“The arborist is on his way.”
“Jeffries?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man.” I walked the length of the fallen Madrone. From the cut to roughly seven feet up, the tree had an unusual bulge then returned to a narrower trunk.
“Odd growth pattern,” I said to Sal.
He nodded, “As if the tree grew around the body. Looks like an elongated onion, sort of.” To Forte, “Are you sure it’s really bone and not some sort of practical joke?”
“One way to find out,” he said, waving over one of the plaid shirted men standing nearby lugging a chainsaw. “Want to cut off a three foot chunk for me, Jacob?”
“ No problemo ,” he said nodding a greeting in my direction and hoisting the chainsaw in his right hand, giving a tug on the starter rope with his left. The raucous burrr of the two-stroke engine hit high C and Jacob tipped the chain into the Madrone. 20 seconds later, a three foot section lay on the ground. Two deputies lifted it on end. Jacob hit the kill switch on his chainsaw.
The men crowded around Sal, Forte and me to get a clear look at the section of trunk.
“Looks like a rib cage to me,” Forte said, leaning over the log. Using a pencil as a pointer, “Rib, spine. Whoever it was, he was standing upright when he was, uh, treed.”
A reporter from Western World newspaper who had been hovering around the perimeter of the group stepped close to the tree and snapped three quick photos.
Forte pointed at him and ordered “Enough, Karl.”
“This is too good to pass up, Chief.”
“Until we figure out who this is and notify any kin, let’s keep those pictures locked up.”
The reporter grinned. “Not gonna happen, Chief. Let’s face it, this guy’s been dead a long time if that tree grew up around him. Have a statement for me?”
“Yeah. The Bandon Police Department has enlisted the services of Nick Drago and Sal Rand to assist in determining…”
“You did?” I interrupted.
“Does ‘enlist’ entail payment?” Sal asked.
“Question 1, yes. Question 2, no,” Forte continued, “…in determining the identity of the victim and how he or she became encased in a Madrone.”
“Good enough for now,” Karl said.
A dually Ford pickup nosed down the road its diesel rattling as it pulled onto the grass, Warren Jeffries Tree Service painted on the doors. A tall thin man climbed from the cab and ambled toward us, head down, hands in pockets.
“Hey Chief,” he said, finally looking up. “Nick, Sal. Howyadoin. Whatchagotgoin?” He looked at the Madrone. “Too bad you cut it down. Don’t see many 100-plus year old Madrones around here.”
“That old?” I asked.
“Easy. Grows fast, needs perfect climate and weather and drainage to stay alive.”
He walked along the length of the tree.
“Probably wouldn’t have lasted ano