No Excuse, No Denial

CHAPTER ONE

8:00 P.M., Saturday, July 18, 2054

Prisons. I hate prisons.

I decided to start hating this one right away and get it over with.

Although it was only eight o’clock on a postcard-perfect mid-July evening in southwest Idaho, I wasn’t surprised that I was alone in the parking lot. The sign at the main gate glared WELCOME TO ASTORIA PRISON.

Welcome. Yeah, right.

Astoria Prison, home of self-serve Death Row. Privately owned and operated, Astoria Prison was VORTECHS Corporation’s newest and finest. Escape-proof, they claimed; to date, they were right.

Below the cordial greeting was a bright red digital readout: POPULATION 309.

Just as I parked near the front entrance to the guardhouse, the lights dimmed and flickered for a few seconds. I glanced back at the sign: POPULATION 308.

I hate prisons.

After stepping out of my orange-and-white Chevy pickup, I shook my head. Up close that poor old truck looked like a rusty creamsicle. As I kicked the door a second time to get it closed, I swore that we’d both get a major overhaul real soon; we’d both been getting stuck in first gear a lot lately. Fortunately, first gear was all I needed to get me where I was going for the next hour or so.

While I waited in the narrow hallway beyond the front door of the guardhouse, metal detectors and biological scanners probed me with invisible fingers. A voice from above announced: Place all weapons in the compartment to your right.

I turned to my right. A large drawer opened in the wall. I pulled out Old Reliable—my Colt .45—ensured its safety was on, then set it gently in the drawer. Two magazines, a switchblade, and a belt buckle knife followed. I reached down to my ankle holster and released the double-barreled derringer. When I dropped it in, the drawer closed. The door in front of me opened automatically.

A black-uniformed guard waited behind the counter. Three blue chevrons adorned each sleeve. As though genetically engineered for the job, the sergeant was so big that he made everything in the room seem small. Bristly blond hair stood straight out above his wooden face. Just my luck: a human scrub brush. Over his right breast pocket a nameplate read ANDERSON. A wannabe Viking, no doubt. He pursed his lips like I was a foul odor in a cramped compartment.

I decided not to say much to him.

Name? he asked, his deep baritone voice reverberating around the guardhouse office.

I gave him my business card.

The scrub brush Viking said, Nick Trevor, private investigator. Again he gave me that look.

I couldn’t resist. I said, Congratulations, you got it right the first time.

Shaking his head, he tossed the card in my face and held out his hand. Let’s see some I.D.

After surrendering my I.D. card, I glanced around the room. We were alone but I counted four separate video cameras watching my every move. There were probably more.

Anderson slid my I.D. into a slot in the counter and pointed to a reti-nal-DNA scanner. Place your forehead here.

I complied.

The scanner flashed briefly, pinpointing and cross-referencing strands of DNA from the deepest recesses of my eyes—from my soul. Though painless, the procedure was incredibly unnerving. Just knowing that someone like Sergeant Anderson could tap into and map my DNA—well, let’s just say that it was only marginally less embarrassingly revealing than talking to a psychiatrist.

I should know.

A green light flashed and my I.D. popped out. I hoped that was a good sign. At least I could still see. I’ve never trusted modern technology—well, mostly.

After consulting his computer monitor, Sergeant Anderson handed me the I.D. State your business, Mr. Trevor.

That was a tough one to define. My business was actually someone else’s business, which, as far as I could tell, wasn’t any of his business. So where did that leave me? Just doing my job: I’d been hired by a good friend of mine to look into a murder case. Unfortunately, the case was officially closed. The man I was here to see had already been tried and convicted of first-degree murder. He had been sentenced to death…at the earliest possible convenience of the prison. At Astoria Prison that meant one week. Period. End of discussion. My guy had been sitting on Death Row for four days. I glanced at my watch. I had less than seventy-two hours to clear him. Period. EOD.

I’m here to see Raymond DuPree, I replied.

Sergeant Anderson finally blinked. DuPree is on Death Row, Mr. Trevor.

The child in me asked, Isn’t everyone?

Anderson almost smiled. Not yet. But you need special permission to see Mr. DuPree.

Reaching into my leather jacket, I pulled out a letter and gave it to him.

This is signed by the governor, Anderson informed me, as if I didn’t know.

Yeah, he’s a friend of mine. That exhausted my list of snappy repartee.

Anderson fed the letter to an odd-looking document scanner that quickly digested, absorbed, and assimilated my permission slip into the prison’s permanent records. A second later, he handed back the original and reached under the counter. A doorway opened in the wall behind him, and a second guard joined the party. This one was also male. Though shorter than the sergeant, he obviously pumped iron on a regular basis, too. Perhaps with Anderson.

Corporal Burke will escort you to the prisoner, Mr. Trevor, said the sergeant as the other guard stepped around the counter. You can pick up your belongings when you leave.

The corporal said, Follow me, sir, and headed for the door.

From the moment I passed through the main gate I felt like I’d stepped into a movie. Everything about Astoria Prison was cliché. It had the usual multitude of iron-barred gates to pass through, the expected wary looks from haggard guards, and the ever-present, psychologically-enhanced clanking doors. Amplified hushed conversations echoed off blandly painted cinder block walls and highly polished tiled floors. Faintly buzzing overhead fluorescent lights left no shadows in which to hide. Layer upon layer of prisoner-applied disinfectant made me wince. So at least it smelled better than a zoo, but not much.

Three minutes to drive from the guardhouse to the prison, then another twelve to walk from there to the prisoner’s cell—another entire quarter-hour closer to death for the man I was supposed to save—it was plenty of time for me to renew my disdain for our uncaring, slow-motion bureaucracy.

Corporal Burke opened the cell door—number 57, I noticed, since it was one of my favorite lottery numbers. He entered first and said, DuPree, there’s someone here to see you.

Raymond DuPree jumped to his feet, but it wasn’t for me; we’d never met. He was smart; he didn’t say a word. But his eyes betrayed him. The eyes always betray the inner soul. And Raymond DuPree’s bloodshot eyes, reaching out like waning searchlights from his ebony face, revealed more than most. When he looked from the guard to me, I could see his eyes shift from utter despair to desperate hope. A gut feeling told me Raymond DuPree was no murderer.

I have to lock the door when I leave, sir, Corporal Burke explained. He handed me a small black remote control. Press the red button when you’re through, and I’ll come get you.

I understand, I replied. Even before Burke left, I felt the walls close in. Then the cell door clanged shut behind me. Though shaken by the haunting sound, I said, Sit down, Mr. DuPree.

Who are you? he asked, sitting on his bunk.

I knew he was twenty-one, but right then and there he was just a scared little kid who got sent to the principal’s office—forever. There were no chairs in the small cell, so I took the foot of the bed—the end near the door.

I’m Nick Trevor. I’m a private investigator. I was hired to get you out of here.

Thank God! I can’t believe it! Who hired you, my mother? My brother?

Actually, Mr. DuPree, Governor Price hired me to help you. You see, he doesn’t believe you murdered his wife. However, under the circumstances he can’t pardon you yet. Politics.

But if—

The governor wants me to find out who was responsible. Any ideas?

No.

Tell me what you were doing at the Bella Astoria Hotel last Saturday night—the night the governor’s wife was murdered.

Raymond looked down at his hands. Like I already told the police, Mr. Trevor, I was spending the night at the hotel because I was having my apartment fumigated. Roaches.

That much of your story checks out, but the Bella Astoria is a pretty ritzy one-night-stand for an artist who barely covers the rent each month.

Yeah, so I splurged for one night. So what?

I didn’t buy it. He was lying. After fifteen years on the force, I could tell—even if I had been a P.I. for only a week, even if this was my first case in a year and a half.

Look, Ray—can I call you that?

Sure.

All right, Ray, enough BS. Tell me what really happened. If you don’t, I can’t help you.

He hesitated.

I tapped my watch. You don’t have much time left, Ray.

He was quiet for a moment, studying the floor. I can’t. If I tell you, too many people will get hurt.

I stood, made sure he saw the remote control. As coldly as I could, I said, Then I guess I’m done here. I made a show of looking at my watch. I knew it was cruel, but I added, Seventy-one hours, twenty-five minutes.

He grabbed my arm. Okay, I’ll tell you! Sit down, Mr. Trevor. Please?

I sat. Tell me everything, Ray. We don’t have time for games here.

I know, I know. He stood up and started pacing. I never thought it would go this far. I can’t believe Donald would let me die. It’s not like everyone didn’t already know he was gay.

It hit me like a subpoena. Donald? Donald Price?

Yeah.

The governor’s son.

That’s him.

And you were with him at the Bella Astoria Hotel on the night his mother was murdered.

Yeah, that’s right.

I was shocked. Were you alone? I mean, did anyone else see you together?

Well, Clare was there, but he’s dead. He was killed during my trial. I read it in the newspaper. They said it was an MVA—motor vehicle accident, my ass! Clare didn’t drive. That’s the real reason I never said anything. I was scared…for Donald.

Fair enough. So how long have you known Donald Price?

I met him a year ago last New Years Eve. He was throwing a big party at his nightclub, the Rainbow Club.

On the corner of 6th and Main.

Right.

Okay, so what was Clare’s full name?

Clarence Burton. He was black, too, like me. The three of us got together almost every Saturday night. Ray smiled at the memory. "Donald called it a cookie—when he was between us. He liked that best. DuPree shrugged. We didn’t argue; Donald was paying."

I made a mental note to look into the Clarence Burton investigation. So, Donald Price paid you and Clare to have sex with him?

Ray clenched his jaw. "No! Donald just paid for the room—and the food, drinks, and drugs. The sex was free. Hey, it was fun, okay? We both loved Donald, and he loved us. We’d never make him pay for sex. He shook his head. Poor Clare."

Does the governor know about Donald and…you and Clare?

I suppose so. I never asked. Why wouldn’t he? Raymond sat down on the bed again. Hey, it was no secret, Mr. Trevor. Don’t you read the local tabloids? Reporters are always following Donald around. Pictures, interviews, you name it—Donald doesn’t care. As far as I know, no one really cares what Donald does…except me.

I realized that it was time to pull my head out of my ass and do some serious research. I hadn’t been keeping track of local news for three years. Not since my wife and son were killed in the fire. Not since I’d gone on my epic binge. Not since I left the police force. Not since my old college roommate, now Governor Preston Price, rescued me from my personal hell by sending me to rehab…and then back to school for my P.I. license. God, I was still a mess! It just didn’t show as much as it used to.

"So you were with Donald Price and Clarence Burton at the hotel that night, and you didn’t tell the police, because…." I waited for him to finish the statement.

Because Donald made us promise to never tell anyone we were there that night.

There it was. As simple as that. Raymond was protecting Donald, but from what? Why did Donald Price need protection?

Did Donald tell you why you couldn’t tell anyone?

No.

Did you know Virginia Price was at the hotel?

Not until I was arrested.

I raised an eyebrow. Is that the whole truth, Ray?

I swear I didn’t know Mrs. Price was next door. None of us knew. At least—

You and Donald and Clare were in the next room?

Yeah. We were in 512, she was in 514.

How do you know Virginia Price was in 514?

He shrugged. That’s what the police told me when I was arrested.

All right, Ray. Where were you and what were you doing when you were arrested?

Filling an ice bucket from the machine down the hall from our room.

"What did you tell the police when you were arrested?"

Nothing, Mr. Trevor, not a word—I swear!

Then how did they link you with the murder of Virginia Price?

He shrugged again. "Beats me. One minute I’m getting more ice for our strawberry daiquiris, the next minute I’m handcuffed and being dragged out to a police car. I was rushed through the system like my name was at the top of their list or something. Next thing I knew, the judge was sentencing me to death for murdering Donald’s mother. I don’t know about you, Mr. Trevor, but I never heard of a murder trial lasting only two days before. Hell, I never even got to testify!"

I cursed myself for not reviewing Ray’s trial transcripts before now. I should have known better, but I was still climbing back up on the horse that threw me for a devastating three-year fall. On top of everything, Governor Preston Price, whose wife was dead—murdered, no less—had hired me to clear Raymond DuPree, because he didn’t believe Ray did it.

Neither did I.

None of it was making any sense. Sure, Ray had opportunity, but he had no motive…yet. So far, it sounded to me as if Raymond DuPree had just been in exactly the wrong place at exactly the right time.

I really hate coincidence.

I stood up to leave.

Raymond asked, Where are you going?

I need to check out your story.

You do believe me, don’t you?

There it was, the inevitable final question.

I looked him square in the eye. Yes, Ray, I do.

You’re my only hope, Mr. Trevor.

I pressed the red button on the black remote. I know.

CHAPTER TWO

9:15 P.M., Saturday, July 18, 2054

It’s easy to fall from grace, but the climb back up is murder.

Thirteen simple words shouldn’t sum up anyone’s personal philosophy.

Welcome to my world.

A doctor friend of mine swears that eighty percent of the time his diagnosis comes from the patient’s history. Now I’m no doctor and Raymond DuPree is no patient, but after hearing his story I was more than eighty percent certain he wasn’t a murderer. Therefore, someone else killed Virginia Price, and I knew the first clues lay hidden within DuPree’s brief testimony to me.

Astoria Prison was fifteen miles southwest of the city of Astoria. Four years ago VORTECHS Corporation purchased a square mile of prime farmland and built their prison smack dab in the middle of it. They cleared the rest of the land of all buildings and trees, then leveled the property until it resembled a huge, gravel parking lot. Of course, their reasoning had been to leave nowhere to hide—in the unlikely event of a prisoner exiting the main facility without permission. The entire property was surrounded by two twenty-foothigh electrified fences topped with concertina. A twenty-foot gap separated the fences, where trigger-happy guards and underfed German Shepherds patrolled in random patterns. Rumor had it that guards and dogs would be handsomely rewarded for capturing a prisoner. To date, no one had collected. But they were ready.

I prayed my truck wouldn’t break down until I was far away from that hellhole.

On my way back to town I stopped at a mini-mart for a quick bite to eat. At the last minute I purchased a copy of the local newspaper, the Astoria Globe, because the headline caught my attention: "MARSH STILL MISSING!" Alexander Marsh was one of the richest, most powerful men on the planet.

I gnawed my microwaved hotdogs and, below the flickering dome light in my truck, read the article. It claimed that Alexander Marsh, the CEO of VORTECHS Corporation, had been reported missing last Monday morning. The police had kept it quiet until now to avoid a panic in the stock market. They were still investigating, but no one had seen Mr. Marsh since last Saturday night….

The same night Virginia Price was murdered. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it was worth looking into. I made a quick list of things to do:

1)   Talk to Donald Price

2)   Check out Ray’s apartment again—find out more about him

3)   Review Ray’s arrest/trial records—interview arresting officers

      & Ray’s lawyer

4)   Go to crime scene—interview Bella Astoria Hotel staffon

duty night of murder

5)   Look into investigation of Clare Burton’s death—find out

      more about him

6)   Find out more about Virginia Price—talk to Preston, review

      police report

7)   Discover link, if any, between Virginia Price & Alexander Marsh   

8)   Do all above in less than 71 hours

9)   Yeah, right!

Since the Rainbow Club was only four blocks from my apartment, I decided to drop in and see if Donald Price was there. The rest of the list could wait.

As I exited eastbound onto Highway 84, it started raining. I had to slow down because the intermittent windshield wiper switch worked too well: It only worked intermittently.

About halfway to town I topped a hill, and a bright light from off to my right lit up the cracks in the windshield like lightening bolts. I had to look away because it all but blinded me. The light came from the 24hour construction crews building the small manmade mountain that would soon be the new airport/spaceport south of town. With the increased air traffic in and out, Astoria needed a larger one. Since becoming the capital of world government, Astoria had mutated from a big small town into a small big city. And it was still growing—too fast for little ol’ Nick Trevor.

But I couldn’t complain. With growth came jobs, prosperity, and opportunities. The newest rendition of world government, the World Assembly, seemed to be working now. Compared to just five years ago, really serious crimes were non-existent—well, almost. That made for fairly boring news, but you can’t have everything, right?

When 84 curved south, I went straight on 184, the business loop through town. What was once a quiet residential area overlooking either side of the highway was now wall-to-wall office buildings. I could barely see the mountains directly ahead. I remembered when this was one of my favorite drives, but now the tall buildings left me feeling rather small and insignificant.

Following 184 as it passed over the Astoria River then curved southeast through town, I got off at the 5th Street exit. On the northeast side of the river, the numbered streets were one-way. All exits off the southbound lane dumped you onto one-way odd-numbered streets going into the city, which was fortunate, because that’s where I wanted to go. But Main Street, which ran perpendicular to 5th, was one-way, too—the wrong way. So I had to drive past Main and take a left on Idaho, then

come back down 6th to Main.

Funny, it wasn’t raining at the intersection of 6th and Main.

Instead of paying for parking behind the Rainbow Club, I pulled my Chevy rustbucket into a HANDICAPPED ONLY space across the street. I popped open the glove compartment and dusted off my HANDICAPPED sign before shoving it between windshield and dashboard. Reaching behind the seat, I grabbed my brass-topped, black-enameled cane/sword. Gently closing the door, which of course didn’t shut, I made a show of limping across the street to the Rainbow Club—just in case someone was watching.

I needn’t have bothered. No one noticed at all, because there was no one waiting in line to get into the club like I’d expected. Then I saw the sign on the front door:

CLOSED

DUE TO DEATH IN THE FAMILY

WE’LL REOPEN

MONDAY,JULY 20, 4:30 P.M.

Since the seven-colored rainbow was lit, arching from sidewalk to sidewalk over the main entrance, I decided to find out if anyone was there anyway. I pushed the buzzer to the right of the door and waited. Nothing. I pressed it again and held it down.

Sixty seconds later I saw a hall light go on, which silhouetted a head peeping through the frosted window. I leaned harder on the buzzer. The head disappeared and the door opened. I let go and smiled.

A tall, thin young man, sporting a brown goatee, waggled a finger in my face. In a high-pitched voice, he said, I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed. He rapped the sign on the door. Can’t you read?

My smile vanished. Yeah, I can read. And I can breed, too, unlike some people I know. I want to talk to Donald Price. Is he here?

Well! he snapped, placing palm to cheek. Of all the nerve! Yes, Donald’s here, but he’s very upset. He’s grieving, you know. His mother was murdered last week. So I’m sure he won’t want to see you now. Why don’t you just come back when we reopen on Monday?

"Why don’t you just take me to him now and I’ll ask him myself? Then I’ll know for sure."

Well! he said again. Who are you, and what do you want?

I’m Nick Trevor. I’m a private investigator. I have some questions for Donald concerning his mother’s death. And I’m real tired of talking to you. So, what’s it going to be? Do we play nicely, or do I have to clean your clock first? I impatiently tapped my cane on the step.

He bit his index fingernail, clearly a sign that he was struggling with the decision. Oh, all right, he said finally. Follow me. But don’t be too hard on Donald. He’s awfully fragile right now.

I shook my head as I followed Mr. Bleeding Heart into the dimly lit bar; only the emergency lights were on. Though Donald had owned the Rainbow Club for two years—his father bought it for him on his eighteenth birthday, the same year Preston took office—I’d never been inside. I know it’s rather narrow-minded of me, but I’ve never been able to picture myself dancing cheek-to-cheek with another man. Besides, I’ve never particularly liked Donald Price.

The place was gorgeous, which didn’t surprise me; Donald always did have good taste. I’d known him all his life, and even his boyfriends were pretty good Joes. The long, sensuously curvaceous bar appeared to be genuine mahogany. Very nice. Very expensive. A well-coordinated mixture of high and low tables surrounded a spacious hardwood dance floor, probably oak. On the side of the room opposite the bar, a stage for bands or other forms of homosexual entertainment stood barren. Various-sized booths with plush, dark leather benches lined the walls between bar and stage. Behind the bar hung a miniature cousin of the rainbow out front, but it wasn’t lit.

On either end of the bar, at the corners of the room, stood an elevator. I assumed they were for the waiters who shuttled drinks to the second story balcony, which surrounded the open dance floor on the three sides of the room facing the stage, for there were more tables and booths up there. Another story above that, an uncluttered assortment of lights and mirror-balls hung from the ceiling. Row upon row of spotlights covered the third floor walls, except for one large area at the far end of the room, where a huge mirror reflected everything. I ventured a guess: That was Donald’s office.

Past the far end of the bar, a door labeled PRIVATE barred our way. Through the door to the right was a surprisingly large kitchen. The lights were on, and the spick-and-span stainless steel everything virtually shouted gourmet. I was impressed. At the bar end of the kitchen lay the order counter. There would be no traffic in or out of this kitchen. Smart and efficient.

Near the end of the hallway, on the left, stood another elevator. It was on the near side of a large stairwell that was right next to a back door that had no handle. Before we got on the elevator, which was standing open like it was waiting for us, I stole a peek into the stairwell. Just as I suspected, the stairs went up and down. So this place had a basement, too. While we rode up to the third floor, I idly wondered what went on down there. Then I realized that I was probably better off not knowing.

The elevator doors opened into the far end of Donald’s office. Apartment would be a better word, because it took up the rest of this side of the building, then continued around and extended over the stage. Couches and easy chairs hugged most of the walls in the main office, whereas the room over the stage caged a menagerie of beds. On the wall to my left hung a stunning portrait of Donald Price, signed by none other than Raymond DuPree. I shook my head again as we passed a circular fireplace in the middle of the room.

Reclining in an ergonomic black leather chair behind a rather austere metal desk, Donald Price had his feet propped up on the chair’s footrest. He was staring down at the darkened dance floor through the two-way mirror. As we approached, he swiveled toward us. He was wearing a THINK PINK T-shirt under an expensive-looking, single-breasted purple jacket. After giving me a glance, Donald picked up a short-stemmed wooden pipe with a small clay bowl. He touched a lighter to it, took a long slow draw, held it in for a moment, then blew out a cloud of blue smoke. The unmistakable pungent odor of hashish laced with opium instantly filled the room.

Glassy eyes looked me over. An equally glassy voice said, Hello, Nick.

Hello, Donald. Nice mustache. Is it new?

Ignoring my question, Donald faced the man who had led me through the bar. You can go now, Jeff. Jeff started to protest, but Donald stopped him with a wave of his hand.It’s okay,Jeff.Really.Nick and I go way back. He blinked at me and added, Don’t we, Nick?

Yeah. All the way.

With a slight nod, Jeff pranced toward the elevator.

Raising an eyebrow, Donald said, Hard men are so good to find. Don’t you agree, Nick?

Who is that guy? He’s not your type, Donald.

"Jeffie? He’s my accountant. He’s such a dear, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let him