Cold Storage
by
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Then my dim world turned dead black. I looked up to see the door bang shut. Damn wind! It had blown the door closed. But as I watched the thin slivers of light around the door frame, I noticed a shadow temporarily blocking the sunlight. Next I heard the sound of someone wiring the hasp shut with the bailing wire. My first thought was of a caretaker, but there weren't any fresh tracks outside. And this place didn't need guarding, anyhow. I hesitated for a moment, touching the Colt in its holster high up on my left hip. The darkness confused me and I waited until my eyes adjusted to the small dribbles of light leaking in around the door. Slowly, mindful of the bolts scattered about the packing house floor, I started toward the door. I wasn't in any big hurry since I wasn't sure what was on the other side. I was about twenty feet away from the block when the light returned, so bright that for a moment I thought someone was inside with a flashlight. Then I realized the light was coming from overhead, from one of the two center hatches. Next there was a flash of something near the open hatch--an arm?--and a moving object appeared briefly in the shaft of light, falling toward the floor. I heard it hit and bounce and then roll. it rolled out of the murk to lay in an oblong splay of light on the floor. In the instant before the hatch slammed shut and darkness returned I recognized the serrated shape of the pineapple, the Mark II hand grenade, that had been pitched down into the darkness. I spent two tours of duty in Viet Nam, volunteered there once, ordered there the second time. I never looked on the experience with anything but painful memories. But, perhaps there is a Destiny that shapes our lives after all because if I hadn't been to 'Nam, I'd have probably died right there. With no more than my civilian background, even my training as a cop, it would have taken me at least a second, maybe two, to figure out what I was dealing with. But, because of the war my instincts didn't even bother to let my mind think about it. I moved! In the almost pitch black I ran and then dove toward where I thought the block should be. My arm caught the side of it and I swung around to what I hoped was the backside of the block. The blast inside that oversized moo mausoleum was like two anvils colliding inches away from my skull, still aching from the day before.
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About the Book
The body of a boy about 18 years old is fished out of the Sacramento River, not far from where that waterway enters the city. A run of prints shows the body to be Roger Hazlett--missing for forty-odd years. Harry Maxim, a detective whose clients include Everett and Corning Hazlett, Roger's now elderly brothers, is asked by the Hazlett's to work with the police on solving who killed their brother. Because of the antiquity of the case, the polic grudgingly agree. The man who discovered the body soon turns up murdered and Maxim finds himself sealed in a meat packing plant, being bombarded by someone on the roof tossing in hand grenades. And the Hazletts further hamper Maxim by saddling him with C.B., their eager, bright-eyed young niece, a police academy student. But, despite his aprehension, C.B. comes in surprisingly handy in helping Maxim find out who killed Roger Hazlett, kept him on ice for 40 years--and why.
About the Author
I have been writing professionally--if not full time--since the 1970's. With my children finally raised--and my wife wising up and leaving me--I finally decided to make a real commitment to writing, mostly historical articles and newspaper stringer work. Cold Storage is my first attempt at a detective novel. It is neither terribly convoluted nor heavy with protagonist angst. I think it's just a quick fun read. I live in Sierra Foothills, not far from Sacramento, California where, now retired from the electronics business, I spend a lot of time riding my horse and spoiling my grandchildren.