Rose City Demise

The military, even the somewhat more relaxed Coast Guard, DID NOT tolerate individualistic thinkers in boot camp. I quickly learned, at the cost of seemingly gallons of spittle from screaming drill instructors and sweat from all of the extra running I had to do, that producing a free thinking Seaman Recruit Matthew MacKinnon was not what boot camp was all about. I was able to squelch, for the most part, my tendency to question why things were the way they were during my four years protecting and serving on the high seas and in Coast Guard aviation.

Finding that the private sector had little use for my parachute packing skills I was free to pursue the avocation of my choice. I chose to return to the City of Roses, Portland, Oregon, the place where I spent the bulk of my childhood, and become a purveyor of information. I had never considered that most of the information I would purvey as a private investigator would be quite tedious and mundane, too many James Bond movies as a child. I had a fair share of cheating spousal cases, both husband and wife as I was an equal opportunity snoop, but did not care for them. Unfortunately glamorous, high paying clients with truly interesting work did not abound and I frequently found my bias against mundane marital cases being shoved aside for the income they provided.

This was the situation I was in when contacted by Roger, he explained his desire for information, I rechecked the balance in my business account, which was the only account I had and which still read less than the sum of the pile of bills I had, and I agreed to meet with him at his home near the Portland Golf Club.

We had our talk and I accepted a personal check for retainer and some expenses and just barely did not run out the door to make sure I made the bank in time to avoid bouncing some poorly timed checks. I managed that and once again felt that I was my own master. I actually went out and bought myself a new CD, Jethro Tull's Minstrel in the Gallery, and sang along as I headed towards the brains home in West Linn.

When I pulled past the address given to me by Roger, the place was by no means what I would call a dump; I could not believe my luck. Just as I turned down the next block I caught sight of a black BMW M3 turn off and pull into Richard's driveway. I could not believe the timing; one of the final bits of back ground I had gotten was that Marguerite operated such a conveyance. I found myself thinking that I would have to return some of the expense money I had been forwarded, not a pleasing prospect.