Cedar Point (Growing Cold, Book 1)

A Thrilling Mystery Novel

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Cedar Point, a small, quiet town nestled in the thick, lush forest outside of Portland, Oregon, hides a long-kept secret. 

On the morning of Halloween 1977,  the lifeless body of 16-year-old Lisa Fields was found brutally butchered; her naked body posed at the local Playground in a horrific display of evil. 

Her killer was never identified.

Sadie Koop, the smart and feisty host of the “Growing Cold Podcast,” is investigating and reporting on the unsolved murder when her podcast rival, Jillian Playmore from New York, shows up to try to steal her story.

Desperate for help, she reached out to Nathan Taylor, a loner who is content catching cheaters and living off the grid in a cabin with his two Rottweilers. Before he knows it, Nathan finds himself wrapped in the middle of an almost 50-year-old murder case that will kill anyone it has to to stay cold.

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Chapter 1

“The Mannequin”

The leaves dance across the sidewalk. Orange, red, and yellow figures twirl among the stray strands of toilet paper, skirting over the broken eggshells. Judging by the carnage on this street alone, the kids in town enjoyed themselves on Devil’s Night last night. 

“Hopefully, this garbage gets cleaned up before trick or treating tonight,” Nancy Peters said to her grandson, Jake, as she pushed him along in his stroller. He just cooed as babies do.  She had lived in Cedar Point for all 64 years of her life and the night before Halloween was always the same. The local teenagers run amok and terrorize the entire town. They dress all in black, buy up all the eggs and toilet paper from the Harvest Market, and then go and vandalize everything. Windshields pelted with eggs. Tree branches wrapped with toilet paper. Paper bags filled with dog feces set on fire on doormats. It was criminal, and she wished the sheriff would do something about it.

She had to zig-zag the stroller to avoid getting egg or toilet paper stuck to the wheels. She was hopeful that the punk teenagers at least left the playground alone so she could spend some quality time with her grandson. 

It was still early, and the sun barely peeked above Mount Hood in the distance. She turned left onto 17th St and into Davidson Memorial Park.  She could see Halloween decorations thrown onto the wood chips at the playground. Pieces of pumpkins littered the grass surrounding the play area, and plastic skeletons hung from the swing set.  

Over on the slide, she saw a white shape towards the end. Her eyes grew into angry slits as she saw a human form lying on it with the legs splayed openly. How rude of someone to take a mannequin, strip the clothes off, and pose it in such an obscene manner that children could see it. What a terrible prank. 

She pulled her scarf tight as she got closer and felt a chill run down her spine. She would lay the mannequin in a decent position off to the side of the park and cover it with some sticks. Then, when she got home, she would phone the sheriff and have him dispose of it. At least that way, no children would see it if they came to play at the park today.

As she got closer, she stopped and noticed blood- all the blood. There was brown rust color streaked and splattered all over the playground, covering the slide and wood chips underneath. What she thought was a mannequin was the nude body of a young girl. Her pale skin had what must have been almost one hundred stab wounds. Her brown eyes stared blankly up at Nancy. 

In shock and panic, she almost ran off without taking her grandson, who was bundled up, warm and happy in his stroller. She stopped, spun him around, and ran off towards the sheriff’s office not caring this time if she ran over eggshells or toilet paper.  She saw a cruiser driving up as she approached the sheriff’s office and frantically waved her arms while screaming for him to stop. The deputy rolled down his window as he pulled up alongside the hysterical woman.

“Help! There is a girl! At the park. On the slide. I think she’s dead!”

The deputy instructed Nancy to wait where she was, and he drove off down to Davidson Memorial Park. She was far too scared to go back there anyway. Nancy scooped Jake from his stroller and hugged him close. She would never go back down 17th Street again and never go to another park again as long as she lived.

When the deputy approached the gruesome scene, he didn’t bother to check for a pulse or any signs of life. Based upon the number of stab wounds around the neck and chest area, the blood, and the state of the pale, stiff, nude body in this cold northwestern climate, it was apparent that the girl was no longer living.  He returned to his cruiser and grabbed his radio.

“Sheriff, you’re gonna wanna get down to Davidson Memorial Park, pronto!”

The sheriff’s gruff voice crackled across the radio a few seconds later.”What do you want Dougie? I’m still drinking my coffee.”

“There’s a girl down here, George.  It looks like she’s been stabbed to death. Damn near cut her head off. Sweet Jesus there’s so much blood!”

Within minutes, the sheriff had arrived along with the remaining deputies. As they taped off the playground area, the sheriff removed his hat and shook his head in disbelief.

“That’s the Fields girl.”

“Who’s that sheriff?” Asked the deputy.

“Lisa Fields. I served with her daddy, Otto. We were stationed together back in 1960 at Hickam Air Force Base in Honolulu. That’s where he met Lisa’s mom, Kelly.”

“Isn’t he the one who died last year when his truck hit that tree?”

“Same one. Poor family. How am I going to tell Kelly her daughter is dead? I don’t even think she turned 17 yet.” The sheriff rubbed his eyes, dreading the duty he would soon have to perform. 

The coroner, Doctor Cunningham, arrived at the scene and carefully approached the sheriff. “What do we have here, George?” he asked as he knelt beside the body. 

“Looks like she was stripped, stabbed, and posed.”

As the coroner looked over the young girl’s body, he casually spoke out loud, more so to make mental notes for himself but also to show off his medical and investigative skills in front of the deputies.  

“Female appears to be young, between the ages of fifteen and seventeen. Short and slender. Brown eyes with significant hemorrhaging in her right eye; most likely due to blunt force trauma with a heavy object. Said force probably left the young girl immobilized; if not unconscious. It appears the girl’s dark brown hair has been crudely cut, perhaps with the same instrument used to stab her. I’ll have to clean her up to see how many stab wounds we have here, but I’m going to estimate between 60 and 80. Most are centralized around the throat, neck, and chest area. She has a cut along her left cheek with no self-defense wounds on her hands or arms.”

 “So I’m going to venture to guess that she was unconscious or unable to put up a struggle as she was stabbed.” Cunningham continued. “She does appear to have scrapes and abrasions on her body. She has gravel and wood chips inside the wounds on her back and rear. Along with the trail of blood, it’s pretty apparent she was dragged over here. Based on the stab marks all being on the front of her body, she was dead before she was posed up on the slide like this. The killer must have sat with her for some time to keep her legs open like this. Jesus, what kind of monster could have done this, George?”

The coroner looked off towards the sky as he pulled off his latex gloves. He was not expecting an answer to his rhetorical question. The sheriff could only look off in wonder as well. 

As officers documented the scene, taking photos and searching for the girl’s clothes, the sheriff drove over to Field’s small two-bedroom house on Cary Street, a small dead-end road with less than a dozen tiny homes. 

By this point it was getting late in the day, and the sun was setting off over the woods surrounding the town. Mrs. Fields had just returned home from work at the Harvest Market. She was checking on a roast in the oven for dinner when she heard a knock at the door. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to see who it was. 

“Sheriff? What can I do for you, George?”

“Evening Kelly, how have you been?” asked the sheriff, removing his hat and holding it with both hands down by his beltline while trying to muster the fortitude to relay the bad news.

“Oh, you know, trying to make ends meet. Things have been pretty tough since Otto passed.”

Passed. She uses that word as if he died in his sleep of a heart attack and not driving head-on into a tree while driving too fast for the snowy conditions last Christmas Eve. While Kelly was still coherent, George tried to get as much information about Lisa’s last whereabouts as possible. He knew once he told her, she would be a mess. “When’s the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Oh, around supper time last night. She said she would go sleep over at Deena Fox’s house. Those two didn’t go and get themselves in trouble again, did they? I swear that Fox girl is a bad influence on my Lisa.”

“Can you tell me what she was wearing? Did she tell you if she and Deena had any plans?”

“What was she wearing? Oh, yes, I remember. She was wearing one of her dad’s old olive green service jackets. She was wearing this new white blouse I got her with some brown pants and those dirty old boots she loves. Lisa said she was going to spend the night at Deena’s because they were going to work on their costumes for Halloween. I am expecting her back very soon since she knows what time dinner is.”

She looks over her shoulder towards the kitchen and hears the buzzer on the stove go off, alerting her that the roast is finished. “I need to grab the roast from the oven. Can I fix you a plate, sheriff? You can wait for Lisa if you’d like.”

“Um, no, thank you, Mrs. Fields, I hate to have to do this. Kelly, I’m sorry to tell you. We found your daughter. She’s dead.”

The color drains from her face as shock takes over. The smell of the roast starting to burn fills the room. “What? No! What happened? Was it a car accident?”

“No,” the sheriff takes a long, deep breath. “We believe she was murdered. Mrs. Peters found her down by the playground this morning. It looks bad.”

That image of her daughter, her baby, dead and murdered causes her to collapse onto her knees and let out a guttural scream. She holds her hands to her face as she sobs. “No! No! No! Not my Lisa! Not my baby!” 

Smoke begins to trickle from the kitchen as sheriff George Dalton crouches down beside Kelly Fields and does his best to comfort her.

Chapter 2

“The Last Boy Scout”

“On next week’s episode, we’ll explore who Lisa Fields was and what happened the night she was murdered. Devils Night, October 30th 1977. If you knew Lisa or have any tips you’d like to leave, find me on Facebook and send me a message. I’ll gladly include you on the podcast. This has been the Growing Cold podcast, and I’m your host, Sadie Koop. Until next week, thank you for listening!”

The upbeat female voice fades into the outro music, and Nathan Taylor looks at his phone and hits the stop button on his podcast app. The first episode of the podcast described in detail how a young girl’s body was found murdered in this very town back in 1977, and the killer (or killers) were never identified. Cedar Point is a relatively small coastal town with a population of only 20,000, and he had never heard of it. He was the only Private Investigator not located in Portland and had never been asked to investigate it. This was all the same to him since only suspicious spouses usually hired him. 

They would pay him hundreds of dollars to drive 40 minutes over to Portland, sit in his car, and wait for their husband or wife to go out and see if they were cheating. It was the easiest money he had ever made in his life. 

He was sitting in his White 1981 GMC Sierra Grande 2500 Pickup with a fake contractor logo magnet on the side doors. The windows were tinted, and you couldn’t see him casually reclining in the driver’s seat with a pair of Sunagor 30-160×70 Mega Zoom BCF Binoculars. He was on assignment, and he had to take a leak. At only four hours into a twelve-hour assignment, he was so bored he listened to a podcast since there weren’t any good radio stations in this part of the State. 

Bringing his binoculars to his eyes, he watches the blonde woman standing in her driveway by the garage door. She has her daughter strapped into a stroller, and it doesn’t look like her daughter is happy. The woman is playing on her cell phone and casually moving the stroller back and forth, back and forth, as she swipes on her phone. Finally, she lets out an exasperated sigh, adjusts her large fake breasts underneath her low-cut black shirt, stuffs her phone between said large fake breasts, and walks the stroller down to the end of the driveway. She looks down the road both ways, then leans her head back, muttering something to her daughter that Nathan can’t hear. 

She pulls her phone out from between those large fake breasts, taps it once, smiles, and stuffs it back into her bosom.  She must have been checking the time because she quickly moved onto the street and out in front of her house. She then turns and makes it look like she’s almost returning home from a long walk. If he were just a random guy driving by, he would have thought this was a young, pretty mother who just got done taking her young daughter on a nice long walk. 

Right on time at 8 am, Nathan’s client pulls up in his oversized red Hummer; he parks and slides out. He unstraps his daughter from the stroller, lifts her high in the air, and gives her a giant hug. He might drive a douchebag SUV, but he seems like he’s a good Dad. The client owns a mold and water renovation company on the south side of Portland. Nathan assumes the guy must make good money because he bought his soon-to-be ex-wife a fancy 3-level salon in the heart of downtown Portland. Of course, he also bought her implants. Mr. Hummer made sure to point that out numerous times during the consultation with Nathan, including showing him multiple before and after photos, clothed and fully naked. Nathan didn’t know how he felt about that besides being uncomfortable.

While Mrs. Implants ran her salon, she also embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars. Eventually, the stylists weren’t paid, and people started asking questions. Mr. Hummer hired Nathan two years ago to determine where the money was going. He followed Mrs. Implant for two days before he spotted her entering a casino. Nathan watched her lose over a quarter of a million dollars. That explained why she needed the money so badly; she had a massive gambling problem. On top of that, she was also a raging alcoholic. 

Mr. Hummer kicked her out right away. Luckily for her, her daddy is a wealthy CEO who gave her a modest five-bedroom, three-hundred-square-foot house for free as a consolation prize since he never approved of Mr. Hummer anyway. 

While they were separated, Nathan did a dumpster dive three nights in a row before the divorce was finalized. In the world of private investigation, a dumpster dive is when the investigator waits until it’s garbage night on the block. Once the garbage can is on the curb, it’s public domain, and anyone can rummage through it. Nathan would swing by around two in the morning, pull up next to the garbage can, and dump the bags into the bed of his truck. He would then go to the loading area outside a steel warehouse that was closed for the night. It was isolated and well-lit so he could videotape what he found inside for the courts. 

Nathan found dozens of cans of white claw inside the garbage bag each day—this woman literally drank a dozen white claws a day. He also found tin foil with hair dye, proving she ran an illegal, unlicensed salon out of her home. Unsurprisingly, Nathan also found stubs for a riverboat casino in Portland as well.

Mr. Hummer won the divorce proceedings, and the court awarded him temporary custody of their daughter until Mrs. Implants went through treatment for her gambling and alcohol addictions. She completed a short stint in rehab, attended a few meetings, and now they split custody. The client still feels that she is still gambling and still drinking. So here is Nathan, back on the job, staked out in front of that consolation prize of a house and watching Mr. Hummer strap his daughter into a car seat in the back of that gaudy SUV.

As Mr. Hummer drives off with his daughter, Mrs. Implants runs to her garage and disappears inside.  Nathan can’t see what she’s doing but knows what’s coming next. He hears a massive engine roar to life which he recognizes from the last time he had to follow the woman.  Mrs. Implant’s rich daddy also bought her a blacked-out Ferrari 812 GTS which suddenly screeches out of the garage, tears down the driveway, and onto the street, leaving black rubber streaks on the asphalt. 

Nathan is ready for her this time and has already started driving down the road before she even pulls out of the driveway. He’s gotten up to 45 mph in the small residential neighborhood when she flies by him to pass in a no-passing 25mph zone. He keeps a safe distance behind her as she weaves in and out of traffic. Nathan only has to get up to speeds in the 70s to stay roughly 200 yards behind her. Three blown red lights and many angry horns later, he stops at a truck stop. Of all the places he expected to find her, a truck stop was one of the last. 

After watching her park, gets out of her car with a flip of her hair and saunters inside. He parks where he can watch her vehicle, the entrance and exit, and a clear path if he has to fly out of the parking lot quickly. Figuring it may be awhile, he leans back and gets comfy. A bag of wasabi cashews from his last stakeout calls his name so he tosses a couple into his mouth; his eyes casually sweeping back and forth, looking for any sign of her. 

Two hours later, his bladder has finally reached max capacity. He hasn’t seen her since she sauntered inside, so he figures this might be a good time to go in and see what the holdup is. He slides out of his truck and stretches. His faded and well-worn brown boots casually click on the pavement as he walks inside, trying to be casual. 

Nathan casually strolls down the aisle, pretending to be looking for snacks, as he looks for Mrs. Implant on his way to the restroom room. But so far, he hasn’t seen her. After he relieves himself, he casually checks the aisles again. Still, he hasn’t seen her, so he goes to the chip aisle near the women’s bathroom. He reads the ingredients on the back of a bag of sour cream and salsa pork rinds until a woman exits the restroom. He turns to her.

“Excuse me, Miss. Did you see my wife in there? Young, pretty blonde girl? Big boobs?”

The woman gives him a somewhat disgusted look and shakes her head. 

“No one was in there besides me.”

She doesn’t give him a second look as she walks to the candy aisle and grabs a peanut butter Snickers.After adjusting his pants and ensuring his black T-shirt is tucked into his jeans, he grabs a bottle of water and goes to the checkout counter. Nathan places the water bottle down and smiles at the cashier as she scans the bottle.

“Anything else?” She doesn’t even look at him as she asks. 

“Yeah, my wife will get some snacks, too, but I will pay for them. Did she bring anything up? She’s young, blonde, and has a big rack.” He holds his hands up to his chest in an exaggerated manner. 

“Nope. Will that be all?” She still doesn’t look up to acknowledge him.  He can usually charm his way into getting answers from people, but they need to at least look at him. This woman refuses to.

“No? Haven’t seen her, huh? Hmm. Well then, nope that’s it.” He tosses a few crinkled dollar bills on the counter, grabs his water bottle, and walks out of the truck stop. He stops mid-stride and grits his teeth as that blacked-out Ferrari flies past him; tires screeching as she pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Any chance of catching up to her floats away with the trail of her exhaust. He unscrews the cap from the water bottle, takes a sip, and then tosses the bottle in the direction that Mrs. Implant just drove off to. He heads back inside and back up to the counter.

“Where are your gambling machines?” He asks with a demanding tone.

She’s playing on her cell phone and doesn’t bother to look up at him. “We don’t have gambling machines. They’re illegal in this county.”

Nathan smiles and places his hands on the counter. “Last chance; Where are the gambling machines?”

The cashier twirls her hair around a finger as she swipes on her phone, completely ignoring him now. Nathan drums his fingers calmly on the counter before turning on his heels and heading back to the manager’s office. He kicks the handle, splintering the frame and sending it flying open. A shocked manager behind the door almost falls off his chair as Nathan enters.

“What are you doing here? I’m calling the police!” The manager cries out as he stands up. Nathan shoves him back down into his chair.

“Go ahead; I’m sure they’ll want to see the same thing I want to see. Security footage. More specifically, the footage in your gambling room.”

“No! We don’t have a gambling room! That’s illegal in this county.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what the bitch behind the register said. I don’t believe either of you.”

Nathan shoves past him and goes to the computer. He moves the mouse around, makes a few clicks, and smiles as footage of a small smoke-filled back room appears on the screen. Several people can be seen playing a lot of machines. He rewinds until he sees what he is looking for. There was Mrs. Implants, drinking a bottle of beer while pulling the lever repeatedly on a slot machine. Nathan pulls a small thumb drive out of the chest pocket of his shirt and sticks it into the USB port. He turns to the flustered manager and smiles.

“You wanna transfer this footage for me? Or should I wait for the sheriff to show up? 

After the manager transfers the footage onto the USB drive, Nathan grabs a bottle of soda on his way out. He contemplates twisting the cap off and taking a sip before tossing a handful of change at the cashier on his way out in a blaze of glory, but he doesn’t since he knows he’s already pushed the boundaries way too far. Private Investigators have no authority anywhere, especially not kicking down a door, strong arming a manager, and stealing a soda by not paying enough. On top of all that, if one of those coins hit the cashier wrong, he could be charged with assault. Instead, he nods to the cashier and strolls out with a smile. She gives him a fake smile and a middle finger in return. Stay classy, Portland. 

Nathan fires up his truck and pulls out onto the highway, finally ready to be done with this job and go home and relax. Halfway home, he pulls up to a red light drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances over at a corner bar and what are the odds? There is a black Ferrari in the parking lot. He pulls in and snaps a few photos of the car with the license plate visible outside the bar. Now, he could go inside and get video footage of her drinking, which is against her court order, but figures he has enough evidence to help Mr. Hummer finally get full custody. That means a pretty payday for Nathan. He doesn’t need the money since he doesn’t do anything that requires money. He doesn’t have any hobbies like golf or flying model planes, and has no desire to collect anything or watch sports. Instead he goes home, trains his dogs, tends to his crops, and hunts his food. What else is there in life? A man really couldn’t get much simpler than that. Granted, once upon a time, that was the last type of man anyone would have expected from Nathan. 

Within 45 minutes, Nathan is home and turns into a heavily wooded gravel driveway. Forty feet up the driveway is a locked gate that he hops out to open, sticking a key into the lock and moving aside the heavy-duty chain. He gets back into his truck and pulls inside only to hop back out to relock it. Whether it be a salesman or an angry cheating spouse that he investigated, the last thing he wants is them intruding on his property, Inevitably because of his line of work, Inevitably because of his line of work, he’s had his run-ins with both.

Once, Nathan was hired to determine whether a man’s girlfriend was unfaithful. He let the potential client know from the start that he thought the woman was unfaithful and that hiring him would be a waste of time and money. The client hired him on the spot

All it took was a casual bump at the fair. The woman was a middle-aged woman who would still be beautiful if she spent more time in the gym and less time at the tanning salon. She stood in line at the county fair on a warm August day when Nathan bumped into her. He acted bashful, rubbing his buzzed-down dishwater blonde hair as he gazed at the ground. He brought out the dimples and steel blue eyes as he smiled and looked up at her. That was all it took. She bought him a corn dog and almost dragged him back to her minivan for extramarital activities. Nathan managed to stop things before it got too far by explaining to the cheating woman that he had his wife at home (a lie) and he needed to get home before she got too suspicious. But, he had her text him a saucy message so he could save it and call her later. 

Nathan relayed all this to the client in a very professional report the next day, but the client read it as a work of smut. He came roaring up Nathan’s driveway a few hours after sending the report almost running over his dogs. The dogs would have torn him to shreds, but Nathan did not give them the command. As the client ran to Nathan calling him a homewrecker, Nathan stepped off his porch onto the grass and steadied himself. The client was a large male in his late forties, who maybe once upon a time, was something special until he got his trophy wife and let himself go.  The man raced forward and tried to bulldoze Nathan; Nathan sidestepped him and let the man face plant onto the soft ground. He then quickly but smoothly mounted the man from behind, twisting and locking one of the man’s wrists up beside Nathan’s torso and kneeling on top of the man’s other arm. It took ten minutes of curses and screams before the man calmed down enough to listen to Nathan. Since then, Nathan has locked his property tightly, and his dogs can roam free. 

As he drives up his long, windy driveway, dust swallows the road behind his truck in a large gray cloud. He parks on the grass in front of his single-room cabin. He gets out and stretches as two huge Rottweilers run up to him. Nathan crouches down and prepares for impact as they barrel into him. He laughs and wrestles them off of him; they run in circles around him as he goes into his cabin. The door swings back open as the large Rottweiler heads crash against it, sending it swinging back open as the two tanks charge inside. 

He dumps dry dog food into two huge bowls and then grabs a Tupperware dish from the fridge. After popping it open and dropping two huge spoonfuls of a venison gravy mix into the bowls, he mixes it up. 

“Tango! Cash! Who’s hungry?” He calls to the dogs  as he holds up the dishes. Both dogs slam their butts to the cabin floor and sit at full attention; their ears perked and heads cocked to the side. Their giant mouths pant as drool runs down their broad chests. Nathan twists his head slightly, and both dogs drop onto their stomachs. He twists his head in another direction, and they flop around onto their backs.

“Good boys! Here you go.” He places the dishes on the floor and clicks his tongue. The dogs jump up and begin inhaling their food. Nathan untucks his shirt and peels it off his back, tossing it into the laundry hamper. His lean and toned torso is littered with scars. There is a large burn scar along his right shoulder blade which goes down to his waist. He pulls a hoodie on before grabbing his baseball cap and beer and heads back outside. 

The Oregon days have been warm, but the nights have grown cooler. He takes a sip of beer and looks up to the sky which is beginning to grow dark. The sun starts descending into the dense forest that covers his 20 acres of land. He walks to a field in a clearing where he has rows of corn, zucchini, bell peppers, onions, tomatoes, and lettuce there. He grabs an onion, a green pepper, and heads back to his cabin. He fries the vegetables and a thick chunk of venison over an open fire in a cast iron pan. He cracks open another beer and sits on a rocking chair on his porch with his plate of food. Tango and Cash lay down on each side of his chair, trying not to be too obvious as they watched him eat. Their attempt to beg inconspicuously fails miserably based on the puddle of drool under their faces, but Nathan ignores it. They’re good boys. 

Nathan tosses a chunk of steak to each of them and finishes his beer. He props his feet up on the tail of the porch as he looks out into the now-dark sky. An ocean of stars lay above him, and a large white moon started peering above the pine trees as he drifted off to sleep outside in the cool Oregon night air.

Chapter 3

“The Uninvited”

Nathan slowly starts to stir as he hears the low and steady growl of Tango and Cash. He’s still asleep on the rocker on his porch—baseball hat tucked down over his eyes with his boots propped up on the porch rail. The sun has already risen above Mount Hood, which means it has to be at least eight O’clock.  He needs to start sleeping in his bed; he’s getting too old to be able to tolerate the hardwood rocker all night after sitting stationary in his pickup truck on assignment all day. His ankles will pop as soon as he stands up, and he’ll have to shuffle like a zombie for the first few steps until his body loosens up. The rough life he lived back in his twenties put a toll on his body. He has to split wood today in preparation for the upcoming winter, so that’ll be a good little exercise for the day. Maybe, he’ll walk around his property to inspect the fence line and ensure there are no holes. A nice twenty acre walk would do his knees some good.

He pushes back his baseball cap from his forehead and rubs his eyes before opening them. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the sunlight as Tango and Cash stand at the edge of the porch. Their growls are a low, consistent rumble from deep inside their thick necks. Their short, black, shiny fur stands like mohawks down their muscular backs. Nathan stands to see what they are growling at. He’ll have to quickly get his rifle if it’s a bear, but if it’s just a deer or a rabbit, he’ll command them to be silent and go get breakfast. Or maybe he’ll get his rifle regardless of whether it’s a deer or bunny, and he’ll have some extra meat.

 The uninvited intruder is neither a bear, deer, or bunny rabbit.

A woman who appeared to be in her late 20s or early 30s was jogging up his gravel driveway. Her thick, curly brown hair bounces on her shoulders as she runs. It appears she isn’t even winded as she completes the long jog up his winding gravel driveway. Her blue tank top doesn’t seem to be drenched in sweat, and her freckled face barely shows any glimmer of perspiration. Her lips curve into a large, warm smile as she approaches. She raises a hand in a greeting.

“Good morning!” She calls out in a pleasant tone. She’s not out of breath at all. “I’m looking for a Private Investigator.” 

Nathan stretches, removes his baseball cap, and runs his fingers over his short, dirty blonde hair. He really didn’t want to have to talk to anyone today. “I’m closed for the day. Come back on Monday? You could call too, yanno. My number is listed on my website. Or better yet, send an email.”

Her smile continues as she reaches the porch steps, not phased at all by the two 150-lb monster dogs standing feet away from her. “I did call. A couple times, actually. It always goes straight to voicemail. If you’re going to have a phone, keep it turned on. Otherwise, there’s no point. Can’t get any work if you don’t accept any calls.”

She reaches the porch and holds her hands out to the dogs. Nathan is surprised that the dogs don’t growl, snarl, or even attack. Instead, they start licking her hands.

“Aww, such good boys! What are their names?” She moves her hands from their lapping tongues to scratch along their collars and up to their ears. The dog’s tiny cropped tails try to wag, making their stout little butts shake side to side.

“Tango has the blue collar, and Cash has the gold collar,” Nathan responds.

“Nice. I loved Kurt Russell back in the day. Snake Plissken, oh my God, what a fuckin babe.” She’s still smiling. Nathan wonders how someone can be so happy for so long. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he just watches her pet his dogs. It’s been a few years since anyone besides him has given them attention, and they’re good boys. So, he lets them soak up the affection.  Cash turns around so she can scratch his butt; his favorite. He moves his hindquarters up and down as Sadie scratches good and hard as he lets out what can only be described as a dog grunt. A half growl, half bark.  Tango rolls onto his back to get his belly rubbed. Nathan almost smiles at this but catches himself. 

“I’m Sadie, and like I was saying, I’m looking to hire you. Assuming that you are Nathan Taylor, right? The Private Investigator?” She wipes slobber and black dog hair off her hands on the back of her jeans as she stands up, then holds her hand out to him. 

Nathan reluctantly gives her hand a short, soft shake. He notices how soft her skin feels compared to his rough, calloused hands. He’s caught off guard as his eyes lock on her almond-shaped hazel eyes. Even her eyes seem to smile. Her happiness annoys him.

“Yeah, that’s me. But like I said before, I’m closed. And I’m booked for the next few weeks, so I’m not looking to take on any new clients.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re just sleeping on your porch with your phone off and not really doing any investigating.” She waves her arms at the surrounding porch area, and Nathan finally realizes that her left arm is a complete sleeve of tattoos. Her hair, eyes, lips, and face caught him off guard. Honestly, he feels like he has vertigo in her presence, and he doesn’t like it. 

Nathan shrugs, not having a witty retort this early in the morning. Then something clicks in his head. He’s heard that voice before and that name. “Wait a minute, you said your name was Sadie? Sadie Koop?

“Oooooh,” she smirks and folds her arms against her chest, cocking a hip to the side.”  You’re a fan of the podcast, aren’t you? Then you’ll work with me, right?

Nathan ignores her and looks down at his dogs, trying to push their noses against Sadie. He snaps his fingers, and Tango and Cash return to his side. “I may have listened to an episode. I’m not really into podcasts. I find it rather pretentious that anyone thinks their voice is so great that anyone would want to sit for an hour and listen to them talk without any kind of visual stimulation.

“Would you listen to me talk for an hour if you could also stare at me?” She moved closer. Nathan couldn’t tell if she was flirting with him or trying to intimidate him. Either way, he did not feel comfortable but stood his ground and didn’t move.

“I think I’ll pass on that. Same way, I’ll have to pass on your case.”

“You don’t even know what my case entails.” She moves past him and sits on his rocking chair. She pats her lap, and Tango and Cash run over to her to get more pets. 

“Let me guess, you want me to dig up information on an unsolved murder. Do you think I have some insider information? Maybe I’m buds with the sheriff. Maybe people are more willing to talk to a Private Investigator than some journalist. Wait, scratch that; you aren’t even a journalist. You Google stuff and then talk into a microphone. You’re just a podcaster. You need someone who can actually find real information, so you can take what I find and look better to your audience of 20 people. Is that pretty accurate?”

“You’re kind of a dick. You know that?” She says it so nonchalantly as if his words had no effect on her. She doesn’t look at him; she just scruffs the dog’s necks. She playfully pushes their faces away, which gets a significant response. They lean back before launching onto her lap with both giant chests across one of her legs. She laughs, wraps her arms around their necks, and hugs them. 

“Yeah, I’ve been called worse.”  He turns and walks inside his cabin, leaving her to play with his so-called guard dogs.

“Rude!” she calls out as she shoves the dogs off her lap and stands, pulling her slightly loose jeans back up her hips. Her hand catches the screen door behind him before it closes. Her Converse All-Stars are almost silent on his cabin floors. He’s still wearing his boots from yesterday, which almost echo as he stomps towards the fridge. He pulls open the door to grab a beer, just enough for her to peek inside.

He turns to look at her as he pops the top of the bottle and takes a sip. “What?”

“Man, your fridge is sure stocked there. I saw half a dozen beers, some packages of meat, and a jug of milk. I’m impressed. You’re taking this loner bachelor schtick as far as possible, eh? Mr. Lone wolf. He doesn’t want friends. Blah Blah Blah. Who are you trying to be? Bronson? Eastwood? Van Damme? What cliche are you leaning on, Nate?”

The name Nate catches him off guard. He hasn’t been called that in years. He takes another drink and takes a step towards her.

“It’s Nathan! And for your information, I don’t need a lot in my fridge because I grow all my vegetables and kill all my meat. My vegetables are still out in the field, and I have enough meat in the fridge until next week when I’ll go out and shoot another deer. And yeah, I don’t want friends. I don’t need friends. I don’t need your shit. I don’t need your case. I don’t need you fucking with my dogs, and I don’t need you trespassing up my goddamn driveway!”

“Clint Eastwood! I fuckin knew it, dude!” She laughs at him before lowering her voice to a low, gruff tone. “Get off my lawn!”

She bumps past him and opens his fridge, grabbing her own bottle of beer. She pops the top, takes a drink, and sits at his small kitchen table. The cabin is basically an open concept. It’s a large room with a sink, fridge, and wood-burning stove on one wall and a table in the middle of the room with two chairs. Across from that, a small bed and dresser adore the opposite wall. Along the wall opposite the front door, is a small bathroom area with a toilet and a shower over a drain.  No walls in his cabin separating any of the spaces; not that he needs any privacy. It’s just him and his dogs, after all. Nathan watches her as she sets the beer on his table. “Comfy?”

“I guess. You wanna hear about what I need you for yet?”

Exasperated, Nathan finally relents. He pulls out the other table chair and has a seat. He folds his hands on the table before him and looks at her.  “Fine. Let’s hear it. Then I’ll drive you back to the gate and see you on your way.”

“So, which episode did you listen to?”

Nathan didn’t want to admit that he’s listened to quite a few episodes. In fact, her podcast is one of the few podcasts he actually listens to.  “The one based here in Cedar Point. It was the latest one. I assume that’s the one you want to hire me for?”

“You got it, Sherlock! Wow, you are a great investigator!” There’s that smirk again; plump lips pursed together devilishly.

“Great. Now that we’ve got that out, I’ll give you a ride back to the gate.” Nathan begins to stand up, but she doesn’t budge.

“So you know it’s been almost 50 years, and no major suspects have existed. No new leads. No news coverage. Nothing.” She leans back and crosses her legs.

“Yup, damn shame. Happens all the time. That’s not the only cold case in America. Please go chase down another one that doesn’t involve me. Portland probably has thousands of unsolved cases you can investigate.”

“Yeah, I’ve already investigated most of those. Get this, after I released that first episode, one of her friends reached out to me. Here, I’ll let you read the email, and you can tell me what you get from it. “

She slides her phone out of her pocket, taps it a few times, puts it on the table facing him, and slides it forward. Nathan lifts up the phone and looks at the cracked screen. There is an email from Cindy Summers. 

Subject: Friend of Lisa Fields

Body: Hey Sadie, I want to start by saying what a great job you do with your podcast. I’ve been listening since you first started. You are doing a fantastic job spreading the word about Lisa’s murder. I was Lisa’s best friend when we were growing up. It was my house she was supposed to spend the night at the night she was murdered. She never showed up, and I still blame myself for not looking for her. If you’d like to interview me for the podcast, I’d happily share my story. Keep up the excellent work!

A loyal Listener

Cindy Summers.

Nathan turns the phone to face Sadie and slides it back to her, standing as he does. “Well, that’s awesome for you. You got someone to interview for your podcast. You don’t need me at all. You got everything wrapped in a nice and neat bow. So, let’s drive you back to the gate.”

“I need you because that cunt from New York is here, and she’s trying to steal this fucking story from me!” Sadie slams her palms down on the table and sits up straight. Nathan blinks at her outburst but doesn’t react. He stays standing there, watching her, letting the smoke settle. She hooks her thick, wavy brown hair behind her ears and exhales.

“Jillian Playmore. She’s this bitch podcaster from New York. I’ve never known anyone so obsessed with where they were born. If I have to hear her say, “I’m from New York, so please excuse my attitude,” one more time, I’m going to reach through my phone and fuckin slap her. She uses it as an excuse for fucking everything. “Sorry I’m late; I’m from New York. Sorry, I’m a bitch. I’m from New York. Oh, that racist slur I just said? Yeah, I’m from New York”. It’s so fuckin annoying.”

Nathan can’t help but smile. He has to admit that she’s pretty damn cute when she’s all flustered and worked up with quite the mouth. He doesn’t mind a woman who can curse like a sailor but looks like, well, looks like how she does. Sadie continues.

“So Jillian hosts “The Playmore Pod. “I know, really clever. She just used her last name cuz it has “Play” in it. I doubt that’s even her name. It’s probably Smith or something lame. Anyway, every time I start a story, she swoops in and releases almost the same episodes as mine, except that she doesn’t investigate anything. She makes shit up. I was investigating this one case where a girl was found in a suitcase on the side of the road, and she started saying that it was a green suitcase and that there was a name tag on it and all these little details. And yanno what? None of that was true! She made it all up. And she’ll call people I interview and try to get them to talk to her. She’s a fuckin bitch, and I hate her. I am willing to pay you! Three thousand dollars to help me out here. I just got a new sponsorship deal from Spotify, and I have to get the scoop on this murder. I can’t do that with her trying to steal everything from me. So if I get you investigating too, she won’t be able to steal from both of us, right?”

Nathan shrugs, scoops his keys up from the table, and swings them around his index finger. “Sorry to hear all that. That’s some unfortunate childish bullshit. I suggest you block her on Facebook or whatever social media you use and forget about her. Come on, let’s go.”

“God, you are SUCH a dick!” She shoves her chair out from the table, moving the table a foot forward into Nathan’s thighs. She’s out the door before he knows it, the handle slamming against the outside of the cabin as she kicks it open and then slams shut, the old springs squeaking before the thud. He follows her outside and sees her repeatedly yanking on the handle on the passenger side of his truck. 

“Unlock the fucking door! Why do you need to lock your door out here anyway?”

He goes to the driver’s side and opens his unlocked door. He leans over and smiles as he pulls up on the lock. “I don’t lock my door. The passenger door has not been opened since I purchased it, so I guess I never unlocked it.”

She gets in and slams the door, turning her head away from him and staring out the side window. He puts the truck in reverse, performs a three-point turn, and heads off down his gravel driveway. He hits bumps and potholes, jostling her some. As he hits one more giant rut in the road, something hanging from the rearview mirror slaps the glass, and she turns to inspect it. It’s a Green Jade Buddha statue, about an inch tall, hanging from a black cord. She moves it in between her fingers.

“Didn’t take you as a Buddhist. Or are you just a fan of Rambo?”

He chuckles, “Good Eye. Yeah, it’s the same kind as in First Blood part 2. But I do try to practice a bit of Buddhism.”

“Yeah, you’re cosplaying as Rambo from part 3. Where he’s living in the monastery trying to be all zen and shit but still punishing himself by stick fighting.”

She turns and looks out the window, her thick hair bouncing about her cheeks. He doesn’t respond to that. She already had him all figured out. She was a pretty good investigator, wasn’t she? He has second doubts about not working with her for a moment. Or maybe, it was just the fact that he felt a rock in his gut at the thought of never being able to see her again. He quickly pushes that feeling deep into his being as he stops at the gate. “Let me unlock the gate and open it for you.”

“Fuck you,” She states as she gets out, leaving his door open. She easily hurdles the gate and begins walking away. He climbs out and goes over to shut the passenger door.

“Where’s your car?”

“I took an Uber here. I’ll walk back, fuck you very much, asshole!” She holds up her middle finger as she walks away, hips swaying.