Chapter 11
When I opened the basement door to my office building around noon, I saw Mickey stacking Zs on the sofa, an empty plastic two-liter diet cola bottle clutched to his chest. He claimed he couldn’t sleep without it, which made no sense to me. Caffeine kept me awake, usually a good thing.
I slammed the door and flipped on the light, watching in amusement as my assistant flailed and covered his eyes. “Get up, Mickey. I’m not paying you to sleep. That’s why I sent you home last night, so you could keep the revs up all day. Come on, come on.” I snapped my fingers near his ear. “You did go home, right?”
“No, sorry. My mom had some new guy over and the walls are thin. Awkward.” Mickey rolled to his feet and in one ponderous motion dropped his butt into the nearby office chair, which creaked alarmingly.
“Just as long as you got some sleep. Here,” I said, handing him the dash camera. “Look for shots of the back of an Audi with dirty plates. If you can pull a number we might be in business.”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it.” He plugged in a cable and started tapping at his keyboards. When I didn’t move, he spoke without turning. “Food would be really cool.”
“Okay.” Hovering wouldn’t make him work any faster, so I got up and popped over to Mission Picnic for a couple of sandwiches.
When I got back, Mickey triumphantly exchanged a stack of printouts for a hoagie. “On top is a DMV record.”
“Excellent. 2003 Audi A8 Quattro owned by –”
“Skip that for now. Look at the police report.”
I flipped over the stapled sheet. “Crap. Stolen plate, up in Redding…but not the car?”
“Nope. The car wasn’t touched.”
“So look for another stolen A8 –”
Mickey grinned, cola-stained teeth showing through his beard. “Way ahead of you, boss. Turn the page.”
I flipped to the next sheet. “Here we go. Green A8 boosted last week in Sacramento. Sandy Henneman, 49, reported her keys were stolen from her purse at a nightclub in Old Sac, which she only noticed when she went to a nearby parking garage and found her car missing.”
“I always wondered how you find something missing.”
“Same way you eat jumbo shrimp, I guess.” I leafed through the paperwork to a grainy picture of a man in a trench coat opening the Audi’s door. “Great work, Mickey, but unfortunately it’s another dead end. Confirms what I already suspected: he stole a plate, a misdemeanor, to cover grand theft auto, a felony, and then further obscured the numbers.”
“Now you know how he got here, though.”
I raised my eyebrows, and then got it. “Oh, via Redding? So he came down from Portland, probably, but that’s too thin. He could have stolen a different car, swiped the plate, and then dumped the old one…near the site of the Sacramento theft. Mickey, you’re a genius!”
“I know,” he said, looking down at the remnants of his bitten nails with false modesty.
“Stay right there,” I said as I charged up the stairway to my office. At my desk, I took a deep breath and dialed Tanner Brody, Jay Allsop’s rookie partner.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Tanner, this is Cal Corwin.”
“Hey, Cal. What’s cookin’?”
“I need a favor. Can you hit up Sacramento PD and see if there were any high-end stolen cars recovered in Old Sac in the last week or so?”
“Just in Old Sacramento?” Old Sac was the upscale-funky historical district, a big tourist draw and therefore well policed.
“Right. There’s an Audi stolen there I’ve run across and I’m thinking the perp dropped off his former ride to boost it, so it should be within walking distance.”
“Does this have anything to do with Clawson’s homicide?”
“Maybe.”
“Does maybe mean no but you want me to help you out, or does it mean yes but you don’t want to give me more details?”
Sharp kid. I sighed. “It means yes but everything I got is very thin.” I mentally balanced how much I should tell him against the potential for police involvement to spill over into my search for Talia. “Look, I have a live client in trouble. You have a dead body. I’ll tell you what I can as soon as I can, all right?”
“All right. Call you back soon.”
“Thanks, Tanner.”
Click.
I headed back down the steps to Mickey’s world. “Okay, tell me what you learned about Houdini.”
“Yeah, yeah. Nothing in any of the police computers I can hack and not much on the web. In a decade or two everything will be on the internet, but not yet.”
“Everything, huh? How are people going to get all that info on the internet? A million monkeys typing it all in?” I took a seat on the arm of the sofa again.
“Some will be scanned in, but a lot of stuff people will just want to tell everyone and put it up themselves. There’s this new thing at Harvard and Stanford called ‘The Facebook’ where the students upload all sorts of crazy shit they’d never usually tell anyone – who’s hot or not, party pictures, sexy shots, test answers. Kinda like MySpace but better.”
I picked my way over to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Sounds pretty stupid. What if their parents found out? Or the administration?”
“That’s what I tried to tell Zuckerberg, but he doesn’t care.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“So is this Houdini on The Facebook?”
“Criminals aren’t stupid enough to put stuff online to help catch themselves.”
I snorted. “And Stanford students are? These are supposed to be our best and brightest.”
“Dunno about your college experience, but some of the dumbest people I know were in class with me.”
“Yeah. Binge drinking and STDs.” I thought about the four years I spent at California State University Stanislaus, graduating in 1995 with a criminology degree to qualify for the police academy, and I had to agree. I’d have rather gone somewhere near the City, but the living was cheap in the dusty San Joaquin Valley town of Turlock and there was no waiting list, unlike closer programs. “So, Houdini?”
“A couple of articles in the Sacramento Bee about a flood of pills back in 2003. That’s it.”
“Print them out for me, will you?”
Mickey scrabbled in the pile on his desk and came up with a stapled packet. “Here you go.”
I took them. “Hey, college students like pills, right? Rich kids especially.”
“Yeah. Ludes, Ecstasy, Oxy, stuff like that. And dope of course. Mostly they stay away from hard shit like crack and meth.”
“What about you?”
Mickey’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“You use anything?”
He hesitated, and then said, “I never buy. Can’t afford it. I’ll take a hit off a joint if someone passes it.”
I shrugged. “I’m not a cop anymore and I’m not your mom. As long as you can do the job and don’t bring anything illegal here…”
Mickey relaxed. “You know what? You’re the coolest boss ever.”
“Yes, I am.” I spent the next few minutes filling Mickey in on the latest, and then said, “Monitor that Facebook thing, and MySpace too. Maybe someone will blab about Houdini or a big shipment of pills coming onto campus.”
“Already on it.”
“Also, there’s this guy called Luger, white supremacist. Give me a workup on him.”
“You got it.” Mickey turned to his array of screens.
My cell phone rang then. “Hello.”
“Gale?”
“Speak of the devil.” It was Luger. I climbed the steps back up to my office and paced while I talked. “Do you have something for me?”
“And a good day to you. How have you been?”
I gritted my teeth. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you for asking. And in answer to your question, yes, I have a word for you. I made discreet inquiries and I was told it’s being handle
d.”
“That’s it? It’s being handled?”
Luger’s tone was careful, as if he was walking on eggshells. Like someone was listening. “This word was given from someone who knows. A source one doesn’t doubt. Am I being clear enough?”
“Not at all. I’d really like to know more.”
“As we all would. That’s all I have. You’ll have to trust me.”
I sighed. “I believe what you say, but it doesn’t get me any closer to recovery.”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say on that topic. On another, it may please you to know I’ll have some merchandise available for you. Come by on Friday evening around seven and you can choose whatever you like. We can have dinner.”
“Let me check my calendar.”
“You’re being coy. I like that.”
“Look, Luger –”
“I’ll expect you at seven. Goodbye.”
Dammit. He assumed I was a pill popper and would want the product even if I didn’t want him. Maybe I’d go after all, play along. I didn’t want to antagonize a source.
I sat down at my desk to listen to my messages while I waited for Brody to call back. Still nothing from Cole, which wasn’t surprising. Nothing from Mira, which was. I rubbed my face and phoned her, confirming she’d heard nothing. I told her the heist was over and done last night, but to sit tight and say nothing. The kidnappers should be contacting her soon, or maybe just dropping Talia off. Until then, I’d keep trying.
My reassurances seemed to calm her down, another oddity, but I didn’t ask. If I was in her shoes I’d have been frantic, wondering what was keeping the crew from freeing themselves of the burden of a child prisoner and worrying that they’d do it the simple, ugly way. Now was not the time to grill her about it, though.
Instead, I raised the blinds behind me to let in more light and read the two-year-old newspaper articles Mickey had printed out.
They quoted unnamed sources on the street that claimed Houdini had recently become a big player in the illegal distribution of prescription drugs. He was reputed to have ties to Chicago organized crime, but none to the cartels south of the border. The articles speculated some of his product came from Canada and some was smuggled in from the Far East.
Lab tests paid for by the newspaper’s investigation on various pills bought on the street showed them to be either genuine or high-quality fakes with the same, if generic, ingredients. No fillers, none of the substitute drugs that often made scoring from the street deadly dangerous.
Apparently, Houdini’s buyers got what they paid for. Kept them happy and it was smart business on his part. Fewer overdoses, fewer dissatisfied customers ratting to Narcotics or pushing back against the supply chain…in short, a sterling reputation in the community of his peers.
Houdini was the Warren Buffet of pharms, the Steve Jobs of pills.
I knew from my time on the job smart abusers even got legitimate prescriptions from real doctors, providing bottles with genuine labels and keeping them filled with the uncontrolled versions. As long as they didn’t drive high, no cop could even arrest them for possession. It was a beautiful system for everyone with few of the risks of distributing street drugs.
As long as Houdini could keep getting high-quality supplies for cut rates, that is. Like paying a heist crew a few hundred grand to score ten mil worth or more.
Near the end of the second article a paragraph mentioned the possible connection to a pharmacy warehouse heist in Canada, one of the big mail-order outfits that made a specialty of re-exporting cheap drugs to the US – all legal, at least on the Canadian side. The theft had been carried out by two men and a woman, never caught, and the article didn’t report how it was done.
It did mention that they had left a security guard dead on the warehouse floor, shot several times in the chest. That chilled me. Once they’d crossed the line to murder there seemed no reason to flinch from killing Talia.
Looked like they had lived on their profits for a couple of years and were now ready to score again. I made a note for Mickey to look for more on the heist and crew. Maybe he could connect them to more jobs they had pulled.
I threw down the printout. All this was great background, but got me no closer to freeing the girl. I was starting to feel irrelevant. Or worse, that poking into the situation had made myself a target, gotten Bill killed and put Talia at greater risk. I had a horrible vision of Mira collapsing on her kitchen table as I brought her the worst news any mother can get.
Yet again I pushed all that aside, all the distractions that liked to chew their way into my brain, tried to shut it all down and think. All the great real-life Inspectors from Vidocq to Pinkerton to Serpico emphasized thinking first, being smart, only taking action when the time was right.
But this wasn’t a case of catching the criminal after the fact. In that sense I had more in common with fictional investigators such as Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot, racing against time to save the latest victim chained in a basement somewhere…only real life seldom wrapped up the plots so neatly. I had a strong feeling that even if I got Talia home safe I wouldn’t be tying up all the loose ends on this one.
I picked up a pen and began jotting down notes, reviewing what I knew about the case starting with the beginning to see if I had missed anything.
Miranda Sorkin called Cole Sage for help getting her missing daughter back. On one hand I had no independent or concrete evidence Talia was really kidnapped. Therefore, she could be anywhere – visiting her father or some other relative, for example. On the other hand, I could think of absolutely nothing Mira would gain by lying. If she was in on the deal, why call attention to herself?
Yet Mira seemed distraught but not the wreck I would have expected. Was that a result of Valium-induced numbness or did she know more than she was telling? If the latter, was the lack of concern from despair or from confidence Talia would be all right?
If confidence, she wouldn’t have called me.
So, despair or tranquilizer.
And what did Mira paying her ex-husband Dennis large sums of money have to do with it? I’d love to go up to Seattle and grill him about it, but any trip there would take a minimum of twelve hours. Someone like Cole could do it, but I knew no one else with the investigative chops, not that I trusted anyway. Not unless I wanted to go against Mira’s wishes and inform SFPD. I made a note to phone Dennis, though. Not as effective, but maybe I could get something.
Next, Cole Sage was out of town and had passed the case on to me. Mira had apparently reached him, but now I couldn’t. Might he be putting me off, avoiding me? I couldn’t see why.
The heist crew was fairly competent. They’d exerted leverage against Lattimer at the security center to smooth the way, they’d put the armlock on Mira with her daughter to get easy access to the warehouse and they’d employed a young white man in a stolen green Audi to stand back, watch and cover them if necessary.
That guy may have killed Bill, may have gone to Lattimer’s to do the same to him, may have employed some thugs to take me out. However, killing seemed a bit extreme, likely to draw more attention, very unprofessional. It didn’t fit.
Until I knew cause of death for sure, Bill dying might have been an accident when things got rough. The guys in the alley might have just administered a beating to me and maybe the guy at Lattimer’s door was there to drop off his payment or threaten him further.
Maybe.
Or maybe these people were more ruthless than I thought and intended to tie up all their loose ends with bullets. That would mean Talia’s corpse might already be rotting in a hole somewhere.
If so, I’d do my damnedest to bring Houdini down.
I wished again that Meat had thought to snatch the young white guy at Lattimer’s door. I’d have enjoyed beating the info I needed out of him.
Try as I might, I couldn’t put any more pieces together, nothing that would help me. That left only one thing I could think of, a weak long-shot: calling Dennis Sorkin, M
ira’s tax-evading ex-husband with the offshore accounts.
I reached for the phone after making sure Mickey’s gadgetry blocked my number on caller ID, and then dialed.
Loose Ends - California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series Book 1 Page 12
