Loose Ends - California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series Book 1

by D. D. VanDyke

  OFF THE LEASH

  A California Corwin P.I. Mystery Short Story

  San Francisco, 2005

  “It’s murder for sure,” I told my former partner Lieutenant Jay Allsop as he hauled his aging carcass around the scene of the crime. His thin hound-dog face with its permanent five o’clock shadow matched his off-the-rack plainsclothes-issue suit.

  On the other hand, as a woman in this man’s world I took care to keep my look crisp and professional. Pants and a blazer, tailored to hide the hardware I carried, hugged my slim figure, and my dark straight hair was cut in a collar-length bob to hide the bomb scars on the right side of my face.

  “Wish I could disagree, shweetheart,” Allsop replied with a halfhearted Bogart imitation. He lifted the thin blanket covering the dead junkie’s face to reveal a large syringe jammed to the hilt under her chin. I watched as he examined the blonde woman’s stiff arms, which showed old, healed needle track scars, and noticed she’d dressed for comfort – old sweat pants and a T-shirt.

  “Of course you’d like to disagree,” I replied. “You still can’t get over me leaving the force and setting up my own P. I. agency. You envy me.”

  “Only the money you took from the taxpayers,” he said with evident contempt. Our relationship had been wrecked when I’d won a cool mil suing the department and the city, but that’s a story for another time.

  “Get over it,” I said, suppressing my urge to justify my actions. “What room you want?”

  “Kitchen,” Allsop said. “You get the bathroom.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, but didn’t protest. It was his crime scene. Former cop or not, technically I was just the citizen who found the body.

  Slipping on a latex glove, I entered the tiny, dirty space. A whirlwind of mess greeted me, but not the grime and disorder of a life lived on the edge. A bottle of cheap shampoo lay on the floor, cracked as if from a fall off the shower caddy. A roll of paper had tumbled into the open toilet, turning into a loose mass of soaked pulp. Several other items had been knocked over, willy-nilly. But underlying it all, the bathroom had been clean.

  “There was a struggle in here,” I called.

  Allsop grunted acknowledgement.

  Even so, a rankness oozed from the bathroom, a musky, animal odor. I could see a recently used litter box tucked behind the toilet as well as a double food-and-water-bowl combo among the detritus.

  “You see a cat?” I called.

  “Nope, but there’s half a bag of dry store-brand food out here,” Allsop replied.

  I examined the window, a screenless opening one foot square that no adult could fit through. Stuck shut, it barely budged when I tugged at it repeatedly.

  “The vic had an indoor cat. There’s poop in the litter box and water in the bowl. An unfixed tom, by the spray smell.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what I want to know. We sure he’s not hiding somewhere?” I swept my eyes around the studio all-in-one, searching for anywhere that could hold a cat. A new widescreen TV sat on a nice stand, and the refrigerator had been replaced recently as well, looking out of place. “You checked in all the cabinets?”

  “Yeah.”

  I walked over to the food bag to rustle it deliberately. When I did that around my own cat Snowflake, he came running.

  This time, no result.

  “Plenty of good food in the fridge,” Allsop said after my cat-location attempt failed. “Not really in keeping for a junkie in the Tenderloin.” He turned to me. “Why were you here again?”

  “Following a lead on a missing persons case, a runaway, that’s all. I got a first name – Corrine – and this address.”

  “Well, she’s not missing anymore.”

  “The vic isn’t the runaway. She was someone who might know where my missing girl is. The father’s my client.”

  “I’ll need that info.”

  I stared at Allsop. “Only if it seems relevant. I have no evidence the murder is related. A visit from the police won’t help his state of mind.”

  “If you want to know what CSU finds out here, you’ll cough up.”

  I turned away. “Like I said, only if it’s relevant.” I took my obligations to a client seriously.

  “Then I’ll have to ask you to clear the crime scene. You’re a civilian now. Can’t have you mucking it all up.”

  “You’re a jerk, you know that?”

  Allsop laughed humorlessly. “I’ve been told.”

  “Where’s Brody today, anyway?” I asked, referring to his rookie partner.

  “Out sick. Whole bunch of people down with the crud,” he said. Allsop continued searching the main room so I went back into the bathroom to root through the vanity and medicine cabinets, ignoring his threat to throw me out. He wouldn’t burn any bridges yet, not while I might figure out something that would help.

  “Methadone,” I said, holding up a prescription bottle with one pill in it. “Turk Street Clinic, recent date. She was in a program. Explains the cleanliness and the food.”

  “No needles or stash in the bathroom, right?”

  “Not that I found.”

  Allsop grunted. I knew he probably wanted to say something cutting, but much of what I knew he’d taught me in our two-year partnership in Homicide. Criticizing my forensic skills would get thrown back in his face for sure.

  I set the pill bottle back inside the medicine cabinet for the CSU to document and returned to the large room. “Who kills a recovering junkie with a needle to the brain?”

  “We’ll know more when the ME does a postmortem tox screen.”

  “The bathroom’s messed up but there’s no sign of a struggle in the bedroom. A syringe isn’t a knife. Very hard to be that accurate.”

  “Maybe she relapsed and got high. Or was sedated.”

  “Then why the mess in the bathroom?”

  “She was rendered unconscious there, and then brought in and laid on the bed. Then the perp shoved the needle in.”

  “She’s not a small woman. Carrying her took someone strong.”

  Allsop waved at the neat bedroom. “And careful. No drag marks, no stumbling.”

  I nodded heavily. “The method means something. It’s a statement.”

  “Another junkie?”

  I lifted the new, pretty comforter to gaze again at the victim’s head, injector buried to the hilt under her chin. Taking out a pocket notebook, I wrote down the details of the syringe: its capacity, description and some kind of reference number. “This is personal. Jealousy? Maybe a lover.”

  “Or a stalker. Good an idea as any.”

  “You find any ID?”

  Allsop passed me a driver’s license.

  I said, “Issued more than a year ago. Corrine Martinez, age…twenty-six. This address listed. She was keeping it together, then.” Holding down a real apartment for that long, even a cheap one in a shithole like the Tenderloin district, argued for basic stability even before she decided to get clean. Meant she’d never passed the point of no return: living in crack houses, selling herself for another fix. “Any indication of a job?”

  Allsop said, “Pay stubs from Ringo’s.” That was a bar and grill nearby. “Looks like she got maybe twenty hours a week. Food stamps. Welfare card. Checkbook with thirty bucks in it.”

  “On the straight and narrow for sure. Damn shame.” Few enough managed to get the monkey off their backs, and to end up like this…

  I heard voices and loud footsteps ascending the interior stairs, and then a knock at the door. “Sounds like CSU’s here,” I said. “You’ll be tied up here for a while. I’m going by Ringo’s and the clinic.”

  “This isn’t your case, Cal,” Allsop said with a hint of warning.

  “It may relate to mine and I’ll give you what I find out.”

  “Not like I can stop you.”

  “Nope.”

  I knew his protests were merely for show, so he could claim to his boss he warned me off. He couldn’t afford to
turn down my help. Besides, Corrine was my only lead to Angela Bromley, the runaway I was searching for. Twenty bucks had gotten me a tip from a street alky that the two had been seen together at a taco shop nearby. A hooker working the early shift had provided the recovering addict’s address.

  First, I walked a couple blocks to Ringo’s, a typical corner tavern slightly more respectable than most. At least it was at street level rather than in a basement and its barred windows remained clean and unbroken.

  August's midday sun tried and failed to break through the brooding clouds, washing the street with a wan gray light. I ignored the catcalls of crackheads, bums and layabouts gathered on corners or sitting in front of those shops that tolerated them. My professional garb stood out and more than one panhandler approached me, only to back away as I opened my blazer to reveal the gun and P. I. badge on my belt, one I’d deliberately selected for its resemblance to a real, if generic, detective’s shield.

  Like I used to carry.

  I stuffed down the pain of being unjustly kicked off the force once again as I entered the pub. Stale smoke and beer smells competed with the odor of lemon wood polish and pine cleaner. A scattering of working-class men and women ate cheap bar food and drank straight from bottles or cans. The only glasses to be seen held shots of hard liquor.

  “Plate for Joe!” a tall, middle-aged bartender called into the air. In response, a man in a delivery company uniform walked up to collect his burger and fries.

  “Just you and the cook today?” I said conversationally as I approached the slab the barkeep stood behind.

  “Yep. What can I get you?” he asked with a professional smile.

  “A decent beer. You pick. And some information.”

  “I’m kinda busy with the lunch rush,” he said as he uncapped an icy bottle of Anchor Steam and set it in front of me. “My waitress didn’t show.”

  I took a long pull, and then set the bottle down carefully. “Yeah, about that…what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Burns.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Short for Burnside. Dad was a Civil War buff.”

  I shrugged. “Who am I to judge? My mother named me California, but you can call me Cal.” I pulled back my blazer and briefly showed my badge. “I’m investigating a murder. Your waitress wouldn’t happen to be Corrine Martinez, would it?”

  Burns made the leap immediately. “Damn. Was it her?”

  “Afraid so.”

  He sighed heavily, sadly. “You said murder, so she didn’t fall off the wagon. That’s something, anyway.”

  “Recovering addict,” I stated.

  “Yeah. She was doing all right. I gave her what hours I could, but…” He waved at the tavern. “If the city cleared more of the riffraff off the streets I could really make something of this place.”

  “You know why they call this area the Tenderloin?”

  “Sure. Officers used to be paid extra to venture in here. Enough to buy prime cuts of meat.”

  “You know what cops call it now?”

  Burns shook his head. Apparently he hadn’t heard this one.

  “Another meat joke. They call it Hamburger Hill. Every effort the police make here gets ground up and spit out.”

  “That’s not funny, Cal. I was there at the real Hill, back in Nam.”

  I met Burns glare for glare. “Wasn’t meant to be funny. Plenty of my brothers and sisters carried out in boxes, too.”

  “You’re not a cop anyway. I know a real shield when I see one.”

  “I was on the force for eight years, last two in Homicide. Now I’m a P. I. consulting on Corrine’s murder. I’ll give you the number of the lieutenant in charge and he’ll vouch for me, if that’ll make you feel better.” I took a hit off my beer to ease the confrontation.

  Burns looked away as his shoulders sagged. “Naw. It’s all right. Anything that will help you catch whoever killed Corrine.”

  “You liked her,” I ventured.

  “Like a father. Thirty years younger than me.” His eyes brimmed suddenly.

  “That wouldn’t stop most men your age. Okay, so you weren’t dating the help. Ever been over to her place?”

  “Once. Damn tomcat. Big tabby mix named Bowser. Almost ate my face. He hates men.”

  “We didn’t find the cat.”

  “Must have gotten out. I told Corrine to get him fixed to settle him down but she didn’t want to. Could have done it for free at the SPCA, too.”

  I shook my head. “I found the door shut but unlocked when I arrived, and no cat. Maybe he ran away when the perp entered.”

  “No way. First, what kind of murderer leaves the front door open while he kills somebody? Second, Bowser doesn’t run from anything. He attacks. Corrine used to joke about it.”

  I reached up to rub the blast scars alongside my right ear and my neck, turning my head away as I did so, a habit. “Unless the perp wasn’t male.”

  “That would fit.”

  “But whoever killed her was strong. Sound like any women you know?”

  Burns thought a minute. “Veranda. That’s a name, not a joke. Comes in here couple times a week. Big girl. Samoan or Hawaiian or something like that. Could snap most guys in half.”

  “When do you think she’ll be in again?”

  “No telling, but give me your number and I’ll call you.”

  I handed him a business card. “Veranda friendly with Corrine?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “Corrine gay, or bi?”

  “Don’t think so, but I didn’t know her all that well.”

  “Well enough to visit her place.”

  “I was dropping off some food, that’s all. She was sick.”

  I placed my hands flat on the bar. “Okay. You know how it works, though. In a murder, everyone’s a suspect until they aren’t, so it’s probably wise not to take any sudden trips out of town.”

  Burns spread his arms to encompass all we could see. “I own this place. Where would I go? And I want to know who did this.”

  “Me too. Oh, before I forget…you ever see this girl?” I pulled a photo of Angela Bromley out of an inside jacket pocket.

  “Yeah…Angela. Showed up here a couple days ago. Bought a grilled PB&J and talked to Corrine for a while.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly?”

  Burns waved at the bar food menu on the wall. “Yeah. Cheapest thing on the list and it sticks to your ribs. Hungry customers don’t stay and drink.”

  “How’d she look?” I wanted to know her general condition – healthy, strung out, whatever – but Burns answered differently, which was the nice thing about asking open-ended questions.

  “Absolute knockout,” he said. “Maybe fifteen, sixteen. That picture doesn’t do her justice. She was fending guys off from the moment she walked in. Well named, Angela. Face like an angel. Made all the other women look like hags.”

  “You let underage girls in here?”

  “Long as they sit at a table and don’t drink alcohol, it’s legal. For most of them, better in here than out on the street. I don’t abide trouble.” Burns’ eyes drifted off me into that look they call the thousand-yard stare, the kind men who’ve killed sometimes exhibit.

  War veterans and hard cases.

  “When did you see her?”

  “They left together.”

  “Together?”

  “Not like that. Like friends.”

  “Pretty sudden.”

  Burns shrugged. “People on the street get close real fast sometimes. Maybe Angela needed a mother figure. Maybe Corrine saw some of herself in Angela. She had a good heart. Tried to help people, you know?” He looked away, blinking.

  “Any idea where I can find Angela?”

  “I guess she wasn’t staying with Corrine.”

  “Not that we could tell for sure.”

  “Then a shelter, maybe. Or…” He held up his palm and gestured toward the unfriendly streets outside.

  “Listen, you’
ve been real helpful.” I pulled out my money clip. “I’m not a cop, so this is legit.”

  Burns waved the bills away. “No. Just find out who killed her.”

  I threw down a twenty for the beer and a heavy tip anyway. “Call me if Veranda comes in or you think of anything else, okay?” I said before I walked out. I resolved that if I found Angela I’d come by again with the word to cheer Burns up. I liked to keep my sources happy, and a P. I. often solves cases on goodwill. I’d leave a few more bucks on the bar.

  I was charging the father full rates anyway as he seemed well off, just a concerned white-collar workaholic single dad who’d let his relationship with his teenage daughter break down after an ugly divorce.

  My next stop was the Turk Street Free Clinic. I pushed past the line of down-and-outers waiting to be seen, slapping away a hand trying to cop a feel or pickpocket me. Avoiding the counter and the overworked nurse, I walked boldly through the staff door and headed toward the back and the row of cramped offices used by the doctors working there.

  Spotting a harried-looking young woman in a long-sleeved white coat sitting at a desk, stethoscope around her neck, I approached, giving her the once-over. Light brown shoulder-length hair framed delicate features, and a fashionable high-end blouse with a classic knee-length skirt hovered above practical pumps. The whole ensemble would run at least a week’s pay, so I immediately pegged her as a slumming do-gooder at the free clinic.

  “Hello, Doctor. Can I have a moment of your time?” I flashed the badge.

  The woman froze for a moment, and then relaxed. “I’m very busy,” she said.

  “Just a quick word, Doctor…Racine,” I said, reading the name off her tag. “Do you know Corrine Martinez? She was in a drug recovery program here.”

  “I can’t talk about patients unless you have a court order, even former ones,” she replied.

  “This patient is extremely ‘former,’ Doc. She was murdered last night and I could use your help.”

  Racine’s demeanor suddenly changed from wary to relieved, which made me wonder what she had to hide. It could be anything, but as long as it didn’t relate to the case I didn’t care about slumming doctors with secrets.

  “Of course,” she said brightly, standing up. “Let me get her file.”

  As she did, I glanced around the office. The only personal touches seemed to be several horse figurines on a small high shelf, out of the way.

  A moment later the doctor had retrieved the file from another room and returned, opening the pale green folder to examine the contents.

  “How long has she been in treatment?” I asked.

  Racine leafed through the papers, still not letting me see them. “I wasn’t her physician, but I see she self-referred almost a year ago. Completed counseling; consistent attendance at group; still on Methadone but has been tapering off. That’s a very good sign. Oh…” the doctor said as her face fell. “I suppose that doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Not to Corrine, but it does to me. We want to find who did it. Also, have you seen this girl, perhaps with her?” I showed Angela’s picture.

  The doctor licked her lips. “No…no, I don’t think so.”

  “How about a large South Sea Islander woman named Veranda?”

  “No, and now I’m starting to feel like you’re on a fishing expedition. Is Corrine really dead?”

  “Afraid so, Doctor. When does her group therapy meet?”

  “Seven p.m., in the back.”

  I checked my watch. Coming up on two o’clock. “Thanks. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

  Doctor Racine patted her coiffure with a flutter of fingers. “No bother,” she said.

  “Oh, one more thing. Do you have syringes with this reference number here?” I opened my notebook to show Racine the code I’d written there.

  “No. That’s a big one, mostly used in ERs to inject large doses during trauma, like epinephrine straight to the heart.”

  “Not something for street drugs.”

  “Absolutely not. That syringe is too big for any but the largest veins.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” she said helpfully, “Large animal vets use them too. Takes a heavy sharp needle to go through horsehide.” She glanced up at the figurines. “I still ride a bit to keep in shape.”

  “Honey?” a voice from the hall said. “You ready?”

  “Sure, Don. Just a minute.” Doctor Racine closed the file and stood. “Sorry, miss, but my shift is done and my husband’s here.”

  “Thanks for your time,” I replied, glancing at her hands and noticing she wore no rings. Not even tan lines. As I passed the husband in the hall, a tall good-looking man in his late thirties wearing an expensive suit, I noticed he didn’t have one either, though his third finger retained a slight indentation. He paid no attention to me as I walked by.

  I left by the back way so I could take a look at the group therapy area, a spacious room with movable dividers and lots of folding chairs and tables. A murmur of voices wafted from one screened corner, so I passed through and out the rear door.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon combing the shelters, showing Angela’s picture, but learned nothing. After grabbing a bite to eat, I called Allsop. “What you got?”

  “You first.”

  “My runaway didn’t sleep in any nearby shelters. The clinic won’t give me much on Corrine, so I’m going to ask some questions at her group therapy session this evening. There’s a large South Sea Islander woman named Veranda that’s a regular at Ringo’s where Corrine worked, big enough to have carried her from the bathroom to the bed, but the bartender says they weren’t close.”

  “Not much.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Allsop cleared his throat as if deciding how much to tell me. Maybe I should have tracked him down in person. “Tox screen isn’t done yet but CSU said the residue in the syringe smells like Ketamine.”

  “Special K.” That was the street name for the cheap, powerful tranquilizer, often used to cut more expensive drugs.

  “Yeah. Straight into the brain that way it would be instantly fatal.”

  “How was Corrine rendered unconscious?”

  Allsop paused. “We don’t know. No obvious blows to the head or other needle marks.”

  “Bruising from the struggle in the bathroom?”

  “None. Maybe she was drugged orally.”

  I repressed a snort. “If she fought, she wouldn’t have swallowed a pill. Besides, it would need at least several minutes to take effect. No, that scenario makes no sense.”

  “None of this makes any sense.”

  “Then there’s something we’re missing.”

  “Keep digging. Find the runaway, find the cat. Find something, Cal.”

  “Why, Jay! That almost sounds like you need me after all.”

  “Don’t push it.” Allsop hung up.

  I thought about swinging by my office – it was only a mile away, a brisk fifteen-minute walk through the hilly streets – but my research assistant Mickey Tucker was out for a week with the cough going around. I might as well head over to the clinic early.

  I went in the back, following a gaggle of rough customers coming in for their therapy sessions. The large room’s circles were filling up with people, most seated and chatting. I got a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee and sipped it with a grimace, and then walked up to one of the staff members to ask which group was Corrine’s.

  Once I found it, I looked over the several attendees, picking out the least poorly dressed man, a forty-something nerdy type in a button-down shirt and mended glasses.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m Cal. Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “H-hi,” he said. “I’m Jeremy.”

  “Hi, Jeremy. Do you know Corrine Martinez?”

  Jeremy looked around. “She’s not here.”

  “I know. Have you ever seen this girl?” I held up the picture.

  “Yeah. She’s not here either.”

 
; I was beginning to wonder if Jeremy was all there. “Yes,” I said patiently. “Did the two hang out together?”

  “Yeah. Last couple of sessions the girl came in with Corrine and sat behind her. Didn’t say anything. Are you a cop?”

  “P. I. The girl’s a runaway. Underage. Her father would like her home.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe they’ll come tonight.”

  “I doubt it. Corrine’s dead.” If the word hadn’t gotten out already it would soon, so there was no harm in telling him.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Jeremy’s lack of affect seemed creepy, almost sociopathic. Maybe he had one of the milder forms of autism. Lots of mentally challenged people in the Tenderloin: some harmless and struggling, others violent and dangerous.

  Jeremy didn’t seem the type to kill, though, nor did he look strong enough to have easily carried Corrine. Besides, because of the tomcat’s reaction to men I was looking for a woman. Hopefully Burns would call me if Veranda dropped in at Ringo’s.

  Jeremy stood staring at me as if entranced while I mused, so I asked, “Did you ever see either of them with anyone else here? Anyone they hung out with a lot?”

  “The man in the suit liked Corrine. And Angela too,” he said immediately.

  “I didn’t tell you her name.”

  “I heard Corrine call her that. I remember names real good.” Jeremy pointed to people in turn. “Rose, Nick, Charlie, Bruno, Shirley…” He rapidly recited several more before I cut him off.

  “Okay, that’s cool. What was the man in the suit’s name?”

  “I never heard it. I’d remember.”

  “Then can you describe him?”

  “I don’t do so good with what people look like.”

  I told myself to be patient. “Was he tall or short? White, Black, Hispanic? What color was his hair?”

  Jeremy’s face scrunched up. “Tall. White. Brown hair. Nice suit, like from a real store, not Goodwill.”

  “How do you know he liked Corrine and Angela?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “He talked to them. Stared at them when he thought people weren’t looking. Angela most of all.”

  “Who else did he talk to?”

  “Doctor Racine. He drops her off and picks her up in his Mercedes sometimes.”

  A chill seized me, a rush of adrenaline that accompanied the reordering of clues in my mind.

  “Did this man ever pick up Corrine or Angela? Go anywhere with them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks, Jeremy. You’ve been a big help.” He smiled and rubbed the spot where my hand had been, but said nothing.

  Pushing past several people beginning to crowd into the screened-off circle of chairs, I walked toward the front to find the office where I’d interviewed Doctor Racine. It was locked, but its old door yielded quickly to a stiff credit card.

  After making sure no one had seen me, I closed and locked the door and rapidly but methodically searched the small room, beginning with the shelf with the horses on it.

  Finding nothing there, I moved on to the desk, quickly examining every document, front and back, until… Bingo. I folded the sheet of paper and shoved it in my pocket, and then quickly left the building the way I came in.

  As I walked, I speed-dialed Allsop’s cell, but got only his voice mail. “Jay, it’s me. I’m heading out to Doctor Theresa Racine’s home in Pacifica.” I pulled out the paper and recited the address I’d found in her desk. “I’m sure she had something to do with Corrine’s death. They were seen together. Coordinate with Pacifica PD and come on out ASAP. Call me when you get this.”

  Not reaching Jay was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he couldn’t forbid me to go talk to the Racines. On the other, I was on my own with no backup. I briefly thought of calling the M&Ms, Meat and Manson, brothers that provided me freelance muscle from time to time, but they lived across the Bay in Oakland. I didn’t want to wait the hour or two it might take, and if my gut was right, someone else might die tonight.

  Putting the phone away, I trotted down the edge of the street between the parked cars and the light traffic, safer than the sidewalks in the Tenderloin. Hookers, dealers, pimps, slumming college kids, panhandlers and thugs filled the sidewalks. I passed three squad cars in as many blocks, SFPD trying to keep a lid on the ever-present violence even while failing utterly to stop the open trade in vice. They could arrest the small fry all day and all night and never make a dent.

  I hadn’t driven because the Tenderloin was close. Besides, parking was hell and invited vandalism to boot. So, ten minutes of jogging to my office in the less seedy Mission District made me glad of my comfortable shoes and annoyed that I’d neglected my running regimen.

  When I reached the gated parking lot in the back, I fobbed open Molly, my deep blue Subaru Impreza, with a beep and a flash of lights. With no time to waste, I took off my blouse right there in the open to throw on a lightweight Kevlar vest underneath it, and then buttoned it up again. There were bigger things at stake than a short public lingerie show.

  Soon I was exceeding the speed limit southward along the Pacific Coast Highway. Pacifica lay about ten miles from the San Fran city limits, an expensive bedroom community tucked between the hills and the beaches, perfect for a doctor and her corporate husband if my memory of Don’s suit and shoes held up. Lawyers, bankers, civil servants, stockbrokers…each segment of San Francisco’s white collar set had its own uniform. I’d pegged Mr. Racine as middle to upper management in one of the large investment firms.

  I tried Jay again when I pulled up in front of the Racine’s address, but he didn’t pick up. Parking at the property line out of sight of the front door, I threw on my blazer and walked up the long landscaped walkway onto the well-lit porch. The rock facing and trim of the large house told of money at the seven figure level – not filthy rich, but a long way from the Tenderloin.

  I wondered why the doctor was working regularly at the clinic. It couldn’t pay much, even with generous subsidies from the city and state. Pro bono work, maybe? Or possibly she was doing court-ordered community service for some kind of misconduct.

  It took almost a minute after I rang the doorbell to see movement within. The doctor – Theresa, I recalled from the paper in my pocket – opened the door in an expensive sweat suit, the fancy kind people don’t actually work out in. “Yes?”

  “Evening, Doctor. Remember me from the clinic today? Cal Corwin.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, puzzled.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She backed up and waved me through, leading me into a nicely appointed parlor with diplomas and pictures of horses on the walls. “What’s this about?”

  “The dead woman, Corrine Martinez?”

  “Oh, right. I’d forgotten.”

  “Doctor –”

  “Call me Theresa, please. And you said it’s Cal?”

  “Short for California.”

  “How interesting.”

  I looked at the array of pictures on the wall: equine paintings and photos of Theresa and her husband riding, mostly. A few of her younger, with horses and awards.

  “You don’t have kids?”

  “Don wants to wait another year or two. He should make VP by then. I’m only twenty-nine, so we still have time.”

  “Rodeo?” I asked, gesturing at the wall.

  “Barrel racing.”

  “You said you still ride.”

  “We do. In fact, Don’s out back doing the chores.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “You have horses here?”

  “Yes. The two-acre property backs up on the hills. We ride almost every day.” Theresa led me over to a large plate glass window and pointed. Across the backyard deck and swimming pool a barn and tall wooden fence was visible in the moonlight. Electric light spilled from windows and cracks.

  “How many do you have?”

  “Horses? Just the two.”

  “How long does it take to do the chores?�
�

  Theresa seemed relaxed, with no problem answering my questions. That made me hope my fears were unfounded, at least as far as she was concerned. “Well, they have to be fed and watered, curried and brushed. Checked over. It takes me half an hour or so, but Don wasn’t raised around them like I was so it takes him longer. He’s very methodical. He should be done soon.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Hedge fund manager.”

  “Nice.” I waved at the perfectly decorated interior.

  “We’re fortunate, but we’re not really rich,” she said, rather defensively I thought.

  “Why do you work at the clinic?” I asked. “You must be able to make a lot more somewhere else. A local doctor’s office?”

  Theresa raised her chin. “I want to give back to the community. It’s very fulfilling. Don suggested it. He makes more than any doctor anyway, and it’s close to his work so he drops me off and picks me up.”

  “Convenient.” It meant Theresa had no car of her own during her shift at the clinic, which made it very unlikely she would pop back home during the day.

  “Who are you again?” came a sharp masculine voice from the kitchen. Don Racine stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans, boots and a work shirt. I hadn’t seen him cross the back yard. Maybe he had skirted the fence line.

  “My name’s Cal Corwin. I’m collaborating with the police, investigating a murder.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “The victim was a recovering addict from the clinic where your wife works.”

  “So? How do you know she ever even saw Theresa? There are a lot of doctors.”

  My cop sense flared. He’d said “she,” but I hadn’t said the victim was female. Coincidence? I didn’t think so…though perhaps his wife had mentioned it on the drive home. Yeah, that must be it. Maybe I was getting worked up over nothing.

  Not wanting to be blindsided in case the two were in it together, I drifted to my right a couple of steps, away from Theresa. “I’m just following up some leads. Excuse me.” I said, keeping my voice casual as I pulled out my phone.

  I speed-dialed Allsop again, praying for him to pick up. He didn’t, but I acted as if he had, keeping my eyes on Don. “Lieutenant, it’s me. Yeah. I’m out at the Racine place. How close are you? Five minutes? Good. See you then.” Shutting the flip-phone with a confident snap, I slid it back onto my belt.

  “Why do you think this has anything to do with us?” Don asked.

  “The woman was killed with a large syringe full of Ketamine. Any chance you have any lying around the barn?”

  “I don’t even know what that is. Honey?” Don turned to his wife with a puzzled look.

  “It’s an animal tranquilizer. We have syringes, but only for vitamin shots. I’m not a vet. I don’t keep Ketamine here. It’s a controlled substance.”

  I glanced at Don and back to Theresa, trying to keep them both in view. “You’re a doctor. You could get it easily enough.”

  “Just what the hell are you accusing me of?” Theresa said, her voice rising.

  “Nothing, yet. But the police will be here soon with a warrant. Will they find anything?” I was bluffing, pure and simple – doubly so, as not only was there no warrant, I wasn’t even sure Allsop was on his way. If this had been a straightforward case of whodunit I’d have smiled and backed out the door, leaving it to the cops to plod through the legal and forensic process.

  But I didn’t have that luxury. My cop instincts told me that if I left, someone would be dead within the hour.

  I just wasn’t certain who.

  My phone rang. Quickly I put it to my ear, backing up a couple more steps and trying to watch my two suspects. “Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah, it’s Jay. Listen, Cal, we found the cat. A neighbor lady had it. Said Corrine dropped it off about nine in the morning.”

  “And time of death was?”

  “ME says somewhere around then.”

  I dropped my voice to a barely audible level. “Jay, you I need you out here at the Racine address with backup, CSU and a warrant. I’m almost sure one of these two killed Corrine and maybe Angela.”

  “Almost? What’s your probable cause?”

  “It’s all circumstantial, but my gut is on fire.”

  “Judges don’t issue warrants for gut feelings.”

  “If you don’t figure something out fast, you’re going to have another dead girl.”

  Allsop sighed. “Then whatever we find, you’ve already seen, right?”

  “Got it.” He meant that if – when – we found evidence, I’d claim to have observed it beforehand to justify the search. Bending the rules? Sure, but if it saved a life and put away a murderer, I’d live with it.

  “Is that the police?” Don spoke up.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “They’re welcome to come in and look around. We have nothing to hide.”

  “Don!” Theresa’s jaw dropped. “I’m not going to have a bunch of cops tramping around looking for God knows what. You know how they are. If they want to find something, they’ll find something, even if it’s just an expired Vicodin in the medicine cabinet. We need to call our lawyer.”

  Don walked over to embrace his wife, sitting down with her on the sofa. “No. It’s better that they take their look and then go away. Just relax.”

  The two argued for a moment more, and then Theresa began to sob quietly. Don stroked her hair and shrugged at me. The whole scene threw me off. They weren’t reacting the way I’d expected.

  I waited for an awkward fifteen minutes until Allsop pulled up in an unmarked, a Pacifica PD squad car right behind.

  I opened the door for the two men before they could ring the bell. “This is Don and Theresa Racine,” I said as they entered, gesturing toward the couple on the couch. “Theresa’s a doctor at the Turk Street clinic. They have horses. The murder weapon was a horse syringe filled with horse tranquilizer, and Mister Racine has given consent to search the premises.”

  “I don’t want them here,” Theresa protested weakly.

  “Mister Racine?” the uniform asked.

  “Go ahead. Search anywhere you like,” Don replied.

  The two cops exchanged glances and Allsop said to the uniform, “Only need the one. You stay here. Cal and I will look around.”

  The officer nodded and took a waiting stance facing the couple, thumbs in his belt.

  I led Allsop into the kitchen and out the back door, hurrying. “It has to be in the barn,” I said.

  “What has to be?”

  “Ketamine.”

  “Be pretty damn stupid to leave incriminating evidence lying around like that, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, it would. That’s why I think we’ll find it.”

  I could feel Allsop staring at me, but I was enjoying the upper hand so I held off enlightening him.

  When we entered the barn, two horses shifted in their stalls. “You start at that end. I’ll look here.” I immediately began opening rough-hewn cabinets, finding tack and what I assumed were tools for tending horses: brushes and combs, curved knives I thought were for trimming hooves, hammers, shoes, nails…

  “Got something.” Allsop slipped on a latex glove and picked up a small bottle from a drawer. “Ketamine. And syringes. How did you know?”

  “Doctor Racine identified the type of needle as something they use in trauma medicine for emergency procedures, such as injecting epinephrine straight to the heart.”

  “So? That’s what she would say.”

  “But out of the blue she also volunteered that the same kind of syringe could be used to inject horses with drugs.”

  Allsop nodded. “Bad liar syndrome.”

  “Probably.” Good liars kept their stories simple. Bad liars fill in too many details. They try to act helpful, thinking it makes them seem innocent. “When I found out she rode horses, I immediately became suspicious. When I realized she actually kept horses at home, I knew I was onto some
thing.”

  “Good work,” Allsop grudged, “but I still can’t believe she’d leave the stuff lying around to be found. If I was her I’d at least hide it from such a casual search. There’s a thousand places in here.”

  “Yeah, that is funny, huh?” I walked slowly around the barn, searching for anything out of place.

  “What are you thinking?”

  I didn’t answer, just kept looking, looking.

  “You know something, Cal. Cough it up.”

  “I interviewed a guy at the clinic that said Don was paying attention to Corrine and Angela.”

  “Your runaway?”

  “Yeah. You notice his ring?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “It’s gone. Recently, from the mark. Theresa hasn’t worn hers for some time. No indentations, no tan lines. But both of them spent time outdoors. What’s that say to you?”

  “Trouble in paradise? She hasn’t been happy with him for a while.”

  “Theresa wants kids. Don doesn’t. They’re at odds, maybe not sleeping together. She said he’s on the verge of a big promotion. And he makes most of their money.”

  Allsop’s eyes widened. “Don married a younger woman, but now maybe she’s not young enough. She’s starting to settle down and wants to be a mommy. He’s not ready to give up playing stud alpha male. Starts seeing Corrine on the side. Theresa finds out or suspects. Tension rises further.”

  I nodded, still searching. “Maybe Corrine wants more than to be a kept woman. Things get dicey. It’s manageable for a while, but then Don sees Angela – who’s a real looker, by the way – and decides he wants her.”

  Allsop started moving toward the door. “That pushes Theresa over the edge. The clinic’s only a couple of blocks from Corrine’s place, so she walks over and kills her. We have to arrest our good doctor.”

  “Yes, we do.” I followed him as he hurried across the back yard to the house.

  “I know that tone,” Allsop said as he walked, glancing at me sharply, “and I know there are some holes. We’ll fill them all in during the interrogation.”

  Big holes, I thought. Like, how did she move Corrine from the bathroom to the bed? But I didn’t contradict him. I was happy with how this was playing out so far.

  As soon as we entered the living room, Allsop said, “Mister and Mrs. Racine, please stand up.”

  “What?” Theresa said.

  “It’s all right, honey,” Don said soothingly, rising to his feet and lifting her with him from the sofa. “We have nothing to hide. Let’s just cooperate and get it all over with.”

  “Mr. Racine, please step away from your wife.”

  “Okay…” Puzzled, he did so.

  Allsop turned to the uniform. “We found Ketamine and syringes in the barn. Since this is your jurisdiction, you get the collar.”

  “What? That’s impossible!” Theresa cried. “Or…the vet must have left it there!”

  The Pacifica PD officer removed handcuffs from his belt. “Theresa Racine, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. Please place your hands behind your back.”

  “No! I want my lawyer.”

  “You have the right to remain silent.” The officer continued to recite the Miranda advisement while placing the cuffs on an unresisting Theresa Racine.

  Don looked concerned but not too distressed. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll have our lawyer at the station before you get there. He’ll have you out on bail in no time.” He went to pick up the phone on a nearby table. As Theresa was being led away, he spoke loudly to the person on the other end, presumably his attorney.

  When he’d finished, Allsop said, “She’ll be all right, Mr. Racine. Pacifica isn’t Oakland.”

  “Pacifica’s Crime Scene Unit will be here soon, Mr. Racine,” I spoke up, putting a hand on my former partner’s arm to warn him to silence. “Will you be all right till then?”

  My fingers dug into Allsop’s skin as I could feel him take a breath to protest. Cops don’t leave a crime scene unattended, especially with the close relative of a suspect there…but this time we would.

  “Sure, I’ll be fine. I have some other calls to make. I know some powerful people that can help.”

  “All right, then we’ll leave it to the locals.” I practically had to drag my former partner out the door and down the front walk.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Allsop hissed. “He’s going to run straight to the barn and dispose of the evidence.”

  “Then let’s go make sure he doesn’t,” I replied, hurrying along the property line out of sight of the front door. We crossed a low fence and skirted the pool, staying behind the Magnolia trees planted there until we approached the barn. Circling it from the rear, I led Allsop to a large window, left open for the comfort of the horses.

  Just in time, we saw Don enter from the main door and turn on the lights. We faded back slightly to avoid being seen. The sea breeze rushing into the hills made enough noise to cover small sounds.

  I pulled out a compact digital camera and began snapping pictures. “He already gave us permission to search, so this is all admissible,” I breathed into Allsop’s ear.

  He nodded, watching as Don walked straight over to the drawer with the syringes and Ketamine. The tall man slid it open, looked inside for a moment, and then closed it without touching anything there.

  “What the hell?” Allsop muttered. “He knew…”

  “Take out your weapon and watch,” I said quietly, removing my Glock from its holster.

  Without further delay, Don walked past the two horses, which whickered restlessly. At a piece of the rough-boarded wall, he reached his finger through a natural knothole and pulled. One section two feet wide popped outward on high-tech hinges.

  He stepped through and pulled it closed after him.

  I raced along the side of the barn to the door and entered, ahead of Allsop by virtue of being twenty years younger and in a lot better shape. Pointing at the false wall, I raised my weapon in a one-handed grip, a small bright flashlight braced beneath it in the other.

  “You’re not a cop anymore, Cal. I go through first.”

  “You’re also a crappy shot, Jay, and I’m wearing a vest under this blouse.” I slapped my chest. “Are you?”

  “Shit,” he muttered, and reached for the knothole.

  When the wood swung out of the way I saw a short, narrow corridor that dead-ended at what I thought was the corner of the barn. I strode forward, weapon close and ready. Allsop’s breathing told me he was right behind.

  At the corner I peeked around to the right, spotting a door just three feet away. Switching off my light, the blackness became near absolute. No light showed in cracks around the jamb or beneath, telling me it was sealed tightly. The configuration of the corridor and the lightproof and probably soundproof door told me what I needed to know.

  With my flashlight back on, I let Allsop see the situation, and then passed it to him. I had to have a hand free to open the door.

  “He must have light inside,” I said quietly. “I’ll go right, you go straight. If we can see, drop the flashlight and we take him down. Just don’t shoot the girl.”

  “Girl?”

  “Angela.”

  “What –”

  “No time. Answers come later. On three,” I said. “One, two, three.”

  At the signal, I opened the door and turned to my right, weapon swinging with my line of vision. The space was small, only about eight by twelve, and I saw Don with his back to me, kneeling atop a single bed. I barely had time to notice the leather straps and chains bolted to the wall, the portable toilet in the corner, the sour stench of fear.

  At first I thought Don was raping the girl whose feet I could see sticking out from under him. Then I saw the pillow gripped in his big strong hands, his full weight on it.

  “Get off her, now!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and pointed my weapon.

  Don looked over his shoulder, his face twisted in an inhuman mask of effort, ignor
ing me with the intensity of concentration.

  Allsop didn’t hesitate. The sound of his .38 Special smote my ears, leaving them ringing, and a hole blossomed in Don’s ribs. He gasped and sagged, his hands falling nerveless from the pillow.

  I holstered my weapon and grabbed Don, dragging him off Angela and the bed to crash onto the floor. Allsop covered the big man while I cleared the pillow and bedclothes from off Angela. Her body was handcuffed to the bedframe.

  I checked her pulse and put my ear to her lips. “She’s not breathing,” I said, and immediately began CPR. Airway, breaths, chest compressions: the ABCs. A long, tense moment later she gasped and coughed, flailing.

  “Angela. Angela, it’s all right. You’re safe now,” I said, holding her until she came to her senses. When she’d calmed down, I used my multi-tool to pop the handcuffs. Soon, Angela sobbed in my arms. I tried to comfort her, but after coming that close to death she’d need a lot more than a hug.

  Even with the bruises and looking a wreck, I could see she had that rare sex appeal that women would die to have and men would kill for. Not a blessing, perhaps, but a curse.

  No wonder her father was protective.

  “Dammit, no service in here,” Allsop said, shaking his phone as if that would help. “Must be shielded.” He left Don cuffed and bleeding on the floor for long enough to run outside and call Pacifica PD, telling them the situation. It wasn’t long before EMTs were loading Angela into an ambulance while another unit treated Don’s gunshot wound.

  “You held out on me,” Allsop accused me as we watched CSU do its work, neighbors craning to look over their fences at the scene. “You might have got that girl killed.”

  “All I had were suspicions, and Jay, you’re a really bad actor. If I’d told you, Don would have picked up on it. As it was, he led us straight to her.”

  He rubbed his temples. “We’re damn lucky he didn’t just put a bullet in her instead of using a pillow.”

  “Gunshots make a mess. I’m actually surprised he decided to kill her right then.” Allsop was right, in a way. The safest thing would have been apprehending him as soon as he opened that panel, but he might have been armed and we’d have had a gunfight at close range. Surprising him had seemed the smart play, but it had almost gone wrong. I clasped my hands together to hide the adrenaline reaction.

  “What didn’t you tell me?” Allsop asked.

  “Nothing you couldn’t have figured out for yourself. You thought jealousy had driven the wife to murder Corrine, but why leave the needle? It was one more clue that could have been disposed of.”

  “A frame, then. Pointing straight to Theresa.”

  “Not too straight, not too obvious. Don was pretty smart. He takes a morning jog from his office like he often does, straight to Corrine’s apartment. She lets him in. They start making out on the bed and he slips the needle in, slams the Ketamine straight to her brain. She’s dead within seconds.”

  “But why kill her at all?”

  I rubbed my face, feeling weariness creeping up. “Corrine was pressing him for more, I bet. More time, more attention. She would have been the first prisoner if Don hadn’t seen Angela and become obsessed. That signed her death warrant.”

  “What about the struggle in the bathroom?”

  “There was no struggle. It was Bowser.”

  “The tomcat?”

  I nodded. “Think about it. Don shows up at the door unexpectedly. Corrine puts Bowser in the bathroom. He hears a man’s voice or maybe smells him and goes nuts, knocking things over. Corrine can’t relax with the cat so upset, so she takes him to the nice neighbor lady. When she returns, she doesn’t bother to clean up the mess. Don has limited time for their tryst and she knows it. They’ve been doing this for months, probably. He was giving her gifts, too. The new TV, the new fridge. Probably promising her he’d marry her as soon as he divorced Theresa.”

  Allsop snorted. “Like that would ever happen.”

  “No. The next step would have been his playroom. It was built recently, probably piece by piece during his ‘chores’ in the barn. Maybe Don would drop Theresa off, secure in knowing she didn’t have a car, and drive home to work on it.”

  “You should have told me all this before.”

  “It’s all hindsight, Jay. Until we saw him open that panel, it was just theory.”

  Allsop grunted, still not happy.

  “Cheer up. You got the collar after all.”

  “And Pacifica is gonna think I lied to them to do it.”

  “So blame me.”

  “I will. You ain’t getting shit out of this, you know?”

  I smiled. “I got a live girl, a happy father and a fat check on the way, Jay. That’s more than enough.” I stared at his sour face, feeling smug, triumphant. “You wanna go get some coffee?”

  Allsop said something unprintable and stalked off.

  Oh, well. No pleasing some people. I shrugged and reached for my phone to call Angela’s father.

  End of Off The Leash.

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  California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series

  Loose Ends - Book 1

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  In a Bind - Book 2

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