Off the Leash

by D. D. VanDyke

  “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 there, 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 deep 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 noticed that 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 leaned 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 dropped her off and picked 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 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.