As I did, Mom was nowhere to be found. Chloe and Kira, her Pekingese dogs, stared at me like impassive little sphinxes from their perches on the living room sofa arms. She must have headed for a friend’s place, still angry. Several lived within walking distance, most of them stagnated leftovers from their shared Haight-Ashbury summer of love.
Not much summer around this place today.
Or love.
I pushed my pace along the cracked, sloping sidewalks under the usual coastal overcast, both to clear my head and because I only had three hours to meet the woman at the Vitale Hotel. Hopefully my bank could expedite a secured loan against either my house or my office.
“I’m sorry, we simply can’t do it that quickly,” the loan officer said with one of those awkward smiles people use when they’re splitting the difference between sorrow and pleasantry.
“But the deeds to my properties are in my safe deposit box here. I can hand one of them over to you immediately and you can write the loan.”
“Ms. Corwin, if the finance department supervisor were here it might be possible, but she’s out sick today. Everything has to go up to the main office, and they’re swamped. We might be able to have it for you by Friday.”
I clasped my hands together under the table until they hurt. “All right. Friday it is. Where do I sign?”
Now for plan B.
After picking up the car title from my safe deposit box, I drove my Subaru from the gated parking lot in back of my office to Title Loans Royale, just a short mile away in South of Market. They were going to rape me on the rates, but I could come back in a few days and pay them off once I got the bank loan.
Walking around Molly with a clipboard and scribbling a lot, the young Latin guy with “Alfonso” on his nametag smiled and nodded when he waved me into the chair in front of his cheap laminated desk. “I can give you eleven.”
“Eleven? That’s crazy. This is a customized Impreza rally car with a Vortech supercharger, Öhlins shocks and suspension, Summit Racing performance exhaust and a bunch of other mods. It’s worth thirty grand easy.”
He shrugged. “I can’t evaluate all that fancy stuff. I can only go by the book, and the book says eleven.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Eleven was more than halfway to what I needed. I handed over the title.
My watch read ten-thirty as I left with the cash. A few minutes later I was outside Sergei’s place and buzzing to be let in before opening time.
“I need fourteen grand,” I said when he locked the door behind me.
Sergei’s sunken eyes looked me over. “Okay.”
Now that’s a friend.
“I got eleven already, but I figure I should have at least twenty-five to offer so she won’t take Madge.”
“Good idea. Coffee?” He slipped behind the bar and set two mugs on its scarred surface.
“Sure.”
He poured while I fidgeted, and then he took his cup into the back room, leaving me standing there.
Three minutes later he came back with a stack of cash. “Here’s fifteen, just in case.”
“Thanks, Uncle Sergei. I owe you one.”
“You owe me fifteen thousand and one.”
“What’s the vig?”
“For you? Nothing for the first month. One point after.”
I smiled my thanks, finally believing I was getting a handle on the situation. Nothing like crawling out of a hole to make me feel the invigorating sensation of dodging disaster one more time. “Spasibo. Das vedanya.”
I had just enough time to switch out Molly for Madge and make it to the Vitale Hotel, overlooking the San Fran ferry terminal that served commuters from all over the Bay. The suits, from the wealthiest custom-tailored to the off-the-rack drones, cruised in across the water before biking or walking to the skyscrapers of the nearby Financial District, where the Transamerica pyramid vied for architectural supremacy with the blocky former Bank of America Building, now known as Triple Five.
Financial district. There was irony for you. Billions of dollars floating around there and I had to go to a cash-for-title joint and a friendly loan shark to raise twenty-six Gs.
When I pulled into the parking garage, I saw the woman waiting, this time wearing a long leather jacket and matching neck scarf over what appeared to be a skirt and blouse combo. Her clothes and her dark hair made me think Italian, though her accent had been as American as mine.
I’d already cleaned out all my personal effects from Madge. Now I stepped out of the car my father had given me and braced my shoulders, noticing we were of a height. In fact, other than my almond eyes and our clothes, we could be sisters.
That didn’t make things any better.
It’ll be all right, I told myself. She’ll accept the money. Who wouldn’t? If she wanted a classic Mustang, she could always buy the exact one she wanted rather than taking mine.
She stepped up and held out her hand. “You got the title?”
I sat back against Madge, waved the paper, and then slid it into my outside blazer pocket as though it were a hanky. “You know, my dead father gave me this car.”
“Tough luck, but it’s mine now.”
I pulled out the first envelope I’d prepared and shoved it into her hand. “Twenty grand in cash.”
“Blue book says it’s worth twenty-four. I looked it up online last night.”
I nodded. “Okay.” Pulling out the other envelope, I counted out four thousand more. “Twenty-four.”
“No deal.”
More counting. “Twenty-five.”
“No.”
I glared at her. “Come on, sister. What’s this about?”
Her face stayed neutral. “I like the car. I don’t need the money. Just give me the title.”
I sighed. “Twenty-six. That’s all I got. I can get you more if that’s what it takes, but I need a couple days.”
The woman shook her head slowly. “No.” She slapped the money into my chest and plucked the title from my pocket. “Nice playing with you, sister.”
I swayed on the curb in shock as she tossed an overnight bag into my father’s car and drove away.
Chapter 2
I took a taxi the two miles back to my office. I didn’t feel like walking around with twenty-six thousand dollars in my pocket, armed or not. A mugging would really make my day complete. The hack didn’t blink when I asked him if he could change a hundred.
I put the money in my floor safe, and then flopped down on my sofa, allowing the misery to wash over me. I must have drifted off, because I jolted awake with my heart pounding at the landline’s ring. I looked at my watch as I groped for the phone. Almost two.
“Corwin Investigations, Cal speaking,” I croaked, and then cleared my throat.
“Cal, this is Jay.” Jay Allsop, my former partner at Homicide, that was.
“Yeah?”
“We’re coming by in fifteen. Just wanted to make sure you were there.”
“For what?”
“Just be there.” His tone brooked no disobedience.
What the hell? This was turning out to be one hell of a bad day. Losing Madge, missing Dad and Mom’s anniversary, and now whatever crap Jay was winding up to pitch at me.
I used the time to freshen up, so when they arrived I didn’t look like I’d napped on my sofa, I hoped.
“If you need my services for a case, Jay, I’ll give you a special rate,” I said as I opened the door to let him and his partner, Tanner Brody, in.
“You might want to consider paying me for this one, Cal,” he growled, lighting up a cigarette as soon as he got inside.
Brody rolled his eyes while I opened windows. “You asking for a bribe, Jay?” I said.
“You offering one?”
“Nope. I’m all tapped out.”
“Too bad. I was hoping to bust you for the attempt.”
“Jay, you’re a real class act.”
Brody cleared his throat.
Jay shot him an alpha-dog look, and then sai
d to me, “Do you know a woman named Dalonia Hade?”
“Nope. With a moniker like that, I’d remember, I think.”
“Dark hair, about your build and age? Maybe Hispanic or Italian?”
“That could be a thousand people.”
“I thought there might be a connection, seeing as we found her dead in your car today. One of your cars, anyway.” He said it with such sarcasm that I knew his mind had fallen into its usual bitter fantasy, the one where I’d sued the Department in order to get rich and live a life of ease.
Oh, I’d sued the department, all right, but the money – all of which was tied up in my house and my office – was just a side benefit of sticking the proverbial knife in the heart of my former lieutenant, Nina Stanger, the one who’d ended my career and nearly my life.
Interest surged through me and I could feel my nostrils flare like a hound with a scent. “If you’re talking about a lime-green 1968 Mustang, then yes. I just transferred the title today to a woman of that description. Didn’t get her name, though.”
“You signed over a title without inserting a name, Cal? That’s a misdemeanor.”
“So’s smoking in a place of business, Jay.”
“Welcome to liberal fascism.” Jay blew smoke out his nostrils, and I had the sudden urge to bum one from him.
So I did.
Oh, man, it tasted good.
Brody looked at me with that permanent smile of his, and Jay actually joined in with a deep drag. “Just like old times.”
“Is the car all right?”
“That’s a peculiar question to ask. Don’t you want to know the details of the homicide first?”
“My father gave me that car.”
“Then why’d you sell it?”
“I didn’t. I lost it in a poker game.”
“Ah.”
That one syllable got through my armor and hurt more than anything else he might have said. Of course he knew about my vices, just like I knew about his. You don’t partner with someone for three years without learning most everything.
Jay flicked his eyes at Brody, who spoke. “We found her in the car at Coit Tower.”
Was it Thomas? Seemed a bit extreme, but… “Let me guess. Small caliber bullet, execution style?”
Brody’s brow furrowed. “Not even close.”
“Where's that come from?” Jay chimed in.
So not Thomas, probably…though I really knew little about his methods. “Just a wild guess. Sorry. Go on, Tanner.”
“It appears she died of natural causes. No signs of violence.”
I took a drag off my own smoke. “Farfetched. She was what, in her thirties?”
“Looks like it. We’re running a complete tox screen.”
“Where was she from?”
“No idea. No purse or wallet.”
“She had a purse this morning when I handed over the car. And an overnight bag.”
“No bag either. Actually, nothing on her at all except for the title, in an inside pocket. That’s why Homicide was called in. Suspicion of foul play. At the very least she was robbed after the fact, and the thief missed the paper.”
“Any idea what her line of work was?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
I shrugged. “All I did was play a few hours of poker with her at Sergei’s place.”
Jay coughed. “And you lost a car?”
I repeated the shrug, trying to seem more nonchalant than I felt. “It was a big hand. I thought I had her. I was wrong. Shit happens. Look, gents, I really know nothing at all about her.”
Jay growled at me. “You know the drill. We need details.”
“I’ll type up a statement and email it to you in a couple of hours.”
“Send it to Brody. My email ain’t working.”
I rolled my eyes. “Luddite. When can I get my car back?”
Jay blinked. “It’s not your car. You signed it over. We have the title.”
“Come on, help me out here. The transfer hasn’t even been registered.”
“Whattaya want me to do, Cal? Lose evidence?”
“You’ve done it before.”
Brody’s eyebrows jumped, and Jay’s face hardened. “Not for personal reasons.”
This time my eyebrows went up, but I didn’t speak. He’d take my meaning. At least once to my knowledge he’d gotten rid of evidence to protect a colleague, and if he’d done it one time, he’d done it again.
But I wasn’t a colleague anymore. I guess that made it personal rather than professional, in his world.
Brody broke our tableau. “It’ll go to her heirs once we identify who they are. If it doesn’t get claimed, the city will auction it. Maybe you can buy it back. Sorry, Cal.”
“Yeah, right. What else you know? Anything that tells you why she was at Coit Tower?” The Tower was a local landmark, built at the top of Telegraph Hill with a bequest from Lillie Hitchcock Coit, wealthy eccentric and patron of San Francisco’s firefighters back in the 1930s.
“Nothing.”
“Did you find a gun? Compact Ruger 9mm?”
“No, nothing, like I said. Why?”
“Because she had one on her last night. How about a water bottle?”
“Nope. Car was cleaned out. CSU’s looking, but…”
“Good luck, then, fellas. I have a statement to write.” I snuffed out my half-smoked cigarette in an abandoned coffee mug and slid it over to Jay for the same treatment.
Jay grunted, Brody winked, and I booted up my desktop computer as they left.
An hour later I’d finished my statement. I hit “Send” and started listening to my complaining stomach. It was well after lunchtime and I didn’t feel like scrounging in my fridge. In fact, I had no idea how to feel, except for hungry. Emotionally, I was adrift. In one moment of blinding bravado, I’d lost something dear to me, something irreplaceable. The dead woman wasn’t even on my screen yet.
“You should talk to someone,” my father’s voice said from behind me. I didn’t turn around. He usually appeared beside me in the passenger seat of whatever I was driving, but occasionally he’d visit me in my office or home.
Not really him, of course. Just the product of my bomb-rattled brain. Even so, I welcomed his phantom.
“I’m so sorry about Madge, Dad.”
“It’s just a thing, Cal. An object. You own it. Don’t let it own you.”
“But it was yours!”
“I’m gone, Cal. Let me go.”
I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to turn. “Don’t want to.”
“That’s my girl. But you’re all grown up now. I can’t be the man in your life forever. You have to move on. Find someone for yourself. That’s the way it works.”
“Who? Jay used me, Cole doesn’t want me, Thomas is…impossible. Tanner’s Jay’s partner.”
“You make it sound like those are the only choices. There are millions of fish in the sea.”
“Yes, and they all start to stink after three days.”
“You need to find something more social than a poker table or a rally. Somewhere with healthy people to meet.”
“You mean like a gym?”
“If you like. I was thinking more of church.”
I rolled my eyes. “What, Catholic guys are automatically good for me?”
“At this point, I don’t care what church it is. Go to the Saraha Temple with your mother. Do yoga. Go on a retreat to Harbin. If you don’t want God, at least find something spiritual. Something deeper than the next adrenaline rush.”
“Dad –” This time I couldn’t resist turning.
No one there.
Damn. I’d wanted to see him, even if he was only an hallucination.
I suppose he had some points, I thought as I walked over to Boogaloos for a late lunch. I’d been working too hard, playing too hard, and hadn’t had a date since Thomas.
While our midnight encounter had been spectacular, our first and only dinner out had been stiff and artl
ess. What did an ex-cop P.I. and a hit man have to talk about? Sex? Killing people? Criminals? Cases and contracts?
Chemistry was fun, but I had to have something more.
At Boogaloos, a local gem billed as a pan-Caribbean diner, I slipped into a seat at a small table with my back to the wall, sitting beneath works of local artists. A waitress bustled over immediately, the usually crowded breakfast-and-lunch eatery winding down before its midafternoon closing.
“Just one today?” she asked.
“Coffee for two, please,” said a voice behind her, and a pale man in a windbreaker and a black knit Raiders cap slid into the chair across from me.
Hiding my surprise, I nodded agreement. The server set menus on the table and departed.
“Thomas,” I said.
“Cal.”
“This can’t be a coincidence.”
He raised his hands, long fingers spreading elegantly, a phalangeal shrug.
“Did you kill that woman?”
“No.”
I crossed my arms. “You didn’t ask ‘which woman.’ How’d you even know about it so fast? You been watching me?”
“Not with my eyes.”
I mused a moment. “Cole.”
He nodded, confirming my suspicion that Cole Sage must have heard about the death and tipped him off. The reporter always had a finger on the pulse of the city, and like all good newspapers, the Chronicle monitored police scanners twenty-four seven.
“What’s with you two anyway?”
“That would be telling.” His English accent seemed muted today.
“You’re no Patrick McGoohan. What do you want, Thomas?”
“To help.”
“I ain’t seein’ it yet.”
“My, aren’t we grumpy today.”
“You might be too if you’d just lost something irreplaceable.”
“I’ve been there. But Cal, the car is fine. We’ll get it back.”
“We?”
The waitress brought our coffees and stood by in expectation.
“I’ll have the Desayuno Tipico, scrambled,” I said.
“Make it two.”
She nodded, not bothering to write it down, and left.
“Yes, we,” Thomas went on. “I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”
Slipknot: A Private Investigator Crime and Suspense Mystery Thriller (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series Book 3) Page 2
