Slipknot: A Private Investigator Crime and Suspense Mystery Thriller (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series Book 3)

by D. D. VanDyke

  Manson dropped me off at the Horseshoe Tavern in the Marina District, a nondescript eclectic dive without even booths to sit in. Deep and narrow in design, patrons had the choice of seats at the bar, along the walls or at the back near the pool table. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why someone like Cole Sage would hang out here, other than proximity to his boat at the marina.

  Cole waved at me from the back, over the heads of a fair crowd for a weeknight, and I pardoned myself through until I could get close enough to speak. “You look tired,” I told the grizzled reporter truthfully.

  “Been a long day. Follow me.” He turned and led me out the back door, taking an immediate left into the adjoining building. I smelled Mexican food. Through a storeroom and a restaurant kitchen we went, Cole nodding to its lone occupant, an older man cleaning up.

  When we’d passed through and taken seats in the deserted, dimly lit dining area, Cole said, “Los Hermanos. Good food. The owner owes me, so I use it now and again for private meetings.”

  “It’s nice to have people owe you.”

  “I saved his business.”

  “Sounds like a good story.”

  “Do I ever tell a bad story?”

  The man from the kitchen stepped out and said, “You need anything, Señor Cole?”

  “No thanks, Roberto. Leave the lights off. We’ll be fine. I’ll lock up if you need to go. Está bien.”

  “Okay, Señor. Adios.”

  When he’d left, I said, “I could use a Coke.”

  From a clear-fronted refrigerator Cole retrieved two Mexican Cokes, identifiable by glass so heavily scarred and dinged it appeared as if the refillable bottles had been manufactured at least twenty years ago. “Original formula. No corn syrup. Nothing like it.” He popped the tops with an opener hanging on a string.

  “I know.” I drank, feeling the icy cane sugar pour down my throat.

  Cole sat across from me, taking out a steno pad and a high-end pen from his tweed jacket. “Cal, you’re in serious danger.”

  “Way ahead of you. Houdini’s after me. His hit woman tried to kill me and a friend today.”

  He leaned back, gazing steadily across the table. “You don’t seem perturbed.”

  “Neither do you. Why not? I’ve had a chance to get used to the idea.”

  “I’m not the one in danger.”

  “If you believe that, you’re an idiot, Cole…and you’re not an idiot.”

  “Thanks.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Not in as much danger, then.”

  “You think Houdini won’t remove you if you cause too much trouble?”

  “Only if he can get away with it clean. Any funny business with my death and the entire fourth estate will be screaming for his head.”

  “You’d think they’d already be doing that, considering the mayhem he causes with illegal drugs, not to mention the possibility of stock market manipulation.”

  Cole shrugged. “To the public, those are mere statistics. Murder of a prominent journalist is a story. It’s stories that mobilize people to combat evil, Cal. That’s why I do what I do.”

  “I still think you’re being too complacent.”

  He shrugged again, and when he spoke, it was with a deliberately exaggerated Chicago accent. “You wanna live forever?”

  I clinked my bottle against his. “Not me. Die young, stay pretty.”

  “Too late for me.”

  “So what do you know about my murder?”

  Cole smiled faintly. “Let’s try to keep that from coming true. The woman who died was a poker pro out of Seattle.”

  “Got that already. It appears Nina Stanger hired her to take a big score off me and it worked better than she planned. That is, up until the contractor mistook her for me at Coit Tower and killed her in my car.”

  Cole scribbled a note. “You’re stealing my thunder.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I’ll try.” He took a sip of his Coke. “This next bit is highly confidential. If word gets out, it might get me killed.”

  “Oh, now you’re worried.”

  “No more than usual. I’ve been investigating Houdini for the last six months or so, even before you got involved.”

  “Before?”

  “Yes. I got a tip from an insider that got me started.”

  “Thomas?”

  His expression didn’t waver. “You know a journalist can’t reveal his sources.”

  “You have a better poker face than I do.”

  “It’s an asset.”

  “Why do you work with Thomas anyway?”

  “Why do you sleep with him?”

  How did he know? He always could see through me. Must be a reporter’s instinct. I sighed. “That’s not an answer, and I asked first.”

  “It’s obvious. Only from sources like him can I find out the truth hidden behind the walls of organized crime. What’s your reason?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “You’re really the last person I should be talking about my love life to.”

  “I’d have thought I’d be the best, actually. Father figure, no strings, no judgments…and we both want the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  He smiled. “What’s best for you.”

  I felt the torch I’d carried for this man flare up again. I couldn’t help it. I knew it was the hope-monkey again, the simplistic reflex inside me that believed the slowly closing wound left by my father could be bandaged by someone similar. It was an illusion, but it held power nonetheless. “You know, that unconditional platonic love thing just makes it worse.”

  “Sorry. Gruff and crabby is what you want?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Fine. Answer the damn question, Cal.”

  “Much better. It’s chemistry, that’s all. It won’t last.”

  “So you’re using him?”

  “Mutual. He seems to be enjoying it.”

  Cole stared hard. “I could say the same about you. But don’t get on his bad side.”

  That chilled me a little, but I shook it off. “Bad side, wild side; it’s my side, Cole.”

  “That’s what got your face nearly blown off.”

  He’d spoken truth. Part of the reason I’d been willing to help disarm the bomb was the rush of doing something I’d never done before, something extremely dangerous, something that I could forever after point to and say, “I did that.” Something significant. I recalled the truth of Thomas’ quote. Apparently it applied to me as well. “You sent Thomas to me. Brought me into that case.”

  “It’s what you do.”

  Realization struck me. “You used me as a stalking horse. To find out more about Houdini.”

  “Secondarily. My primary purpose was to save the girl.”

  “Bullshit. Thomas could have done that.”

  “He had to have someone come in right behind him, to give him an excuse to leave the girl alive. Claim he had to run. Without you, he’d have had to kill her too. She was a witness.”

  “He’d never kill a child,” I said, not entirely believing it, but wanting to with all my heart.

  “He got that assignment added on. It’s what made him find a way to back out, I believe. Houdini miscalculated.”

  Interesting. It appeared Cole didn’t know I’d been an add-on target too. I rubbed my neck and twisted the bottle idly on the plastic tablecloth. “Not something that happens often, I gather.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “What do you know about the new contractor?”

  “No more than you. I have some people checking, but info on contract killers is scarce.”

  No doubt. Maybe Ron would turn up something. For now, I wasn’t going to mention his potential involvement. “Anything you know would help me, Cole.”

  “Yes…you remember I said I was up in Sacramento, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m digging into Houdini’s ties to the Capitol. I’m pretty sure he has legislators in his pocket, Senator
s and Assemblymen both. Probably a couple of judges and a dozen other important officials. I might be underestimating.”

  As I looked at Cole, I realized he was the key to my salvation. No, not emotionally: physically. If a Pulitzer-prize-winning investigative journalist for the Chronicle published a story like this, it would mobilize the resources of the entire federal and state governments. Houdini would have to salvage what he could and flee the country or be hunted down and arrested, charged with drug trafficking, grand theft, kidnapping and murder, racketeering, bribery and corruption…the list would go on for pages.

  If nothing else, they’d get him for stock market manipulation and tax evasion. That’s how they took down Al Capone, after all.

  “And you think I should be worried,” I said. “I’m just a small fish. You’re the shark that could actually take a bite out of him.”

  “I’m being discreet. Not like you, Cal.”

  “I hope I’m creating enough distraction for you, then.”

  “You still think I’m using you?”

  “Hard to shake the feeling. How close are you to publishing?”

  Cole’s eyes lost their focus, staring past my shoulder. “Not close enough. I have several sources willing to go on record, but nobody knows who Houdini is. Cal, I have to be able to positively identify him. His anonymity is part of his power and his security. Strip that away and he’s halfway to jail.”

  I finished off my Coke. “So what’s our next move?”

  “Why’re you asking me?”

  “Because you have a broader view and more info. I’m on the inside looking out. You, vice-versa. You’re a strategist. I’m a foot soldier.”

  Cole’s eyes grew concerned. “You want my best advice? Back off, fort up, get your brother to light a fire under the Bureau – I can maybe help with that through my own contacts – and stay out of the way.”

  “Go to your room, little girl?”

  “You know I don’t mean it that way.”

  “Would you be giving that advice to a man?”

  “In your shoes? Absolutely.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “I can’t do that anyway. I’ve been hired to dig.”

  “By whom?”

  I smiled. “Confidentiality runs both ways.”

  “How’s this, then. Be cautious. I know it’s not in your nature, but without the force to shield you, you’re just another citizen. You act like a lone wolf, but you have exposed points of leverage. Try to secure them. And because you really have two cases going here – Houdini and Stanger – why not push hard on the lesser one? Maybe you can lull the contractor into a false sense of security, thinking you’re chasing a red herring.”

  “I would be.” Interesting that Thomas had suggested essentially the same thing. Was he trying to reduce my exposure too?

  “But she wouldn’t know that. It would be a double diversion, a way to draw her out.”

  I thought about that for a while; his words had given me an idea. “Okay. That’s what I’ll do. Thanks, Cole. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Likewise.” He stood. “You go out the front. It’s the last thing anyone tailing either of us will expect. I’ll go out the back.”

  “You sure you don’t want to reverse that? You don’t even carry.”

  “I know these streets like the inside of my eyelids and my boat is less than half a mile away. I’ll be fine.”

  I sketched a salute. “So long, Cole.”

  “So long, Cal.”

  Chapter 13

  For security I caught a cab back to the Mission District, keeping a sharp eye out, but I didn’t spot any tails. Most likely the killer would be watching my home, or maybe my office, but unless she had accomplices she couldn’t be everywhere. I tried to think like someone surveilling myself: where would I wait to pick me up again?

  I predicted she’d shuttle slowly between my house and my office, as they were only blocks apart, looking for lights to come on inside either. Therefore, I had the taxi drop me off a block away and I used an alley I knew to approach my office from the rear.

  Making my way across the gated parking lot, keeping to the shadows, I slipped into the basement in the dead dark. “Mickey, you here?”

  “Yeah,” came the sleepy answer.

  “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  I used the glow of my watch light to pick my way across the floor and up the stairs, locking the door behind me. On the second level, enough light spilled through the lace curtains to see the kitchen. “Thomas?” I said quietly.

  “I’m here.” His voice startled me even though I’d half-expected him – either here or in my house’s bedroom. He stepped from the shadows in the corner nearest the balcony. “Well done. I didn’t hear you until you started walking up the creaky stairs.”

  “Any idea where our nemesis is?”

  “I haven’t seen her, but she must be out there.”

  I stepped up to embrace him. He felt good in my arms. “How did you know to wait here?”

  “It seemed logical you’d come by. If not, I expected a call before you went to sleep. And I wanted to secure the premises in case the Old Maid tried to set a trap.”

  “Old Maid?”

  “That’s what she goes by.”

  “Like ‘Thomas’?”

  “Just like that.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  He stared at me as if I were stupid.

  “Just your first name. What harm can that be?”

  “What harm indeed? I’m sorry, Cal. Thomas will have to do for now. Here, let’s sit.”

  We took seats at the table. My eyes were adjusting to the dimness and I had no trouble seeing his face. “Catch me up,” he said.

  I gave him a thorough account of the day, feeling fatigue filling my bones, especially as I was leery of running the espresso machine. It had lights, after all. By the time I was done speaking, I was ready to sleep, but I forced myself to ask, “What did you do all day?”

  “I went shopping.”

  “For?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I sighed and pushed myself to my feet. “Fine. Show me in the morning. I’m wiped out.”

  He didn’t get up. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Not yet, I’m not.”

  “The master of the double-entendre might be mastering something else tonight if he doesn’t get his ass off that chair.”

  “I thought you were, how did you put it, ‘wiped out.’”

  “You’re doing all the work, limey. I’m just going to lie there and think of England.”

  “Yes, dear.” Thomas stood and followed me into the bedroom.

  I hadn’t been kidding; I crashed hard immediately after the appetizer and, to quote Arlo Guthrie, didn’t get up until the next morning.

  It was nice to wake with Thomas there. The first time, he’d slipped out in the middle of the night like a phantom. Reaching over to touch his smooth back, I traced his spine up to the base of his short hair, in the light of the morning filtering through the closed blinds. “I just realized who you remind me of.”

  He rolled over to lie on his back. “Who’s that?”

  “Jason Statham.”

  “Oh, dear. I was at least hoping for Beckham. Or even Prince Harry.”

  “Statham’s hot.”

  “Only because you Americans can’t differentiate among accents. He’s the child of a bloody Derbyshire black-market street seller, so he sounds like a thug every time he opens his mouth.”

  “My God, what a snob you are. He’s a self-made man. I suppose your parents are nobility?”

  Thomas didn’t respond, only rolled onto his elbow and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh really? I don’t get to ask about your background?”

  “You can ask. I won’t answer. It’s better for both of us.”

  My mind agreed, but my heart wanted to know more. Fortunately, my head usually outvoted my heart, especially when life and de
ath were at stake. “Okay, for now. But someday you’ll have to give me the whole story.”

  He stroked my cheek. “Maybe when you’re safe.”

  “Who’s ever safe?”

  “Exactly.”

  “My ancestry isn’t exactly upper class, you know.”

  “That doesn’t matter in America. It’s one of the best things about this country. Everyone’s self-made. You know, like Statham.”

  “Oh, now you admire him?”

  “Of course I do. I just don’t think he’s sexy, nor would I ‘hang out’ with him, given the choice.”

  I shrugged and let it drop. “So what did you buy yesterday?”

  Thomas stood to open the small closet. It usually held a few things I left here just in case, but this time it brimmed with a dozen items on hangers. He picked one up. “I hope I got your size right.”

  “A dress? Not really my style.”

  “I’ve seen you wear dresses.”

  “Going out to dinner or to Mass, sure. Not working.” I stood to take it from him, looking at the label. “Dior. I bet.”

  “It really is.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Oh, don’t be too impressed. It’s pre-owned. Less than five hundred dollars. A pittance.”

  I grabbed the next hanger, and the next, and then realized several shoeboxes lay on the floor. “Even used, there must be ten thousand bucks worth of designer clothes here.”

  “We wouldn’t want our disguises to be cheap, would we?”

  “Disguises?”

  “We’ll be two girls on holiday. It’s the best way to lose the Old Maid. Or confuse her.”

  I sighed, stooping to pick up the shoeboxes and set them on the bed. “These better not hurt.”

  “All the best shoes hurt, but I think you’ll be all right.”

  I opened two boxes to see two pair of calf boots, stylish but practical, with rubber soles. “Not bad.”

  The third held expensive black heels that looked like they would go with almost anything. “Painful,” he said. “Just in case you want to look your best.”

  “Give me a few minutes. I need to talk with Mickey.” I threw on some sweats before I headed down to the basement, rousing him, and then went back up to the kitchen to brew coffee. I heard Thomas humming in the bathroom, so I set his java on the dresser and took the other two mugs back down.