It looked like these places had been individually constructed in the 1950s to house the Greatest Generation as they rebuilt postwar America, and had been renovated many times since, creating a patchwork of styles. Pseudo-Spanish architecture abounded – Sorkin’s was one of those – but I also spotted Cape Cod, Colonial and several variants on mid-century modernism. In short, typical coastal California.
I pushed on the back gate of the weathered wooden six-foot privacy fence and slipped inside. The yard I saw teemed lush and had begun sliding into overgrown as if neglected for months. No swimming pool – the coast range towns were too cold from the Pacific breezes to make that feature de rigueur. Mark Twain had famously said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco,” which definitely applied to Marin County as well, even in July.
Movement behind the kitchen window made me pick my way up the garden path toward the back door, where I met a brown-haired Caucasian woman not too different in build from myself. With unwashed curls and housecoat, bloodshot eyes and shaky hands, she looked like hell.
Without speaking, she took my arm and pulled me toward a small, separate building.
Opening a door, the woman motioned me into what turned out to be the house’s small freestanding garage. It smelled of automobile, wood and dust. Shutting the portal behind, the woman flipped on the bare-bulb light above a nondescript Toyota sedan, and then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Corwin. I’m Mira Sorkin.” She clutched my right hand as if drowning, and then let go suddenly, confused at what she felt there.
It hardly bothered me anymore, people’s reactions. Best to get it over with. I brushed the hair back on my right side, revealing the scars that the reconstructive surgery hadn’t been able to completely banish. I’d had my bob cut to fall over them and with a bit of makeup I could conceal where they crept into the open along my jawline.
Mira’s surprise flattened out with the smoothing of her face. I ignored the other woman’s emotions by dint of long practice. “Bomb,” I said curtly, holding up my right hand and flexing it. “I was lucky. This hand’s a bit weak, but the blast didn’t even damage my eye.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Mira froze, as if not sure what to be sorry about, or how to act. “I suppose in your business…”
My business? I wondered if Mira thought all P.I.s encountered bombs, or should be damaged goods, like in a noir novel where the protagonist is always on the edge of falling apart, usually from alcoholism. Maybe Cole had told her I had been a cop, or that the P.I. trade was shady. Maybe that’s what she meant.
“It’s fine, really,” I repeated. “Can’t even tell with my hair in place. Got some ID?”
“What?”
“ID. I like to know for sure who I’m talking to.”
“Oh…not on me. Inside.”
I grunted in irritation. “Okay, later. Why are we in the garage?”
“I can’t be sure the house isn’t bugged.”
“Then why don’t we go somewhere else?”
Mira pulled a cordless handset out of her housecoat pocket. “I have to stay by my home phone.”
It appeared Mira would say more, but I held my hand out for the cordless and examined it briefly before pulling out a multi-tool from my belt. “Let’s make sure this isn’t bugged either, otherwise we’re in here for nothing.”
After opening it up, I shook my head, screwed it back together and handed it to Mira. “Nope. Looks clear. Now what’s this all about?”
Mira shuddered and breathed deeply in, and then out. Her exhalation sent the sharp sour smell of alcohol wafting under my nose. “My daughter was kidnapped two days ago.”
Hairs rose on the back of my neck as my cop sense woke up with a surge. I had expected some kind of marital dispute, even a custody battle, not capital crimes for breakfast. And Mira had been so calm on the phone.
If it was my daughter I’d have been climbing the walls and looking for someone to shoot.
I wiped the leg of my jeans where I’d brushed the Toyota in the close confines of the small garage. “Mira, let’s go inside. I’ll check for bugs in your house,” I said, pulling out the sniffer and holding it up, “and maybe I could trouble you for a bagel or something. I came right over after our call and I haven’t eaten. I think better with some calories in me.”
“Of course, of course.” Mira retraced her steps, leading us through the back yard.
“Remember, don’t say anything that matters until I give you the all-clear.”
Once we’d made our way into the house, Mira poured mugs of coffee and dropped two bagels into the toaster, puttering around as if lost. The interior of the house showed off the latest look. The kitchen had high-end counters, cabinets and appliances, and the brewing coffee dripped from a machine that probably cost more than a set of rally tires. It smelled heavenly.
So Mira was comfortably well off. I tried to figure how much I could ask for and not feel guilty, reminding myself that “a workman is worthy of his wages.” Even after two years off the force it was hard to charge people money to help them, but I had a business to run and bills to pay.
While Mira puttered, I ran the sniffer over the kitchen and nook, and then the living room, working outward.
Nothing.
A less thorough check of the three-bedroom upstairs made me reasonably sure that no microphones lurked. Someone might be wiretapping the phone line on the way out or there might be one of any number of devices attached to the computer in the corner, but at least it seemed we didn’t have to worry about talking.
I did see pictures of Mira and a girl in various settings taken within the last ten years. I recognized a couple of local landmarks – the carousel at Fisherman’s Wharf, the observation deck of Coit Tower, the Alcatraz dock. As I looked at the photos, nowhere did I see a man or anybody else that might be family.
The girl’s father must be out of the picture. Gone, rather than dead. People didn’t excise the dear departed from their memorabilia, only those they didn’t like anymore.
Or I suppose he could have been a sperm donor. Unusual, but not unknown.
Just to be sure we were not overheard, I shut the drapes and turned on the stereo in the living room, hoping the two tactics would limit the ability of anyone to paint a windowpane with a laser pickup. Devices like that read the sound waves coming off the glass, but worked best with a quiet background.
Finally, I sat down in the kitchen nook across from Mira. I slapped blueberry cream cheese on a bagel. “Okay, I think we’re clear. First,” I lifted a finger, “business. It’s a hundred an hour plus expenses, max a thousand a day, and I need ten thousand up front as a retainer.” I’d charged more, occasionally a lot less, but to a pharmacist who probably took down two or three hundred large a year, ten should be doable.
Nor was I wrong. Mira nodded without flinching. “I’ll write you a check. Just help me, please.”
“Good. Now, tell me about this kidnapping. Start with why you haven’t called the cops.”
Mira gulped from her mug, her eyes bleak. “The people that took her said not to talk to police, but they didn’t say anything specifically about a…someone like you.”
My expression might have turned a bit strained, but I tried to ignore her words. The client was the client. “I used to be a cop, if that makes you feel better.”
“Really? How did you…never mind.”
Ignoring her strange attitude, I asked, “So why did you wait two days to get in touch with me?” Or maybe she didn’t wait. The card could have been put into my drop box any time after Friday night.
“Cole Sage was the only person I knew that wasn’t police, that might have…connections to…people like you…so I called him first and he referred me. Don’t worry. I can keep my mouth shut. But I gave them what they wanted and thought I would get Talia back right away but it didn’t happen, and now it’s been more than an extra day and I’m about to lose my mind.”
So Mira could keep her mouth s
hut, she claimed. That was another odd thing to say. I fished the photocopy of the business card from a pocket, not letting her see the front as I unfolded it, glancing at it before I folded it over again. Something seemed out of whack, but damned if I knew what. Things were tugging at my subconscious, but weren’t ready to surface. “Cole said to get in touch with me…how?”
“I put the card where he told me to, and he said you’d get it.”
So that explained how the card got to my office. Cole Sage must have picked it up and dropped off. He did live in the City, a couple of miles from my office and home in the Mission District. It would be just like the journalist to do it that way. I’d probably come on too strong last time and scared him off, dammit. Or, to be fair, he knew of my late-night proclivities and when I didn’t answer the office buzzer he simply dropped it off and left.
On the other hand, there’d been no message on my answering machine. Cole was nothing if not meticulous. He confirmed everything. I filed that anomaly away.
While I was thinking, Mira finished her coffee, and then went back to the machine for another fill-up. Her stealthy motions as she did it, the details hidden by her turned back, and the clop sound of plastic on the counter triggered recognition in my brain.
“You might want to go easy on that stuff,” I said.
Slowly Mira turned, an orange prescription pill bottle in her hand. “I just…”
“You don’t have to make excuses. I’d be popping Valium too if I was in your position.” I wouldn’t, but I was trying to be sympathetic. Fortunately I never had any trouble with drugs or alcohol.
Adrenaline…that was another story.
Mira sighed. “It’s prescribed. I have anxiety these last couple of years, since my divorce. Panic attacks sometimes.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“I’m a pharmacist, you know,” she said as if that explained something.
“Yes. It was on your card.”
“I don’t have enough money for anyone to make Talia a ransom target but I’m the assistant warehouse manager for the biggest distributor in the northern Bay Area. My building has hundreds of millions of dollars worth of high-grade pharmaceuticals in it, though not many people know it.”
“And they wanted you to, what? Help them rob the place?”
“Yes. They forced me to give them my keycard and my codes. They have my thumbprint on a silicone thingy, which I assume they were going to use on the scanner. They also have all my personal info – social security number, former addresses, family names…and they made me tell them what my security questions and responses were.”
“There’s a monitored alarm?”
Mira nodded, seeming to relax as the Valium hit her, so fast that part of the effect must be psychosomatic. So she wasn’t kidding about using them for a while. “Yes. To open the warehouse you have to call the monitoring center, identify yourself, give them a password, respond correctly to a security question, scan a keycard, put in a PIN code and put your thumb on a scanner. Oh, and all of that is in front of a high-resolution camera with them looking on. Otherwise they send a security team and call the cops.”
I sat back, taking a bite of bagel and sipping my coffee. It gave me time to think. “That’s a lot of security. They would have to have someone to double for you on camera. So right off the bat we know there’s a Caucasian woman of about your age involved, maybe with dark hair. Of course, she could wear a wig. Did you see any of them?”
“No. Just a male voice, middle aged I’d say, on my home phone. Blocked number.”
I took another bite and a sip, thinking while Mira fidgeted idly with her cup. “But you say they haven’t pulled the heist?”
“I…I don’t think so. I had the grocery nearby bring me a prepaid cell phone along with a few other things – they do deliveries, costs an arm and a leg, but what can you do – and used it to call the security center and ask them for the exact time I’d last been at the warehouse. I told them I needed it for my records, and they gave me the same time I closed up Friday night. So the kidnappers haven’t used my info yet. As far as I know.”
“Maybe you better start at the beginning and tell me step by step what happened.”
“But my daughter! She’s in danger!”
I put my cup and bagel down and stared at Mira, not allowing myself to throw her own two-day delay back in her face. Not with a paying client. “Mira, I have to get all the details straight in my mind because any clue might be the one that helps me find Talia. Believe me, this will save time later. If you call the cops now it’ll take them twice as long to get started on this and there will be a lot of hoopla. Odds are very good that your daughter’s fine. Because you have had no personal contact with them, there’s no reason for property criminals to kill, especially not a pretty little middle-class white girl. The public would eat it up and there would be a manhunt coast to coast. The thieves don’t want that kind of heat on them.”
Mira’s face turned shocked and angry. “What does being a pretty white girl have to do with it?”
I sighed, rubbing my head, trying to put myself in her position. “It’s sad, but I’m just stating the bald, non-PC truth. Dozens of poor kids – mostly black and Hispanic – go missing every day in America, but only a handful of well-off white girls. Who gets on TV?” I deliberately did not go into my personal experiences with missing children. When things went off the rails, they usually did so horribly, but I sure wasn’t going to tell her that.
Mira looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “That’s terrible.”
“I know, but perversely, it’s good news. They’re less likely to hurt her. Really. She’ll be okay. I’ll find her.”
“ I never thought anything like this would ever happen to us.”
“No one ever does. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened from the beginning. Give me details if you can.”
Mira took that deep breath and spoke. “Friday night after work I drove home and parked in my garage. Talia should have been here waiting for me – she’s a latchkey kid. The school bus drops her off on the corner. When I got inside I found a note in the middle of the table. There was also a big envelope with a form to fill out with all the information they wanted, just like an application, and a little plastic box with silicone in it for my thumbprint.”
“What did it say? I don’t suppose you copied it?”
“No, I didn’t think to… It just said to fill out the form and put everything including the note into the envelope, seal it and put it in my mailbox. It said they were watching, and not to call the cops or anyone, or else, and that they would return Talia by Saturday evening.”
“Saturday evening. So they probably intended the heist for Friday night or Saturday morning early. They’d tell the security people ‘you’ forgot to do something so you had to come in, but it would be the imposter. What happened next?”
“I did exactly what they said. I filled in every bit of information and put my thumbprint in the silicone box.” Mira’s tone was condescending, perhaps even self-righteous, as if doing what the kidnappers had said should have made everything work out.
I was beginning to vaguely dislike Mira. I wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t overly privileged or rude and she certainly couldn’t be blamed too much for popping pills in a situation like this, two days full of helplessness. Maybe it was just the feeling the woman looked down on me despite the fact it would be my ass on the line. Or perhaps it was a strong hunch she wasn’t being fully truthful with me despite the risk to her daughter.
Mira said, “Anyway, I put the envelope in my mailbox – it’s out front at the curb – and went into my bedroom and stayed there like the note said.”
“Your bedroom faces the back, right?”
“Right.”
“So when did the envelope get picked up?”
“Sometime in the middle of the night, I guess. I fell asleep finally about two, and then I woke up around seven thinking it had all been a dream until I remembered
again that Talia was gone. No one had called. I went out to check and the envelope was gone from the mailbox. I came back inside, got something to eat, checked my email, turned on the TV and waited. They called about an hour later.”
“So that was Saturday morning…they called around eight? But you checked the mailbox around seven?”
“Yes. Does that matter?”
“It may.” It indicated, but didn’t prove, that the perps were not actually watching or listening in at the Sorkin house. I would have thought they’d have called as soon as they saw or heard Mira check the mailbox, not an hour later…unless they were very clever and that’s what they wanted anyone to think.
“Go on. Tell me about the phone call. You didn’t happen to record it, did you?” Lots of doctors had recorders on their phones for malpractice protection.
“No. I never thought I’d need anything like that. I mean, I don’t deal directly with patients. I was hired for my degree, not my clinicals.”
So she had no interest in helping people per se with her medical degree; she just wanted to be a well-paid glorified warehouse clerk. A little girl was in the hands of kidnappers, I reminded myself. Not to mention the ten grand and a client that, no matter what her job, didn’t deserve her current karma, especially not as it was tangled up with her daughter’s. At ten, Talia was innocent. I had a child to find and bring home safe.
“The phone call,” I reminded Mira.
“Yeah. Well, his voice was ordinary. Middle aged, as I said, and probably white. At least, he didn’t seem to have any…”
“Ethnic markers?” I prompted.
“Yes. No accent, either.”
“So you mean he sounded like he was from around here?” When people said “no accent,” what they usually meant was that the person spoke like they did.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. American English, not black or Hispanic or Asian…no offense.”
I chuckled. “One grandmother was Japanese, one Mexican, but my parents and I were all born here, so…none taken.” It showed just how PC everything was getting that Mira felt she had to apologize for making the simple factual observation that I was not quite white. “Go on.”
Loose Ends: A California Corwin P. I. Mystery (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series) Page 2
