Loose Ends: A California Corwin P. I. Mystery (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series)

by D. D. VanDyke

  “So, where do I find this Houdini?”

  Sergei backed away to begin wiping the spotless bar again, eyes downcast. “Ask your other uncles. I tell you nothing more.”

  I sighed with frustration, but I couldn’t blame him. Fingering a powerful drug lord could get him killed. “Thanks anyway. Listen, you know this guy?” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at Red.

  “Da. He’s not right for you.”

  “I’m not looking to sleep with him, just get some information. How careful should I be?”

  Sergei shrugged. “No more than usual. He’s not violent and I know where he lives.”

  “Good enough.”

  “You want muscle?”

  “No, thanks. Your guys are too big and conspicuous. But do me a favor. Ask your people about anyone holding a child.”

  “No problem, solntse.”

  “Guns,” I said, holding out my hands. He reached under the bar without looking, bringing them up and carefully placing them on the polished surface.

  I secured them in their holsters. “See you, Sergei.”

  “Das vedanya, Cal.”

  Chapter 6

  Obviously Red was still hoping to get into my pants or he wouldn’t be doing me the favor of introducing me to his connection. Yet, this was how things worked in the shadowy world of drug dealing. Everything was personal, based on gut instinct, shaky trust and often on hope. People chasing their next high took big risks for small payoffs, which was why the real businessmen didn’t use their own product.

  We walked a couple blocks through streets littered with the husks of the people of the night. I kept my hand on my weapon, but Red’s presence and the lateness of the hour seemed to ward off any trouble. Mutters and profanity followed us from time to time, payback for disturbing the denizens’ fitful sleep. Once, a poorly aimed wine bottle broke at our heels. Red roared like a bull ape and a dark figure slunk back behind his chosen dumpster.

  I was relieved to follow my guide through a creaky fence gate into a tiny backyard full of junk and up a set of rickety fire escape steps. Red rapped lightly on a dimly lit window.

  The curtain, a dirty hanging sheet, jerked aside and a suspicious face stared at us for a moment before unlocking the frame and lifting it. “Hey, Red,” the teenager attached to the face said. He reeked of the needle and the damage done, with emaciated arms and sunken cheeks more fitting fifty than fifteen.

  “Sup, Roach,” Red replied. “The man in?”

  “Think so.”

  “Let us through.”

  “Kay.” Roach stepped out of the way as we climbed in the window.

  Red led me quickly to the front door of this apartment past a smelly rat’s nest of indescribable detritus, broken furniture and paraphernalia. When we stepped into the hallway it closed behind us with the audible clunks of multiple deadbolts.

  “It’s easier and safer to come through there than the front door,” Red said in my ear by way of explanation as we walked slowly through the surprisingly clean hallway. “All twenty-four units are controlled by the guy I’m taking you to. Everyone works for him one way or another – dealing, transport, muscle, recruiting, Now that we’re inside, they’ll assume we belong. Most of them know me anyway.”

  “Do you work for him?”

  “No, but we’re cool.”

  That could mean anything from not hating each other to bosom buddies so I merely nodded, playing along. If Red and I kept our heads on straight this could work out, though I had to admit I was flying by the seat of my pants here. With no leverage and the thinnest of leads, I was hoping to pick something up that would point me in the right direction.

  “This guy have a name?” I wasn’t expecting Houdini, but you never knew.

  “His street handle is Luger. I never asked for anything else and neither should you. Oh, and he’s Brotherhood.”

  “Aryan Brotherhood? Great.” I gestured at my face. “I’m not exactly lily white. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  “Naw, don’t worry. He don’t like blacks and Jews but he’s pretty cool with Asians.”

  “Oh, a liberal. What about beaners? I’m a quarter Mexican.”

  “It doesn’t show, so don’t tell him. Relax, be cool and it’ll work out. He’s a businessman, not a thug.”

  In my experience the two weren’t mutually exclusive, but I held my tongue. Red gestured up the main stairs and we climbed to the third and highest floor. He led me to a door at one end of the hall, nicely painted but obviously heavy steel.

  Before he could knock, a grilled look-through snapped open. “Who’s your friend?” the voice from the other side said.

  “A player I know from Sergei’s. She’s cool.”

  I felt myself being examined for a long moment, and then the tiny opening slammed shut. Locks clattered and soon the door opened to show two tough-looking skinheads, the bigger one with a baseball bat and the shorter guy with a .45 in his hand. “C’mon in,” the first one said and Red stepped confidently between them.

  “I’m clean,” Red said as the first guard put aside his bat and frisked him.

  “I’m not,” I offered as I opened my blazer by the lapels, showing the Glock. Bat guy tugged at the grip for a moment before I reached down with one finger to push the holster release, allowing him to take it from me and put it on a shelf behind him. When he started frisking me I said, “Right ankle,” and he took my holdout too.

  “Any more?” he said with the lift of an eyebrow.

  “Nope,” I lied straightfaced. I still had a tiny derringer and two blades. No reason to make his job easy.

  “She looks like a cop,” the guy with the .45 said.

  “I used to be one, but I got thrown off the force for using.” I showed my teeth. “Now I’m a bodyguard.”

  “Chink chick bodyguard, right,” sneered the big guy with the bat. “I’d go through you in nothing flat.”

  “I’m a quarter Japanese, not Chinese,” I deadpanned but let the rest go. No percentage in challenging the flunkies. I needed to get to the boss.

  My answer seemed to confuse him enough that he had no obvious retort except to mutter, “Japs.”

  “C’mon, Weiser. We need to see Luger,” Red said.

  “What about?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You tapping that?” Weiser flicked his eyes at me as if I wouldn’t notice.

  “None of your business either.”

  “Whatever.” Weiser picked up his bat and led us into a nicely appointed living room with tasteful modern furniture, clean and well lit. “I’ll get him.”

  The other guy holstered his .45 and stood in the doorway, watching us. Red threw himself onto a sofa and put his feet up on one arm as if he owned the place. I hoped he wasn’t overplaying it.

  A moment later a slim man of about forty with a light brown crew cut and a goatee stepped into the room, dressed in tactical pants and shirt, the kind you see all those Blackwater mercenaries wearing in Iraq and Afghanistan. His Doc Martens were spit shined and his eyes held mine after glancing at Red with a brief curl of his lip.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Morning?” I echoed.

  “I like to be precise,” he said in an even voice, his eyes turning to the clock on the mantel. “It’s after midnight.”

  I refrained from mocking excessive precision and shrugged, putting on my best charming smile. “Can we speak privately?”

  “Of course,” Luger said immediately, surprising all present including me. He reached out to take my hand and turned, placing it on his arm as if to stroll with me to a ball. Although I could have pulled away, I let him lead me into the next room, a study appointed with leather chairs and dark wood paneling. I glanced over my shoulder and winked at an openmouthed Red as I walked. I guess the immediate invitation surprised him.

  Luger brought me to an armchair and placed me there like a well-bred gentleman of the old school. I couldn’t help but smile. This man might
be a criminal, but he had style and confidence.

  After closing the door, he walked over to a small side table and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “Would you like something?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  Luger nodded, pouring a second highball with three fingers of what turned out to be a good brandy. After handing it to me, he clinked his glass to mine and sat down. “Prost,” he said.

  “Is that German?” I glanced over at an idealized portrait of Hitler hanging on one wall.

  “It is. And you’re Japanese.”

  “One quarter. My grandmother was from Misawa.”

  “Our ancestors were allies.”

  “In World War Two? I guess they were.”

  “Blood will out.” Luger sipped. “So why did you come to me, miss…?”

  “Call me Gale.” That was my middle name and had the added benefit of being spelled unusually, reducing the ease of tracking me down.

  “You may call me Gunther.” He pronounced the name with a hard “t” rather than the “th” sound, like a German would I suppose, and raised his eyebrows, silently reiterating his question.

  The whole situation felt surreal, one of those things that only happens in art films or real life, which is always stranger than fiction. This guy seemed more like a reclusive millionaire than a neo-Nazi drug dealer. I wondered if he could be Houdini after all, a blind within a blind.

  If he was, and having got this far, what would I say to him? Anything I asked might reveal more than it gained. Proper police interrogation methodology was to establish a rapport with the interviewee to try to make him feel like you’re on his side and have his best interests at heart. Find some common ground. Also, a healthy dose of half-truth got better results than the slickest lies.

  “I used to be a cop, but now I’m an independent businesswoman. I do some bodyguarding, security consulting, skip tracing, that sort of thing.” Taking a drink, I paused as if searching for words and trying to be eloquent.

  Luger’s expression remained polite, interested, but he said nothing. A man of self-control, then.

  “Like you, I often walk in a gray area between the legal and illegal to get the job done. Like you, I have my own ideas of right and wrong, and like you, I suspect, I stick to them the best I can.”

  Sipping his brandy, Luger continued watching me under lowered brows. It was a bit disconcerting, this intensity, but I had no feeling I was in any danger. If anything he seemed fascinated. Maybe he had some weird fantasy of an inter-fascist ideological hookup.

  “I asked my acquaintance out there,” I cocked my head at the closed door to the front room, “to introduce me to you because I want two things. The first and more minor one is an occasional supply of safe, genuine pharmaceuticals, which I understand you can get your hands on.”

  “Why don’t you want to get them from the Irishman out there?”

  The Irishman? Red? It seemed Luger constantly thought in racial terms. I said, “Markup. Reliability. Discretion. And the second thing, which is something only you might be able to give me.”

  Again, Luger merely raised his eyebrows. He used silence quite effectively, this man.

  I went on, “There’s a young white girl of ten I’m looking for. She’s disappeared and I have reason to believe she’s been taken by someone dealing in pills. I know the pipelines are usually different from one product to the next, but I hope you might have heard of a man named Houdini.”

  “Everyone has heard of Houdini. That means nothing.”

  “Good. I hope that says you’re not involved.” I knew no such thing, of course, but keeping my cards close to the vest was second nature to me. “Because you’re not, perhaps you could help me get her back.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I’d owe you a favor. Also, I have no interest in making trouble for your business. This kid is trouble. Her body turning up will bring down a lot of heat. In fact, if she does turn up dead and I do too, I’ve made arrangements for everything I’ve found to fall into the hands of several powerful people who owe me.”

  “Are you threatening me, Gale?”

  I held his gaze. “Not at all. I’m stating certain unpleasant possibilities and hoping we can work together to avoid them all.”

  “I get the feeling you haven’t involved those in your former profession yet. I have friends in the police department. Perhaps I should inform them and they should handle it.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t, because the department always works too slow once word gets to the higher ups. If I told one of my own friends on the force they might make some progress, but no more than I can. Mister Luger, I have only one goal: get the girl back to her mother. If you can help make that happen I’d be happy to split my fee with you and still owe you that favor.”

  “I’m not interested in your money,” Luger said, tapping his finger on the rim of his highball. “The favor…perhaps. I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”

  “Thank you.” I thought he was putting me off. He’d probably make those inquiries, but whether he’d pass anything he learned to me was doubtful.

  “I’d like to see you. When the girl has been found and you have some time, that is.”

  That flipped things around. Maybe he would tell me what he found out after all. No way I was getting involved with this neo-Nazi, but I could use him if I was careful. “I’m open to possibilities,” I said, lifting my glass. “Allies, then.”

  “I do believe we’re the Axis, actually,” he replied.

  I laughed, standing to reach for a pen and paper on his desk nearby. “Here’s my cell number. Call me when you have something.”

  Luger had come to his feet as I stood. When I gave him the paper he reached up to brush the hair back from my scars. I fought down an instinct to slap his hand away. “Don’t do that,” I said, stepping out of reach.

  “There is much beauty in pain,” he replied.

  “Not to me.”

  “You’re not a proper judge. I am the beholder and I see beauty.”

  I swallowed. Whether or not it was an act, Luger’s quirky observation touched me, made me feel better somehow. Maybe it was that I’d seen no pity in his eyes, only interest, even fascination. “Thanks,” I said.

  Luger escorted me to his front door under the watchful eyes of his thugs and gave my weapons back to me before solemnly kissing my hand. “Auf wiedersehen.”

  “Yeah, sayonara to you too.”

  Red glowered at the exchange but the older man ignored him, nodding at me as we left. “So what was that all about?” he asked as we walked through the front door this time, past another pair of guards. Back to Vyazma we went.

  “We have an arrangement. I charmed him.”

  “He’s bad news.”

  I glanced over at him. “You’re turning green, Red. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Whatever,” he said, his tone grumpy as we approached Sergei’s club. “So, you coming back to my place or what?”

  “Not tonight, but thanks.”

  “Play a few hands, then?” Hope springs eternal.

  “No time,” I replied as we walked in the door.

  “Fine. I’m hitting the tables.” He pulled a roll of cash out of his pocket.

  “Good luck.”

  Red only snorted with pique and frustration as he turned his back on me and headed for the poker room door.

  Chapter 7

  I slid into an empty booth, waving at Sergei. He smiled and returned the gesture, looking relieved. I was happy to ease his mind.

  Of all the people I wished I could reach at one-thirty this morning, Cole Sage topped my list. In my experience the journalist was a bulldog with a story. To get it he’d take calls at any hour and stay up for days if necessary. He also knew just about everything that went on in this city, legit or not, but all I had was his office number.

  I could call Mickey and he’d give me Cole’s private cell, but then I’d have to explain where I got it. “Who
cares?” I muttered aloud as I called my office. When the answering machine beeped I growled, “Mickey, pick up. It’s Cal. Come on, Mickey –”

  “Cal, hi,” Mickey’s breathless voice came on. “What’s going on?”

  “Still haven’t beat that boss?”

  “You’re the only boss I want to beat. No, wait, that came out wrong. I mean, the only boss I really care about. No, I mean –”

  “Save it, Mickey. Give me Cole Sage’s private cell number.”

  “Okay.”

  When he’d recited it and I’d entered it into my phone, I went on. “What else you find for me? Anything?”

  “I got everything else you want on Sage. I thought a big-time journalist like that would be flush, but he’s almost broke most of the time.”

  “The only time a journalist has money is when he writes a tell-all book about someone famous, or maybe if he becomes a TV anchorman. I don’t care about his bank accounts unless there’s something criminal going on. Is there?”

  “Not unless you count writing a check for three dollars and forty-two cents to a hot dog vendor. Hasn’t this guy ever heard of a credit card?”

  “How many hot dog vendors take plastic?”

  “Cash, then.”

  “Obviously didn’t have any.”

  “ATM?”

  “He’s old-school. Something you young punks don’t understand. Still writes his stories on an old Selectric, or even in longhand, and has someone else type them into a computer.”

  I could hear Mickey’s appalled disbelief through the phone. “No way.”

  “Way. Now let’s move on. What about Mira and her ex, Dennis?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting. They’re both not very well off, on paper anyway. Almost broke, cash-wise. Miranda owns the house she lives in and her Toyota. She gets a nice paycheck from her employer, but deposits money into a joint account she still maintains with Dennis, and he takes it out every time. Ten thousand a month. More than half of what she makes.”

  “Ten – wow. For how long?”

  “Ever since they broke up.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “That makes no sense considering how ugly the divorce got. Nothing in the settlement?”