“Sure thing, Sal. You’re the best.”
Sal recited Bill’s address, in San Rafael as I’d expected. After scribbling it down and hanging up, I descended the stairs to exit my walkout into the parking courtyard, telling Mickey to call with anything new. He mumbled affirmation, eyes on his main monitor.
As morning rush hour traffic across the Golden Gate was largely southbound, Molly carried me steadily north toward Bill’s place. I’d just started to relax when I felt Dad’s presence beside me.
“I don’t like it when you lie,” he said.
“We’re rehashing an old argument, dad,” I replied. “There’s no eleventh commandment of ‘Thou Shalt Not Lie.’”
“Satan is the father of lies.”
I guess he – or my subconscious – wasn’t going to be so easily dissuaded. “God told the prostitute Rahab to lie about the Hebrew spies in Jericho so they could get away.”
“One exception doesn’t make it right.”
“It means there are exceptions, and I’ll lie like a dog if it gets a little girl home safe.” The only way to prevail in an argument with Dad was by using his own belief system. I’d gotten good at it. He always told me debate improved the mind. “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another,” he used to quote.
When I looked over, he was gone. I guess I’d won that round.
My satisfaction mixed with sadness that he didn’t stay longer. Sometimes I told myself I wanted him gone for good. Other times I begged him to appear to me, but the phenomenon wasn’t something I could call up on demand.
I tried Bill’s phone again, but got no answer. The intercom at his gated condo community didn’t reach him either, so I punched in common access codes, starting with 1111, until I hit something. In this case, 1234 opened the rolling barrier just fine. I choked a chuckle at the “security” provided as I drove in and parked in a visitor spot near 65, Bill’s unit.
A beat-up Ford pickup was parked in the numbered slot. It fit Bill somehow and seemed to indicate he was home, unless the man had more than one vehicle. From his state last night I imagined he’d overdone it, maybe turned off his ringers despite Sal’s assurances of his boss’s work ethic. After all, it was only about seven thirty a.m.
I hammered on unit 65’s third-floor door with the meaty part of my fist and yelled intermittently for a good two minutes until neighbors started to poke their heads out and stare. Walking over to the nearest, an older woman in a housedress, I asked, “Where’s the manager?”
With a silent scowl the biddy pointed the way. I returned a deliberately false smile to follow her finger and a couple of neat signs until I found the office.
“Ms. Geiner,” I said to the young, overdressed woman there after reading the nameplate on her desk, “I work with Bill Clawson in 65. He hasn’t shown up for his shift and isn’t answering the phones. He has a heart condition and I’m concerned that he might need help. Could you get a key and escort me to check on him?” I said all this in my cop voice, the one that brooked no argument and usually got unthinking cooperation from the average citizen.
“Should we call an ambulance?” she said, clearly worried.
“Let’s take a look first. We’d both feel silly if he’s not there. Besides, I don’t want to get charged for an unnecessary response. Do you?”
“No, of course not. I’ll…” She rummaged in a metal box mounted on the wall behind her desk, coming up with a key on a plastic ring. “Here we go.” Placing a placard on her desk with Back In 15 Minutes on it, she led me in her uncomfortable-looking heels down the landscaped pathway and up the stairs to 65.
After a few seconds of pointless knocking of her own, Ms. Geiner unlocked the door with her key and stepped in hesitantly. “Mister Clawson?”
“I already called to him before. He’s either not here or something’s wrong,” I said as I pushed past her. Flipping on the light, I saw an open plan with kitchen, dining and living rooms sharing the same space, divided only by a half-counter with two barstools. Several liquor bottles, empty or partly so, decorated the area, as well as take-out boxes and an overflowing plastic trash can. Geiner sniffed disdainfully from behind me.
Trying the first of two shut doors, I found a messy, stale-smelling bathroom, its tiny window closed tight. When I opened the other room I smelled alcohol. Not the sour smell of evaporated booze that left behind residue, but rather the fumes themselves, indicating either a recent or heavy spill.
Stepping into the darkened bedroom, I sighed with relief as I saw Bill under the covers of his queen-sized bed. Instead of blinding him with the overhead lamp I picked my way across the messy floor to the window and rotated the blinds to let a half-light in, and then I shook his shoulder.
“Bill,” I called before awareness of the rigid immobility of his flesh had reached my consciousness. “Shit!” I stepped back.
“There’s no need for such language,” the manager said at my elbow.
I’d have laughed derisively if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Instead, I immediately dialed 911 from Bill’s house phone. “I need an ambulance and PD. A man is dying or dead,” I said, and recited the address, knowing full well Bill was beyond saving. Rigor mortis meant he’d been at least three hours gone, but I wasn’t a medical professional or a cop. Legally, I couldn’t make that call. I hung up before the dispatcher could start with the inevitable quiz.
“I told you we should have called right away.”
“I’m calling to cover our asses, Ms. Geiner, yours and mine both. He’s been dead for a while, but we need an official determination as fast as possible to clear us.”
“Us?” The young woman looked suddenly frightened. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly, but I used to be a cop and I’m just making sure that’s proven, crystal-clear.” The phone rang just then, certainly 911 calling back to confirm. I stopped Geiner from picking it up. I wanted to get the process over with as fast as possible, and that meant a quick, concise statement to the responding officers, not wasting time with the overworked 911 call center.
In the meantime, I lifted the blanket and examined Bill’s corpse as best I could without disturbing anything. It looked like he might have a bruise near the base of his skull. With a pocket light I confirmed it. Was that cause of death, or just a result of the knockout blow? Only the forensics would tell.
I suppressed the feeling of sympathy and sickness that welled up in me, glad I didn’t know him all that well, and especially happy we hadn’t gotten closer. Compartmentalize, I told myself. Grieve later, with all the other people you’ve lost.
The EMTs reached us first, and after the obligatory examination of the body they called in the official time of death’s discovery. They were just leaving as the shields barged in.
“Well, well, well, what have we here? Cal ‘the pal’ Corwin,” my former partner Lieutenant Jay Allsop sneered, his short, scruffy-faced young partner behind him looking on in confusion. Not my favorite voice, it was attached to one of my least favorite people and the nickname wasn’t a term of endearment. In cop speak, “pal” translated as “personal ass-licker” and also applied to those considered traitors to their brothers and sisters on the force.
That was the price I’d paid for my lawsuit against the department, despite the fact I’d won and proven my supervisor, Lieutenant Stanger, had acted with reckless negligence, culpable for the bomb tech’s death and my injuries. To many, I’d bitten the hand that fed me. I’d never have done it if Stanger hadn’t lied on her report, pinning the fiasco squarely on yours truly.
In my mind, she was the real traitor. I’d ended her career and stuck it to the department for seven figures in compensation, but in doing so I’d lost all goodwill with SFPD. I’d still trade the money back if they’d let me have my old job again, but I knew that would never happen.
“Nice to see you too, Jay. Since when does a lieutenant show up first on the scene?” Normally uniformed officers checked out all questionable deaths, freeing
higher-ranking Homicide personnel to deal with those where foul play was probable.
“Since I happened to be in the neighborhood. Brody, take their statements – outside.”
Relieved Allsop wasn’t inclined to bust my balls further, I followed the rookie detective outside past the gazes of the curious neighbors now lining their doorways, Geiner trailing behind. “Let’s get some privacy,” I said as I marched toward the stairs, forcing the kid and the manager to follow. Okay, Brody must not be a complete tyro, as all detectives had to have three years in service before they could test for their shields, but his off-the-rack suit still looked like it should have price tags attached.
Once we reached the courtyard I stood near the pointless fountain. Its burbling would mask our voices from the curious onlookers straining to hear what must be the most exciting thing to happen to this part of upscale, neatly scrubbed suburbia in a while. The young detective took a flip notebook and a pen from his rumpled, slightly oversized gray tweed jacket. “All right…”
I interrupted him with my prepared recitation, holding out an open wallet. “I’m California Corwin, a P.I. and acquaintance of the deceased, Bill Clawson. Here’s my license. At seven thirty-four I arrived at unit 65 and banged on the door after receiving no answer on the deceased’s home and cell phones and determining that he had not shown up at work.” I paused, watching the scrawny young suit scrawl furiously. “Going too fast?”
“Naw, I got it.”
“When he didn’t answer I enlisted the assistance of Ms. Geiner here, who escorted me to the deceased’s dwelling and unlocked the door. We called out and, upon receiving no answer, conducted a cursory search of the premises, at which time we found the deceased. We touched the door handles and I shook the deceased’s shoulder. Suspecting he was no longer alive by the sensation of rigor mortis, I immediately dialed 911 from the landline in the bedroom to call for EMT and PD. We waited, touching nothing further. I did notice what appeared to be a bruise at the base of the deceased’s skull.” I stopped to let him catch up.
“Okay, great. Miss Geiner, do you have anything to add?
“Miz, please. And no, I don’t.”
“Then that’s all I need. You can go, Miz.”
Geiner hurried off in the direction of her office. I stayed, looking at the kid. He seemed energized. Maybe it was his first murder. I wondered how he’d bypassed the usual stairsteps like Narcotics and Vice. Homicide was generally considered the apex of the detective pyramid. Might be a prodigy, or someone’s nephew. Each was equally likely. Anybody who thought the Department free of nepotism was delusional.
“Brody, if Jay hasn’t told you already I’m sure he’ll tell you later. I did eight years on the force, and when I made it to Homicide, Sergeant Jay Allsop was my partner. Taught me everything he knew. We got along great back then until our super, Lieutenant Stanger, ordered me to assist an explosives tech in disarming a bomb.”
Brody grunted. “That’s against policy.”
“Damn right. I wasn’t trained in EOD any more than you are. In fact, they should have just thrown Kevlar blankets over it, surrounded it with barriers and cleared the area. The device wasn’t huge, but Stanger didn’t want it going off. She wanted a heroic story to sell, with her in charge. So she sent the guy in alone and, when he said he needed help, she ordered me to assist.”
Brody narrowed his eyes. I could see the kid was sharp. “You should have refused.”
I nodded wearily. “In hindsight, yeah. I should have raised a stink right there and tried to keep the tech from going in at all. Once he was committed, though, she would have just ordered someone else to help. So I complied with an unlawful order. That’s my cross to bear.”
“So what? Why’re you telling me this?”
“Because the bomb detonated, killing the tech and wounding me.” I brushed my hair back to show him the scar tissue. He winced. “When I was in the hospital recovering, keeping my mouth shut like a good cop, Stanger filed her official report blaming me for his death. Said I went in against orders.”
“Bullshit. The force takes care of its own.”
I shrugged. “Not always. It’s in the official record, or you can look up the news stories. I filed a formal complaint. That triggered an IA investigation that supported her side of the story despite the deposition of several witnesses who agreed with me. They took my shield, put me on a desk and started talking about forced medical retirement.”
Brody snorted. “You’re saying it was a fix?”
“I’m saying it was a cover-up from a supervisor that saw her ambitions for promotion about to disintegrate. Bad enough we lost one guy – why take the blame, right? So I found a high-powered law firm and filed suit against Stanger, the IA lead investigator and the department.”
“Dangerous, going up against the department. You won?”
“Partly. They retired Stanger and fired the IA officer in charge but refused to reinstate me, claiming I should have stood on policy and declined to go in.”
“They were right.”
“I know,” I sighed. “I did get awarded damages for my injuries – a fair chunk of change, which set me up in the P.I. biz. I think that’s what sticks in Jay’s craw, really: the money. He believes that’s why I sued, but he’s wrong.”
“Interesting story, Miss Corwin.”
“Call me Cal.”
“Tanner.” He stuck out his hand with a grin that was hard not to return.
I stared at it for a moment, and then took and shook, trying to make my fingers grip normally. This kid had given me a fair hearing and didn’t seem to condemn me unduly so I found myself caring what he thought. “Anyway, that’s my side of things to compare with whatever Jay will say.” I pulled out a business card. “Reach out to me if you ever need anything.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” He smiled without a trace of a leer. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that – relieved or insulted. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Or maybe he was gay.
“Brody, if you’re done slumming, get your ass up here,” Jay bellowed from the third floor balcony.
I flipped Jay off as he turned to go back into Bill’s apartment, and then gave Brody a mocking salute. “Hey, when they determine cause of death, let me know, will you? Bill was a retired cop trying to help me on a case.”
“You don’t seem broken up about it.” His eyes narrowed.
“Now you’re thinking like a detective…but I only knew him a day or two.” I shrugged.
Brody cocked his head. “What kinda case?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You think someone offed him to slow you down?”
I chewed my lip. “Maybe. Awful inconvenient timing, and it’s difficult to whack yourself in the back of the head, fall into bed and pull up the covers. Then again, maybe someone only wanted to grill him and they hit him too hard. That’s why I want to know.”
“You’re gonna owe me, Cal.”
“As long as you don’t ask for payment in blowjobs.”
Brody choked back laughter, shaking his head before heading for the stairs with a wave.
I called after him, “Be cool, kid. Jay’s all right, really. Just don’t get on his bad side.” With that, I turned on my heel and strode away.
Chapter 9
I believe in coincidence, but I don’t trust or depend on it. The odds of Bill’s murder being unrelated to the case were slim and I’d been the one to involve him in it. That made me responsible at a certain level, though I refused to claim fault.
The real question was, why hadn’t they come after me instead? If someone had noticed my inquiries, I was the logical target. Maybe Bill had started poking around apart from me, tipped someone off.
Then I remembered the four guys last night. They’d seemed unusually persistent for mere muggers, chasing me through the dive and into the alley, only breaking off when I sent a round their way. But they were hardly pros. Freelance muscle, punks for hire. Maybe
they didn’t even have orders to kill me – just put me in the hospital for a week or two.
Yeah, that was comforting.
Hopefully Mickey would dig something up on Houdini. Until then, it appeared I had only one lead.
Lattimer.
Somehow I thought simply talking to him might not do the trick. Circumstances pointed to him covering for the heist, making sure it went smooth. In my book that made him as guilty as anyone.
Now Bill was dead. Someone was tying up loose ends, and Lattimer might have pointed the way to his boss.
He also might be next in line.
I needed some muscle myself, now. Pulling up my speed dial, I called Meat and Manson as I eased into Molly and locked the doors.
Their real names were Malcolm and Mason Estridge, but they preferred their street handles, or collectively, “The M&Ms.” Huge, mixed-race guys that reminded me of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, they could pass for almost anything but Scandinavian depending on their dress and manner. Based out of their iron-fenced home in Oakland, they freelanced for several bail bondsmen, had their gun cards and enough flexibility in their morality to get jobs like this done.
“Cal, what up?” Meat, the older brother, came on the call.
“Hey, Meat. Got a job. Usual rates.”
“When and where?”
“Today, soon. Probably up in Marin. I have to pin a guy down and ask him some questions.”
“Okay. We’ll head on up to Maderos.”
“Right. Get me a chorizo and huevos burrito. I’ll call you when I find him. Oh, and Meat? Dress like P.I.s, not thugs.”
Maderos was a family-owned Mexican joint, one of those sprawling over-the-top stereotypes filled with outlandish paint, indoor fountains, sombreros and live plants that nevertheless managed great service and outstanding food. Any time they ended up north of the Golden Gate, the M&Ms found some excuse to go there. Today, it made an excellent holding location, especially as they were open for breakfast.
I forced myself to drive reasonably, heading in the direction of the security center. On the way I dialed their number. When it picked up, I said, “Sal?”
Loose Ends: A California Corwin P. I. Mystery (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series) Page 9
