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

by D. D. VanDyke

  Taking off the Security hat, I got out of the car and opened the hatchback to set the shotgun and vest back in their cases, shaking my head at the dings and scratches Molly’d managed to accrue. At least a grand in repairs, I thought. I bent over and stretched, working the kinks out before I drove back into the City.

  Ten grand. That’s what Mira had said. My cop sense prickled again, but refused to disgorge. My subconscious churned and bubbled. I let it be for the moment. Likely I would be processing this weird little situation for some time, but I had plenty of open cases on my mental books from back in the cop days. Not everything got solved, or when it did lots of details never surfaced. I gave a deliberate mental shrug and tried to put it behind me. Let the cops have Houdini if they could catch him, or Luger for that matter. I’d keep him available as a resource for the future, someone to trade favors with.

  Pulling out, I hung a U-turn and accelerated, enjoying the press of the seat against my back and the nimble sensation of Molly’s tires on the road. I felt a bit let down now that I had no Audi to follow, no excuse to shatter traffic laws for a higher purpose.

  The city skyline from this side was gorgeous as the overcast lifted and broke in places, patches of sunlight pushing through and shining on the grimy bay and crowded landscape. Seabirds perched on the Golden Gate, watching the endless traffic. As I exited the bridge over Fort Point, a pelican dove and came up with a struggling fish, flipping it into his mouth, and my stomach growled.

  On the other side of the bridge the restaurants of the Marina District called to me but I ignored them. Parking was hell, the prices were high, and besides, Cole lived there and I wanted to forget about him right now. A few minutes more would bring me back to Molly’s own space in the cozy Mission District. I speed-dialed Udupi Palace and put in a delivery order for curry, betting I would be at my office in time to meet the runner and pay in cash. If not, Mickey would get it and I’d reimburse him.

  I made it to Molly’s parking space just ahead of the scooter, paid and grabbed the bag of food, and then knocked on the walkout. When Mickey opened it I slapped his reaching hand and locked the door by habit behind me.

  “Come upstairs and eat like a human being,” I said. “Afterward, you go home and shower. If I can smell you over the curry you’re pretty rank.”

  “Okay, boss. You gonna get paid for this job?”

  “Of course,” I said lightly as I climbed two flights to the top floor, Mickey huffing behind. “I got a check.”

  “Hope it’s good,” he grunted.

  “Don’t I always take care of you?”

  Mickey mumbled under his breath.

  “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “Didn’t mean for you to.”

  Probably something juvenile, sexual, or both. “Open the window and sit down.” I pointed at the back side of the house, and then opened the opposite door to the balcony that overlooked the street. Between the two I got a nice airflow that kept Mickey’s B.O. away.

  Only then did I set the food on the kitchenette table and hand my helper the Vindaloo, his favorite. Containers of Basmati rice and Mulligatawny soup came out next, plus two packets of naan. For me, the butter chicken. All came with biodegradable bowls, plates and cutlery, testimony to San Francisco’s environmentalism.

  Over fantastic South Asian flavors I swore Mickey to secrecy again and told him what happened, leaving out only my wayward and unrelated thoughts. When I was finished with my food and story, Mickey said, “Let me see the check.”

  “You’ll get paid, Mickey. Don’t worry.”

  He made an impatient motion. “I know that, boss. Just show me.”

  I unfolded the precious piece of paper and set it carefully on the table where he could see, but kept a finger on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. It was just that he had curry all over his hands and his sweatshirt front.

  Mickey wiped his fingers, and then fished the business card out of his pocket, setting it down next to the check. “Notice anything?”

  I stared at it a moment, then rotated it to line up with the check. “The number is written in Mira’s hand. It matches the check. But the words, the message…almost, but not quite.” I picked it up and brought it in close to my eyes. “And the pen and pressure is slightly different.”

  “So?” Mickey stared expectantly, triumph that he had gotten ahead of me written on his face.

  “So if Mira passed it to Cole, why wouldn’t it all be in her handwriting? And the words aren’t written in Cole’s hand either. Did she lie? Who would write on the card except her or Cole?” I sat back with the check and card in my hand.

  “You know what?” Mickey pulled out a sheaf of papers and unfolded them. “Her phone records…” I could see notes scribbled up and down the right margins as he looked them over. “Calls to the alarm center, but…” He tapped the marked entries.

  I craned my neck to look. “Five seconds. Seven seconds.”

  “Yeah. Too short to be asking for the info like she said.”

  “But long enough to claim it was a wrong number, maybe chat for a few seconds, but most people don’t really have a good sense of time. She wanted to make the calls to support her story, but she didn’t plan well enough to make sure she stayed on the line an appropriate amount of time.”

  Mickey nodded.

  “Good work.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  I pressed my lips together. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But with everything you told me, and this, she must be involved! In her own daughter’s kidnapping…” he trailed off.

  “Involved in the heist, maybe. Not in the kidnapping, I don’t believe. That was leverage, to keep her quiet. So what have we got? A strong hunch? The cops will just laugh at us. I can pass this observation on to the department, but if I do that I’ll have to explain everything, such as why I didn’t turn the girl over to them at the warehouse. And how do we know the kidnappers weren’t controlling Mira the whole time, every detail? They could have given her a script to run through and this might have been her trying to deviate from it to gum up their plan. No, Mickey. We saved the girl,” – I was feeling charitable right now so I included him – “and we got paid. That’s it. Mira might be dirty somehow, but three kidnappers are dead and I’m all right with that.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss. Mind if I keep digging?”

  “Off the clock, I don’t care what you do.”

  “Aww…”

  “You’re lucky I keep you in high-end graphics chips for your games, Mickey. You could never afford those on your own. You think I don’t know they aren’t really necessary for your actual work?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”

  “I’ll be giving you a bonus on this one anyway, Mick my man. The handwriting…that was a good catch.”

  Mickey beamed.

  “And what about the Audi or the driver? Anything more on it?”

  “Not as of fifteen minutes ago. I’ll check, though. I have sniffer programs running.” He stood up.

  I made a disappointed sound. “Another loose end I’ll probably never tie up.” I wiped my hands on a paper napkin as Mickey lumbered downstairs, leaving me with the cleanup. I began to grab empty containers and stuff them in the trash.

  A moment later I heard a cry. “Cal! I got something!”

  Leaving the check and card on the table, I hurried to the basement. “What?”

  “I got a hit on the Audi’s license plate. Entered into the database of the Hotel Westlane. Thomas Jones, room 311.”

  “That’s two blocks away!”

  We stared at each other.

  “Huge coincidence,” I said.

  “Too huge. Why would a criminal give the hotel the correct license number, and why so close to here?”

  Shivers coursed through my nerves. “It’s a trap or a ploy of some kind.”

  “Yeah. Don’t go.”

  “I have to.” That same all-in feeling, tha
t wild abandon that often came over me made my actions inevitable.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I shook my head. “No offense, Mickey, but you have no training. You’d be more of a liability than an asset.”

  “Then call the M&Ms.”

  “They’ll take half an hour to get here, maybe an hour. By then he might be gone.”

  “What do you care, anyway? You got the girl back, you said. Take your own advice.”

  I licked my lips. “Why do you spend days and days trying to beat a video game boss? Because I have to win, Mickey. And I have to know.”

  “Cal –”

  “Now go home.”

  “Shouldn’t I at least hang out here? You can put on your headset and I’ll stay on the line as you check it out.”

  “No. You did a great job, but it’s done for now.” I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I wanted Mickey out of the way, off my mind. “Go home,” I repeated more forcefully, “shower and put on some clean clothes. You stink.”

  His face fell and he scratched self-consciously under one arm before standing up with sad eyes.

  I felt like I’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry, but it’s true. Go on. Go home, say hi to your mom for me and tell her you did a good job. You helped a kid and made some money. Come back tomorrow and I’ll pay you the rest after I deposit the check.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  I watched him leave. After making sure I had my usual load of gear on me – weapons, ammo, knife, extra cell and so on – I hurried out the door and fast-walked two blocks to the Hotel Westlane, a small but upscale hostelry catering to tourists who wanted to experience the Mission District’s old-town charm firsthand.

  Nodding briskly at the young brunette behind the registration desk, I flashed my P.I. badge. “Detective Colson, Homicide,” I said. “I need a key to room 311.”

  “I can’t –”

  “You can and you will. I have probable cause to believe there’s been a murder. Come on.” I snapped my fingers under her nose.

  Fright in her eyes, the clerk handed me an old-fashioned metal key, and then reached for the phone.

  I leaned over the desk to place my palm on the receiver without touching it with my fingertips. No prints. “Don’t call anyone or do anything yet. I’ll be back down in five minutes.” I held her eyes until she nodded.

  I charged up the stairs two at a time. Once in the deserted third floor hallway I drew my Glock, holding it low by my thigh. With my other hand I inserted the key as quietly as I could and turned it carefully until I was certain the door had unlocked. Slowly I pressed down on the lever-style handle, and then shoved it open suddenly, raising my weapon to a close ready position in front of my chest.

  The room was dark and smelled of industrial cleaners and laundry. Leaning in, I felt for a light switch and snapped it on.

  Once inside, I knew I was too late. Aside from the aroma there was nothing in the room to indicate anyone’s presence. Nothing in the trash cans, the mini-bar undisturbed. Drawers and closets empty. The bed was made with tight hospital corners, its pillows smooth and seemingly undisturbed, a complimentary mint resting on one.

  “Damn,” I muttered. What the hell was going on? Was this guy taunting me? I didn’t have much time, though, before the clerk decided to call someone if she hadn’t already. I hurried back down the stairs.

  After wiping the key surreptitiously on the tail of my blouse I handed it back to the clerk. “Sorry, false alarm. Nothing at all out of place. Where’s the parking garage?”

  The woman pointed with a manicured finger at the elevator. “In the basement,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I headed instead for the stairs and descended one floor. Within the small underground lot I immediately spotted the Audi. Looking closer, I saw it had been recently washed, perhaps even waxed. Peering in the immaculately clear windows, it appeared to be spotless. Then I noticed it wasn’t even locked.

  As a cop I’d learned to always carry latex gloves, so I slipped a pair on and opened the driver’s side door to lean in. The smell of a recent upholstery shampoo assaulted my nostrils and a quick search turned up nothing.

  A curiously courteous car thief, I thought. Got the car thoroughly detailed and left it to be recovered here. Forensics would find nothing, I was sure. More irrelevant information. A dead end.

  Growling in frustration, I left the hotel without speaking further to the clerk and walked back to my office. I used the basement door. That reminded me again about getting the new automatic locking hardware installed. Now that I had a nice ten-grand payday I could afford the locksmith.

  Ten grand. That meant a G or two for the tables.

  Tonight? No, not yet. One jones at a time.

  It only took a few moments to finish cleaning the upstairs kitchenette despite having to wipe the drips off the polished hardwood floor around Mickey’s chair. Messy didn’t even begin to describe it. I’d just started the espresso machine when I heard a creak on the stair.

  “Forget something?” I called as I turned, expecting to see Mickey.

  Instead, a youngish man stood at the top of the stairs, holding a gun in his gloved hand.

  Pointed at me.

  That’s never a good thing.

  Chapter 15

  Adrenaline surged but I froze, suppressing the cop instinct to evade, reach and draw on the gunman standing on my steps. Seeming calm, he made no move, just stared at me with clear pale eyes beneath longish dark hair. He wore a lightweight trench coat, not unusual in this weather, and had a high-end knit scarf concealing his lower face. Average tall, average looks – except for those bottomless gray orbs – Caucasian, with very light eyebrows. That clued me in to the fact that he had on a wig to cover what must be blonde hair.

  “Who are you –”

  “– and what do I want?” Part of a smile reached the upper half of his face, contrasting oddly with the slim revolver, suppressor pointed unwaveringly at my chest. “Just to talk, I assure you, but you need to divest yourself of your firearms first, so we can be civil.” English accent, though I wasn’t savvy enough about such things to place him better.

  Slowly I slid my Glock from its holster and set it down on the counter. “You’re that bastard Audi driver.”

  “And you the feisty Subaru. Put that into the freezer along with your holdout and sit down on the balcony,” he said, his aim never budging.

  As I complied by taking the compact revolver from my ankle and setting both guns gently into the freezer my mind flared with memory. “You killed the kidnappers.”

  “Brava. Well reasoned. Balcony.” He pointed. “Sit. I’ll get the coffee.”

  I turned, keeping arms raised, and walked out onto the platform. Settling into one of the white-painted wrought iron chairs there, I folded my hands into my lap to still their adrenalized shaking. The rational part of my mind wasn’t terribly frightened. After all, he could have killed me already, and with the suppressor no one would have noticed. In the warehouse I hadn’t heard any shots.

  Or maybe I had. I thought about the coughs and the thuds.

  As the man rummaged in my kitchen I reached stealthily into my trouser pocket and drew out the two-shot .22 derringer I kept there. He stepped onto the balcony with two mugs in his hands, setting one in front of me. His gun was nowhere in sight, so I kept mine under the table.

  “I’m trusting you with hot liquid, Cal. Please, just enjoy it and don’t do anything to spoil the moment. I really have no desire to hurt you.”

  I nodded in tentative agreement as I took a sip of the brew, not revealing that I had a weapon available. He’d made my coffee black, as I liked it. His appeared to have been creamed. I hadn’t even heard the fridge open. Eerie quiet, this guy.

  “You know my name.”

  His eyes crinkled again. “It is on the door plaque.”

  “But you used my nickname, Cal.”

  “A lucky guess.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I do
n’t much care.”

  “Touché. What’s your name, nick or otherwise?”

  The man sipped beneath the scarf, a two-handed trick, and then sat back without answering. Sounds of the street below echoed against the mishmash of classic San Francisco Victorians and more modern styles. Across the sidewalk an old woman watered plants on her balcony, an irrational act in this weather.

  Nothing as strange as people, especially in a city.

  “Call me Thomas,” he finally said. “It’s not my name, but it will do. Good coffee, by the way. Hard to get this side of the pond, outside of an upscale restaurant or speciality cafe.” He put the extra syllable into that word, spe-ci-A-li-ty.

  I found myself liking the sound of his voice despite the opening threat. A charming rogue, then. “It’s an expensive machine. I like good coffee.”

  “Then we have more than one thing in common.”

  “Oh? What else? Fast cars and guns?”

  “True, but not what came to mind. We both detest people who abuse little girls.”

  My blood surged with memories I’d rather forget, of men who tried to do things when I was much younger, with Dad away and Mom drunk or high, passed out on the sofa. Some things are hard to forgive, but I tried.

  Lucky, I’m lucky. The words ran through my mind as a mantra, lucky it never got very far, lucky I was able to scream and get away, always with the fear hovering among the nightmares, relieved only when Dad had come back home and Mom’s parties were banished again for a time.

  “You’re wandering,” Thomas said, waving a diffident hand.

  “Sorry. You’re right.” My voice tightened. “Very right. Kidnappers disgust me, but I wouldn’t have put them down like dogs.”

  “No?” He stared at me until I dropped my eyes.

  “I don’t think so. Not…not in cold blood like that. What was it? Did your gang fall out, or the plan go wrong?” I raised my chin defiantly.