J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 (11 page)

“It’s where I can afford the rent.”

The cop snorted, then pointed his flashlight at the kid. “What’s your story?”

“This prick was hanging around in the bushes with a camera. When I told him to get lost, he told me he had pics of my girlfriend he’d sell to me, and if I didn’t pay him he’d put them up on the net.” Rawles pivoted so he could look the cop in the face, and took the full glare of the flashlight. Probably preferable to the floodlight.

“Look, officer,” I risked turning around to face him. Young guy, maybe twenty-five. No insignia, so just a patrolman. “There’s a woman in there bleeding to death. Arrest me if you have to, but we have to get in there.”

“All right, you got it. You’re under arrest on suspicion of extortion, trespassing, and aggravated assault.” I turned around and gave him my wrists—he Mirandized me as he cuffed me.

The ambulance trundled up and the EMTs jumped out.

The cop poked me in the back. “Lantham, where’s the girl?”

“Left of the garage, through the gate, across the yard in the guest house.”

“You, kid,” the cop said, “Stand up. Put your hands on the car.”

“Oh, man, this is fucked up.” Rawles did what he was told.

“You’re under arrest for aggravated assault.” Quick frisk—not a very good one. Missed at least four obvious spots, but he looked like a rookie, and he was hurrying because of me, so I didn’t hold it against him. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in court.” He took one hand and pulled it behind Rawles back, then reached for the other one. “You have the right to an attorney and to speak to the attorney before any questioning.” The cop finished zip-tying his hands together. “If you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one for you. Do you understand these rights?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“You know this house?”

“Shit yeah, it’s my buddy’s place.”

“He home?”

“No, man, he’s in Hawaii. I’m house sitting.”

“Lead the way.” The cop pulled Rawles off the car and shoved him in the direction of the house, then nodded to me. I followed Rawles in. The cop, whose name I still hadn’t gotten, followed us both in, leading the EMTs.

You don’t survive as long as I have without a pretty strong nose. The minute Rawles covered for anyone else being in the house, I smelled a dead, festering, rotting rat. When we got back to the guest house, the rice-paper blinds were open.

Someone had been in there.

I was now officially screwed.

The guest house was empty. No blood. No shards. Nothing out of place. No Nya. Just a slight smell of bleach, some drops on the floor. Could’ve been any abandoned living room.

Whoever did it had changed out the fixture’s bulb. The light was barely bright enough to see the edges of the room now.

The cop walked into the room. He squatted down and felt the floor. His eyes narrowed—either the smell and the dribbles had him suspicious, or he was trying to figure out what else he could charge me with. A quick shine under the futon couch with his flashlight did nothing to improve his expression.

I was going down for this one, at least for a few hours. Whoever this kid Rawles had found for a playmate was fast. But what the hell was the game?

A night in the clink while they tried to sort this out—if I was lucky and the prosecutor wasn’t up for re-election this year—and every minute, Nya was either farther away or more dead.

The cop turned to me. I could see his name tag now in the half-light from the substandard CF that had been screwed behind the ceiling’s fixture. Officer Randolph. “Some girl you’ve got here.”

“She was just here.” I didn’t put a lot into it. Trying to convince a cop to believe a PI’s story was about as useful as teaching a cat to play chess, at least when that cop hadn’t worked much with that PI before. I know. I used to be one—the cop, not the cat. Private snoops can be trusted to work angles and shade the truth right up to the limit of their professional obligations.

Kind of like I was about to do.

“Right. Lantham, step over to the bench.” He pointed past me to a little garden bench a few yards away. I backed over to it, but didn’t sit down. He said a couple low words to the EMTs, they nodded and started milling around like confused pigeons. Randolph yanked Rawles aside and interrogated him for a minute, then came over to me.

“The kid says you got porn pics of his girlfriend on your phone. Mind if I take a look?”

“Yeah, I mind.”

“He says she’s seventeen, that makes it kiddie porn. You can save yourself a lot of trouble right here.”

“Not without a warrant.”

“All right, if that’s how you want to play it.” He clapped a hand onto my shoulder and started to pull me out toward the car.

“Look, Officer, I came out here on a job. My client had some business with the owner of the house. Before I could get to the door I heard the kid yelling, and then the woman screamed and the kid ran out of here like he was scared of getting caught.” I rattled off a mostly-truthful account of the rest of it. He glanced sideways at Rawles, cooling his heels against the shed wall. “It was self defense.”

“He says you hit him with your gun.”

“It was in the holster. You came up behind me. Did I have time to put it back? Is there a bruise where I supposedly hit him?”

“Hmph. So what’s the kid’s problem with you?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on him for my client. He’s probably worried I’m gonna rat him out for his herb business.” That got him. Randolph’s eyes peaked quick before he could cover it up. “Probably got some product on him right now.”

“And the pictures?”

“He’s pulling it out of his ass. Probably watched ‘America’s Most Wanted’ during dinner.”

“Mind if I take a look at the phone?”

“Not without a warrant.”

Now, here’s the problem with street cops: they’re used to getting their way with intimidation when the law isn’t on their side—they’re trained in extracting evidence without letting suspects know what they’re up to. With a detective it wouldn’t have been a problem—they know the score and deal with PIs all the time.

Randolph grabbed the handpiece for his walkie and hit the button. “Dispatch, this is Randolph, number 875. I’m gonna need a second patrol car in here to haul in suspects.”

“Ten-Four, 875, units are on their way,” said the dispatcher.

Last thing I needed just then was time in lockup. I nodded at the cop. “I’m sorry, but the last…”

“Shut up. Kid says his name is Rawles. That right?”

“Yeah.”

“Rawles! Get over here.”

The kid sauntered over. He was sure he’d nailed me.

Randolph looked him up and down. “Do you have anything in your pockets you want to tell me about?

“No.”

“Turn around and spread your legs.” Rawles did as he was told, after giving the cop a look that would have gotten him thrown to the ground in a less genteel jurisdiction. This cop was patient, but he wasn’t screwing around.

Randolph patted down Jason’s pockets and came out with a dime bag. He held it up to his flashlight. Its contents weren’t green. “Well, looks like we have a winner. Let’s add possession of methamphetamines to the list of charges. Now, you,” he nodded at me, “Out in front. You,” he poke Rawles in the back, “Follow him.”

I was already sitting in the rear seat of Randolph’s car working on a new set of wrist scars by the time backup arrived a couple minutes later. Randolph handed Rawles off to the other car and then got back into his own.

He waited until we were moving before he started into me, right on schedule. “Doesn’t have to go down this way, you know.”

“Yeah, it does. I show you files on my phone without a warrant and you can bring me up on breach of confidence. I’ll lose my license.”

“So help me out here. Who is this kid? What’s his deal?”

“Wish I knew. You want to bring him up for dealing, though, I’ve got notes and photos from yesterday. I’ll be happy to have him out of my way.” It wasn’t really true, but if Rawles was in lockup I could get him when I needed him. Until then, I had the house. And now two girls to find, instead of one.

Randolph didn’t say anything for about a half mile.

I wasn’t lying when I told him I couldn’t give him the phone. He wouldn’t have found anything after the deep-cleaning I gave the phone’s filesystem. I could retrieve the pictures from the crypto drive later if I needed them, but no search in the world would turn them—or the drive-up.

Would have been great, except the phone contained my notes. Unless I’m reporting a crime—which I wasn’t—I can’t show those to anyone without a court order. Breach of confidentiality is a misdemeanor, and I wasn’t in the market for a new apartment just now.

“You really think there’s a girl in trouble?” Officer Randolph pulled the car over.

“Yes.”

“Hell.” He shook his head and flipped the car around. After another block he said “You know, a snoop license doesn’t give you the right to sneak into other people’s houses.”

“Yeah, I read the manual. And I didn’t sneak into the house.” We both pretended, for the sake of argument, that I hadn’t actually been in the guest house. I might have just glimpsed her through the door.

“You need probable cause for that.”

“Well, actually probabl
e
cause is a law enforce…” I stopped. He bought it, but not enough. He was giving me a leash. “Yeah, you can’t go in without a warrant.”

“Yeah.
I
can’t.”

“All units in the area,” said the radio, “we have a seven car TA on 680 South. CHP requesting help for the next thirty minutes.”

Randolph grabbed his mouthpiece. “Dispatch, 875, I’m on the way.” He pulled the car to a stop.

“What, here?”

“You don’t want to walk,” he got out of the car, “I can always take you back to the station.”

“Forget it, I’ll take my chances.” Eleven at night. Perfect time to taking my life in my hands walking though dark parts unknown, with danger behind every corner—in an area where shoplifting can get the police chief’s panties in a bunch. Heroic.

Still, braving the mean streets of Danville seemed slightly less irritating than sitting handcuffed to a bench for six hours while someone roused a judge to force my phone’s password out of me.

I turned sideways on the hard plastic bench and stuck my cuffs out. Randolph opened the door and took his bracelets back, then backed me out of the cruiser.

“Don’t let me catch you brawling again.”

“No problem, Officer.” I rubbed the raw bands on my wrists where the cuffs had dug in.

“Good.” He drew my .357 from his pocket and handed it to me. I reflexively opened the cylinder to check the load.

“Have a nice walk.” Randolph ducked back into the cruiser and peeled out, all lights flashing.

It took me about ten minutes to get back to the Civic—still sitting right in front of the Ackerman Drive house. Nobody had touched it. Whoever’d been in there either wasn’t in there anymore, or they were laying low.

I poked around the perimeter for about five minutes, but didn’t dare go in. Not tonight. The lights were all out, and the place looked deserted, but I like my skin. If anyone was in there they’d be expecting it, and another call to the cops would be enough to get me a bunk for the night in the land of smelly roommates.

And it was looking like they’d all bugged out. The van was gone, and I couldn’t find any other cars around the place.

I’d be no good to anyone if I went in anyway. It was late. My stomach was busy trying to eat itself—it had been about six hours since that sherbet at Stanford. Low blood sugar means slow reactions—no good for an extralegal B&E.

There was the Por
s
che’s tag to look up, and I had enough to go on that I could stand a few hours of desk work and a couple hours sleep. After I got some food.

I was gonna have to ditch the Civic for the rest of the job. Gravity made me in it this afternoon, Rawles knew it now after nearly putting his fist through the hood, and if anyone was left in the house, I had to assume they’d look up the license number.

If they were kidnapping and shooting up girls, they might be willing to kill to cover their tracks. Might even have stuck a GPS track on the car. The more difficult it would be for them to spot me, the better.

And I had one other thing to do before I could get back to the office.

Dora.

10:45 PM, Sunday

I had a buddy that ran the Enterprise office in Walnut Creek. Two phone calls and half an hour later I had a gray Malibu. Dora’s home address was right on the way back to the office, long as I drove the long way.

The lights were still on inside, I could see people moving around in the greatroom. As I approached, I could hear Dora yelling at someone—her husband, presumably. Sounded like she thought he’d been cheating on her.

Hell of a place, Danville.

She yanked the door open before my third knock. Her face went from shocked to hopeful to dread in the space of two seconds. I saved her the trouble of starting the conversation.

“I found Nya.”

She leaned to the side to peer around me. “Where…”

“I saw her an hour ago down near El Cerro. She’s in trouble. Bad. I need you to call in that missing persons report—tell them you’ve had a threat.”

“They’ll want to see the note…”

“Tell them it was an anonymous phone call.”

“Oh.” She chewed her bottom lip. I noticed she was blocking the doorway with her body—either she didn’t want me to see in, or she didn’t want her husband to see me.

“I’ll call you in a few minutes so there’s a phone record. You call the cops right after that. Tell them you’ve hired me, they’ll know what to do.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“If we move fast, maybe.”

“Dora?” A whiny, irritable voice came from inside the house. “Who is it?”

“Someone who got the wrong address,” she shouted back into the house. “Look, you better go. If he sees you…I’m sorry, no. These streets wind around a bit—you want to go up that way, you’ll find it.”

The door opened the rest of the way to reveal a man wearing a button-up shirt undone at the collar. He had deep-set, tortured-looking eyes and an angular face.