Loose Ends (12 page)

“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?”

“This the lady that called before?”

“Yeah.”

“You get ahold of Bill?”

“Before I tell you, I need to talk about Lattimer. Is he there?”

“No. Comes in at five.”

“Five p.m.?”

“Yeah.”

“He say anything about skipping his shift?”

“Nope. What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there in ten minutes.”

Sal met me at the door, a fortyish swarthy fellow of Sicilian descent if I had to guess. I pushed past him and into the lounge where I’d first talked to Bill. “You alone?” I asked.

“Yeah, since Bill didn’t come in.”

“Have a seat.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, and after a moment he grabbed a chair and set himself on it, puzzled.

“You don’t look like I pictured you,” he said.

I ignored that and put on my best bad-news sympathy expression. “I just came from Bill’s condo. The cops were there.”

“Something’s happened?”

I nodded slowly, heavily.

“Mother of God. Is it bad?”

“Bad as it gets. He’s dead, though it didn’t look like he suffered. Hit on the back of the head for sure. I’m waiting on an official cause.”

I watched closely as Sal buried his face in his hands, looking for a hint of anything off. After all, if one employee here might be in on it, who’s to say another wasn’t? A moment or two later, he ran his fingers through his slightly too-long hair and took a deep breath. “That sucks,” he said, and I saw his eyes were full.

“Yeah. Majorly.” I lifted out my P.I. license and showed it to him. “Bill was helping me on a case. It may have got him killed. Last night four guys made a run at me too, but I scared them off. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“Me and Bill, we go way back. He brought me out here from Chi-town to work. Best move I ever made,” Sal said, scratching under his watchband.

I noticed he had prison ink there. “How’d a con hook up with a cop?”

Sal shrugged. “You know. He busted me for armed robbery, put me away in juvie when I was seventeen. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“How so?”

“Bill visited me every week in the joint. I was just a stupid young punk. Mob wannabe, you know, and maybe I would have been, but Bill kept me off that path. Father figure, I guess you’d call him. Got my record sealed and when I got out told me to come out here and work for him. Gave me a real chance at life.” Sal shook his head and a tear fell.

“You want some back?”

Lifting his head, Sal’s eyes narrowed. “How? I ain’t gonna get sent up again. That’s not what Bill would have wanted.”

“Lattimer is involved. We weren’t sure how, but some way. Give me everything you got on him and I’ll take it from here. Nobody will know about you unless you tell them.”

“That rat-bastard. I knew there was something I didn’t like about him. Bill’s got – he had – a soft spot for reformed cons, but some of them you just can’t trust, you know? I tried to warn him. Takes one to know.”

“Just tell me where I can find Lattimer.”

“You gonna kill him?”

I chuckled grimly. “I’m a P.I., Sal, not a hit man. I might rough him up a little, but he’ll be alive when I leave him. More than that you don’t wanna know.”

“Yeah. Okay. Gimme a minute.” He stepped briefly into the monitoring room, showing me a glimpse of a room full of computer screens, and then came back with a piece of paper. “Here’s his info. You didn’t get it from me.”

“Nope. He tough or what?”

“Naw. White collar. Nerd.”

“Good. By the way, I wouldn’t be surprised if Homicide interviewed you soon. Best to forget you talked to me, okay?”

Sal nodded solemnly. “Just find out who did this, sister.” He placed his hand on his heart. “I’ll owe you big.”

“No sweat.”

“Hey…what do I do about the business?”

I shrugged as I stood up. “Not my department. Did he have relatives?”

“A sister back in Chicago.”

“Call her, then. You next in charge?”

“Yeah. Assistant manager, more or less.”

“Sounds like it’s all on you. Sorry, Sal.” I handed him one of my business cards. “Put that out of sight. Call me if anything comes up.”

“I will.”

“Oh, one more thing. You ever hear anything on the street about someone named Houdini? Maybe a dealer?”

“No, sorry. I’m clean now, and I stay away from people in the life.”

“How about Luger?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough.” I turned to leave, and then looked over my shoulder, hand on the doorknob. “You might want to plan for someone to cover Lattimer’s shift.”

***

Back inside Molly, I called the M&Ms. “You boys finished with your carne asada and chili verde?” They always ordered the same things no matter the time of day.

“Almost.”

“I’m swinging by. Be outside and ready to follow me in five.”

“On it.”

When I pulled into the parking lot my watch read five after nine. Meat sat behind the wheel of their lifted dually with the monster tires, his younger, slightly smaller brother Manson standing nearby with a white Styrofoam carton. They both wore clean jeans and calfskin jackets, their version of “dress like P.I.s.” Leather fedoras like hats out of
Rocky
covered tattoos of crosses on their foreheads.

Could be worse.

Manson handed the box through my open window and I placed it in my lap, unwrapping the first warm breakfast burrito as I talked. My stomach rumbled. The pastries had long since digested. I stuffed the wrap into my face, hardly chewing. Once I’d finished with the first roll of heaven, I spoke.

“There’s a little girl that’s been kidnapped for leverage in a heist. This guy Lattimer works at the security center and he helped cover up the job. Someone just wacked his boss, a guy named Bill Clawson that was helping me. I need to find out what he knows, so you guys do your best to scare him shitless. If that doesn’t work, we start with pain and proceed to injury. Cool?”

Manson nodded solemnly. “Cool,” the younger one said. Meat scowled. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that expression.

“Follow me, then. Stay back a bit. That cowboy Cadillac of yours is memorable. When I pull in at his place, park at the end of the block and join me on foot. He’s supposed to be a geek but he may rabbit, so we’ll run a standard bounty drill.”

“Got it, Boss.”

I handed them most of the green in my money clip. “Down payment for today.”

“Thanks.” Manson saluted me with the folded cash before climbing into the passenger side of the truck. When I pulled away, they followed.

The address I had turned out to be a small single family home in a decent neighborhood of pre-World-War-Two construction. Not rich, but no broken-down cars adorned the green front lawns, which seemed more or less neatly kept. Few garages, but most had carports on the side and lots of mature trees. Quiet.

I parked Molly at the curb on a property line a couple houses away beneath a spreading Eucalyptus. The smell washed over me when I stepped out, reminding me of my childhood in Menlo Park. An old tabby gazed momentarily at me once from the front porch of the nearest home before turning to continue cleaning its flank.

I leaned against the big tree and idly peeled off a section of its papery bark, staring across at Lattimer’s house as I waited for the M&Ms. It seemed exceptionally neat and tidy, this one. Combined with Sal’s description of him as a nerd, I pictured a small guy with thick glasses, acne and dandruff.

“Dogs?” Meat asked as he walked up beside me.

“Forgot to ask. Sorry. Other things on my mind.”

“Guns?”

“I doubt it.”

Meat slapped his chest. “Got vests and stunners.”

“Good. Firearms?”

Meat shuffled uncomfortably, remaining silent.

“Okay, just keep them holstered unless you see a deadly threat. He’s a bit player, I’m pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?”

I turned to raise an eyebrow. “That’s all you boys get today. Wanna back out?”

“Naw. Let’s do this.” Testosterone has its uses, especially when it lets me dare men into doing things I want them to do.

A teenaged girl walked past us with a well-behaved Lab, iPod in her ears and head down to text one-handed on her flip-phone, oblivious. Other than her, the street was empty.