J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 (23 page)

“Well?”

“Thank you, no. The lion’s den is not my idea of a good time. We’ve gotta get one of them on their own.”

“Okay. You say they’ve got your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“You still got your GPS tracker?”

“You can’t be serious.”

But she was.

6:00 AM, Tuesday

The morning was blue, with the eastern edges just flaring with the dimmest glimmers of orange-white. On any other day I was coming out to Diablo at this hour, I’d have brought the Leica and a tripod out for some long-exposure work of the Delta or the San Ramon Valley.

Not today.

Having Rachael with me made cross-loading everything from the Malibu to the Civic in the Enterprise lot nice and quick. I could have grabbed the spare GPS tracker from the office in Oakland, but it would have been another fifteen miles. I wanted this case over with, even though I had no desire to run headlong into a room occupied by the woman who I’d winged at the beach. If she could handle hardware like that, she wasn’t someone I wanted to run into in a dark room.

Or worse, someone else who worked with her.

Ackerman, from one end to the other, was as still as a pond on a windless morning. Nobody stirring.

Nobody breathing.

I shifted the Civic into neutral and killed the engine two blocks away, then coasted up to the bushes that lined the Sternwood place. Anyone inside wouldn’t know we were here.

“How accurate is this thing?” Rachael turned the monitor this way and that, trying to gauge it.

“Six feet when the satellites are in the right place.”

“How do you know if they’re in the right place?”

“You don’t.”

“Great.” She tossed the device onto the dash.

“You up for this?”

“I dream of ending my sleepless nights with a B&E for a boss that leaves me with a dead body in my office.”

“Fine. Close the door soft after you get out.”

“There a trick to it?”

“Yeah. Do what I do. Then stay close behind.”

“No problem.”

I stepped out onto the pavement, lifted the latch, and pushed the door shut behind me before dropping it. Soundless. Rachael did the same. I caught her eye and held my index finger up to my lips. She jerked her head yes.

Around the back of the car, along the bush, I walked the edge of the light’s motion detection field. The driveway was empty. I couldn’t see or hear any activity in the back yard over the gate.

Check around the other side of the house, Lantham. Stay in the bushes, stay low. Out of view.
I waved Rachael to a stop, and she stayed put in the driveway thicket where I’d hidden the other night.

The light was coming up fast, but a full perimeter check only took three minutes. Around the far side of the house I found a second driveway that wound behind the estate.

Parked back there, a white Corolla. Now at least I knew where Gina’s car had ended up. Oakland and Danville PDs were going to love me for the report I’d be dropping on their desk later today.

Other than the car, nothing around the perimeter. Not a noise. Not a light. Not a body in any of the rooms I could see through the windows—and none of the blinds were drawn.

Doc Sternwood wasn’t out of the hospital yet, and his son was dead, so no surprise that the house would be empty.

Someone was in there, though. With my phone. Using it as a lure. And the tracker had it in the door next to the driveway, right under the motion sensor lights.

The driveway door—which I had mistaken for the front last time I was here—stood open a few inches.

I leaned over to Rachael and whispered “You passed your two-man cover training, right?”

“When I was fifteen.”

“Take the .45.” I’d normally have given her the six-shooter, but that Velcro strap was going to make noise when I pulled it. “Back holster.”

She lifted the back of my untucked silk button-up and drew the 1911 silently. She held it pointed down at the ground, right hand inside, left hand for steadying.

Not just blowing bullshit then. Good.

I crouched down below the window and walked duck-fashion up the two stairs to the wooden porch. It was new, well built, didn’t creak.

Small favors.

I plucked the telescoping dental mirror from the front pocket in my jeans, snuck it around the corner to get a bead on the room. I got a good 180 sweep. Looked like an empty guest room. I retracted and replaced it.

I took the GPS tracker out of my back pocket and took one last look. The phone should be right on the other side of the wall, only a couple yards away.

Back in the pocket with the tracker. I reached for the ankle holster. I worked the edges of the Velcro loose enough that I could yank it out, one little hook at a time.

I turned my head back to Rachael and nodded at her, flashed her five with my left hand. I nodded four, put my hand on the .38 snub.

I nodded three, shoved my thumb under the Velcro strap to put it under tension. I nodded two, tensed my back leg. I nodded one, and sprang.

I yanked the .38 up to Weaver stance and barged through the door. I caught it before it could slam back against the wall—if someone was elsewhere on premises, there was no reason to alert them.

The room was clear. All other doors closed. No other windows but the one I’d just ducked under. No corners for a shooter to hide in. All clear.

But not just clear. Empty.

One futon in the corner, in a floor-frame. No room for anyone to hide. A single spartan wooden chest of drawers, all empty with the drawers pulled out. An empty bookshelf. No carpet. Thumbtacks in the walls with corners of posters hanging from them. Brads that used to snag picture frames. Blinds in disarray.

Somebody had cleaned out this place but quick.

Nothing here. Where was the phone?

I heard Rachael creak in cautiously behind me. I stepped to the side to let her get a sweep. Good form. Whoever’d taught her had drilled her well.

I stretched my gun hand out to her, butt first. She grasped my meaning and swapped me for the .45, so we were each carrying what best fit our hands. I cocked my head right to ask if she thought we were clear. She nodded at the empty bookshelf.

My phone sat on it.

Three steps toward. Weapon back in the holster. Check the phone for trip wires that could be rigged to an alarm or an explosive—paranoia, maybe, but after what I’d seen in the last twelve hours I wasn’t taking any chances.

It looked safe.

I picked it up, and the screen came to life. An icon in the corner blinked insistently.

“What is it?” She barely whispered it.

“Text message.”

“What does it say?” Bolder now. Less afraid of being overheard.

“It says,” I kept my voice low and checked to make sure there was only one, then opened it “‘We know who you are. We know how to find you. Next time we notice you, you won’t live long enough to notice us.’”

Rachael shuddered. Her breath bounced off the bare walls like a rattling comb. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I.” I pocketed the phone. I was going to have to ditch it soon, but I wanted to see if I could recover anything from it first. Besides, it would fetch a couple hundred bucks on Ebay with all the specialty hacks. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I wasn’t putting it past them to have bugged the room, or the phone. Whoever they were, they definitely weren’t the Ishmael’s Way—too small time. They had money and resources bigger than I’d ever seen. Maybe mob? Maybe corporate raiders looking to take competition out of the way?

Maybe something a whole lot bigger.

I cocked my head toward the doorway, and Rachael led the way out to the street.

“Danville. Hell of a town.” I rounded the front of the Civic to the driver’s side and clicked the unlock on my remote.

“Not everyone in suburbia is a drug snorting degenerate with incest and murder on their minds.” She gave me a half smile, like she thought I was far sillier than I gave myself credit for.

“Says you.” I jerked my door open and plopped down into my seat.

“You prefer Oakland.”

“Yup.” I reached across to the glove box and grabbed the insulating bag for the toll transponder.

“The place that competes for the murder capital of the Western World.”

“It’s been a long time since we won that award.” I took the phone out of my pocket and shoved it into the transponder bag, then wrapped it in a stray sock, and put the whole package back in the glove box. “I think it’s okay to talk now.”

“You gonna chase down that last lead in the city?”

“No. They warned me off, and I’m off the case. Don’t want to get shot at again today.”

“So who do you think they are?”

“I don’t know.” I slid the key into the ignition and pushed the clutch in. “But something tells me we’re going to be hearing from them again. I hope I’m wrong.”

“We?”

I nodded. “If you want the job, it’s yours. Thirty-five K and all the bookkeeping you can stand.”

“Stingy.”

“I’ll bump it to forty-five when you get your concealed carry permit and finish your AA.”

“That’ll do for now.”

“Good.” I turned the engine over and took one more look at the Sternwood house.

“Did you get a good look at the shooter?”

“What? The one that did Gravity? Not really. A flash in the moonlight. Edge of the trees. I nailed her with my flashlight for maybe half a second.”

“Think you’ll know her if you see her again?”

I closed my eyes, tried to bring the dark figure to mind. Five six, maybe. Fast. Ran like a cougar. Knew the terrain.

“No. She just vanished into the trees. I only caught a glimpse,” I started the car and shifted the transmission into first, “And then she was gone.”

The End

Clarke Lantham will return

Acknowledgments

Thanks are due to many people who have, knowing and unknowing, been indispensable in helping create this little mystery. They are:

Blake Charlton, author of the fascinating linguistically-driven fantasy
Spellwright
and fellow member of the Young Lion’s Club, who was invaluable in assisting me with the geography of the James H. Clark center at Stanford.

Gail Carriger, author of the marvelous
Parasol Protectorate
series, whose
competition and encouragement helped spur this foray into the land of hard boiled humor.

Kitty Nic’Iaian, who furnished invaluable editorial and graphic design assistance.

Beta readers Elizabeth Resine, Kim Fortuner, Odin1Eye, Rick Castello, Susan Taliaferro, and Rhonda Carpenter, for catching continuity glitches.

Dean Welsey Smith, J.A. Konrath, and Kathryn Kristine Rusch, who have been instrumental in furthering my education over the past year.

Mary Mason, with whom I’ve spent many a long hour arguing the different textbook and real-world tactical approaches to hostage situations.

Huge thanks and gobs of appreciation to all the fans who’ve been pestering me to release this book since its first public reading earlier this year—I hope it lived up to expectations.

And finally, special thanks are due to Howard Hawkes, Raymond Chandler, Humphrey Bogart, and Lauren Bacall, for that most sublime of detective films,
The Big Sleep
, which first ignited my love for the genre. Your work lives on.

Author’s Note

Some of you may recognize me from the world of audio fiction, and to you, welcome to my latest venture into new territory. For those of you that don’t, you’ve only scratched the surface. More of my fiction is available, for free, as full-cast, fully-soundtracked audio plays through my podcasts at http://www.jdsawyer.net (also available on iTunes).

I also post regular feedback shows where I respond to listener emails, answer questions on topics related to my stories, and talk turkey with other writers while consuming moderate-to-copious amounts of alcohol and laughing maniacally about my attempts to take over the world. If you enjoyed this book, chances are you’ll love the show.

Should you wish to send in feedback, ask me to guest post on your blog, or have me as a guest at your convention, on your podcast, or on your radio show, please send me a note at [email protected]. If you wish the contents of your note to remain private rather than being answered on pod, please say so in the note.

There are currently three novels and eight short stories planned for the Clarke Lantham series, but there’s no reason, currently, that it can’t be an open-ended endeavor. What pace I write them at depends on you, the audience.

To that end, please leave a review on the site where you purchased this book (Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, etc.) and on the preferred social networking site of your choice—Goodreads, Facebook, your blog, anything. The greatest enemy of the new author is obscurity.

Finally, a quick word about piracy and formats:

I have done everything in my power to make this book available in open, non-DRM-encumbered formats so that this volume of your electronic library will not be held hostage to changing hardware platforms. If you purchased the ebook edition of this novel and your copy has DRM, email me with details, and I do what I can to provide you with an unencumbered copy.

If you got this e-book from a torrent or other pirate site, please consider purchasing a legitimate copy for a friend who might enjoy it, or a POD copy for your local library. If you make the purchase through any of the links on my site, http://www.jdsawyer.net, I will receive both the royalty and a sales commission, and that’s always a nice bonus. The most important thing, though, is to spread the word.

Clarke Lantham will return. And so shall his enemies.

-J. Daniel Sawyer

San Francisco, CA