Loose Ends (11 page)

“What’s going on?” Mira asked.

“I’d rather you not know. Eventually the cops will question you. The more ignorant you are, the better. If I tell you things they might get mixed up in your head and make you sound guilty because of that extra information you shouldn’t possess.”

“Please, just tell me my baby will be all right.”

“Your baby will be all right. Hang in there. I hope she’ll be back by midnight. Call you later.” I ended the call.

My assurance was a mere educated guess at best, but I needed Mira not to stir things up in the critical next hours. Now that the criminals had their goods they had no reason to hang onto the ball and chain of a child – at least, not once they delivered the drugs to whatever major supplier had the cash. Even at a deep discount there must be at least a cool million involved, maybe ten, but the girl would likely stay put until they made the trade. After that, they’d go mobile, disappear with their bundles of hundreds, and an anonymous tip to SFPD would lead law enforcement to the glorious rescue.

Probably.

I didn’t depend on
probably
, though. Any number of things could go wrong.

Chapter 8

My next call was to Bill Clawson. He’d given me his home and cell numbers, but both went to recording. I left messages. When I dialed the security center I got someone named Sal.

“Bill there?” I asked.

“Um, no,” the Italian-American accented male voice on the line said. “Who is this?”

“A friend of his. He’s not answering his home or cell phones.”

“I know. I’d like to find him too.”

“When’s he due in to work?”

“Ah…”

“Look, Sal, I know he drinks. He ever so plastered he doesn’t answer?”

“Hell, no. He’s not like that.” Sal sounded worried.

“Give me his home address.”

“I thought you said you were a friend of his?”

“I’m a new friend, Sal. Never been to his place.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, I said in a tone full of innuendo, “He always comes to my place, if ya know what I mean.”

“Oh. Um, okay. But don’t tell him you got it from me. And tell him to call in, okay?”

“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.”