Chapter 7
I slid into an empty booth, waving at Sergei. He smiled and returned the gesture, looking relieved. I was happy to ease his mind.
Of all the people I wished I could reach at one-thirty this morning, Cole Sage topped my list. In my experience the journalist was a bulldog with a story. To get it he’d take calls at any hour and stay up for days if necessary. He also knew just about everything that went on in this city, legit or not, but all I had was his office number.
I could call Mickey and he’d give me Cole’s private cell, but then I’d have to explain where I got it. “Who cares?” I muttered aloud as I called my office. When the answering machine beeped I growled, “Mickey, pick up. It’s Cal. Come on, Mickey –”
“Cal, hi,” Mickey’s breathless voice came on. “What’s going on?”
“Still haven’t beat that boss?”
“You’re the only boss I want to beat. No, wait, that came out wrong. I mean, the only boss I really care about. No, I mean –”
“Save it, Mickey. Give me Cole Sage’s private cell number.”
“Okay.”
When he’d recited it and I’d entered it into my phone, I went on. “What else you find for me? Anything?”
“I got everything else you want on Sage. I thought a big-time journalist like that would be flush, but he’s almost broke most of the time.”
“The only time a journalist has money is when he writes a tell-all book about someone famous, or maybe if he becomes a TV anchorman. I don’t care about his bank accounts unless there’s something criminal going on. Is there?”
“Not unless you count writing a check for three dollars and forty-two cents to a hot dog vendor. Hasn’t this guy ever heard of a credit card?”
“How many hot dog vendors take plastic?”
“Cash, then.”
“Obviously didn’t have any.”
“ATM?”
“He’s old-school. Something you young punks don’t understand. Still writes his stories on an old Selectric, or even in longhand, and has someone else type them into a computer.”
I could hear Mickey’s appalled disbelief through the phone. “No way.”
“Way. Now let’s move on. What about Mira and her ex, Dennis?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. They’re both not very well off, on paper anyway. Almost broke, cash-wise. Miranda owns the house she lives in and her Toyota. She gets a nice paycheck from her employer, but deposits money into a joint account she still maintains with Dennis, and he takes it out every time. Ten thousand a month. More than half of what she makes.”
“Ten – wow. For how long?”
“Ever since they broke up.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “That makes no sense considering how ugly the divorce got. Nothing in the settlement?”
“Nope. Ended up being ruled no-fault. No alimony. Not even any child support for Talia. If I read the court records right the judge got sick of them both and shoved a ruling down their throats.”
“Hm. Mira had the guaranteed high income and at the time Dennis had no job. I don’t see Mira paying her ex that much unless there’s a very, very good reason. Something else is going on here, Mickey. Something related to the heist and the kidnapping, something we’re not seeing.”
“Blackmail, maybe? Something Dennis has on Mira?”
“That fits, as far as it goes.”
“But Cal, there’s more.” I hadn’t heard Mickey sound this excited since the latest PlayStation came out.
“I know,” I replied. “You said they were both cash-poor, yet Dennis is getting all that money. Where’s it going?”
“Offshore. Caymans.”
“Tax dodge?”
“Not exactly. His records say Dennis declared the payoffs as capital gains from trading so he paid a lower rate, but unless the IRS actually audits him the chance of them noticing anything irregular is miniscule because the numbers match up. Money in, taxes paid, money out and on its way to the Caymans. Not illegal. Of course, once there it’s untraceable.”
I chewed on a nail and waved as Sergei caught my eye from across the room to make sure I knew he was closing up soon. “So this is weird, and if we want we can tip off the feds on the relatively minor tax charge, but we’re still not seeing any major crimes. Mira works in a warehouse full of stuff that’s literally worth its weight in gold, but all we’ve got is part of her paycheck being diverted. There has to be more to it. Keep digging.”
“Cal, I’ve dug as deep as I can. From now on I’m looking for new places to dig and that’s more your thing than mine.”
I debated telling him to start researching Houdini or Luger, but if I did he’d pull another all-nighter and might be wrecked when I really needed him. Instead I said, “Fine. Chill out and I’ll get back to you later.”
“Boss –”
I could hear the whipped-puppy anguish in his voice, so I made my reply kind. “It’s all right, Mickey. You did good. Turn off your machines and get some sleep.” I hung up before he could start blubbering.
Next I called Cole, but it went to voice mail. After muttering a string of curses I left an urgent message.
Once I picked up my hardware, I slipped Rostislav twenty bucks to walk with me several blocks back to my car. The enormous guard by my side would make any predators decide we weren’t worth the trouble. He left me as I slipped into Molly’s welcoming Recaro seat. Fortunately she’d only been left alone for a half hour or so, from Boca Grande’s closing time until now.
I saw lights still on in the restaurant behind its locked security bars, no doubt employees doing the cleanup, but Tyrell had gone, for which I was grateful. I hadn’t been hit on this much in weeks. Weariness suddenly threatened to overwhelm me, the fatigue of a long, stressful day. My own bed would feel good.
Five minutes later I pulled into the courtyard behind my office, my code lifting the bar to let me reach my private space. Molly’s engine sighed to silence, broken only by the pops and creaks of contracting metal as the damp Pacific Ocean night air claimed its heat. I considered and discarded the idea of going inside in favor of my own bed at home.
Walking the block home on the relatively safe Mission District streets seemed child’s play compared to the gauntlet of the Tenderloin. When I slipped into the back door of my mother’s house – that’s how I thought of it, despite the fact that I’d bought it and we’d both moved in at the same time – I heard the cacophony of snores from her bedroom that told me all was well. Mom’s two Pekingese, Chloe and Kira, could saw logs louder than most humans. That’s why I’d chosen a room upstairs and at the other end of the three-story Victorian.
Snowflake, my big Russian White, greeted me with a purring full-body rub to the calf. Sergei had given the cat to me when Dad died a few years back. I scooped him up. “Whoof, Snowy. Has Mom been feeding you extra tofu with milk again?”
My mother claimed to be a vegan, but that was more affectation than conviction. Often enough I’d left a carton of leftover Chicken Vindaloo in my fridge – I’d put in a separate kitchen upstairs – planning to have it later myself, only to have it mysteriously disappear. Ditto for my milk.
Mom’s ethics had always exhibited a certain Bohemian flexibility.
Some people called her a free spirit. I called her a pain in the ass, but I loved her and I knew she loved me and at the end of the day that’s what mattered.
Climbing two flights drove home to me how tired I was all over again, and I skipped the shower I should take in favor of shucking my clothes and falling into bed, Snowflake curled at my feet. Before I went under I reached for my clock radio, setting it for six while trying to ignore the benighted thing’s current readout. 2:17 a.m.
Ugh. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it. No matter how much I wanted to, I doubted I could accomplish anything in the wee hours and I had to get a few REMs to keep my performance up. Sleep-deprived people made mistakes. I couldn’t afford any today.
Wakin
g to Tom Petty on KFOG, I felt much better, though my stomach twisted up as I thought about Talia. Hard to believe it had been only eighteen hours since I’d found Mira’s card on my foyer floor. Despite believing everything I’d told Mira about kidnappers avoiding the manhunt that abusing or killing the girl would bring, criminals didn’t always act rationally. Sometimes their best-laid plans went out the window. Someone would get scared and do something stupid. Usually it was innocents who paid.
After a quick, welcome shower and change of clothes, I slipped quietly downstairs and turned toward the back door.
“California Gale Corwin, I know you’re not trying to sneak out without rapping with me,” floated my mother’s voice from the front of the house.
Snowflake mrowed and scampered toward Mom, knowing full well that scritches and patches of sunlight awaited him in the big east-facing front room.
“Traitor,” I muttered, sighing and turning to follow him. A few steps brought me to a gorgeous glowing space, the reason I’d fallen in love with this place and known it was perfect for my mother.
For some inexplicable reason, after the 1906 fire the row of houses opposite had been rebuilt to only two stories rather than the usual three and they were on the downslope side of the hill, so the glorious morning sun remained largely unblocked. Stained glass windows Mom had laboriously handcrafted and set transformed the yellow beams into a kaleidoscope of color that washed across the thick sprawl of Persian rugs and macramé-hung plants.
Mother sat cross-legged on the floor, Snowflake on his back in her lap as expected. Chloe and Kira’s squashed, bug-eyed faces watched imperiously from atop the overstuffed sofa.
With Mom’s big round rose-colored glasses and straight hair starting to tinge grey, she always reminded me of a less harsh Yoko Ono, Grandmother’s full Japanese blood showing strongly through.
“Did you really say ‘rapping,’ Mom? It’s 2005. Learn some new slang.”
“Come sit down and relax, Callie. I’ll make us some tea.” She made as if to get up.
“Mom –”
“Starlight. ‘Mom’ is elitist and hierarchical, a sop to outmoded values.”
I didn’t know why I bothered arguing except that I wasn’t willing to admit defeat. “It’s a term of respect and love, Starmom. And I’d like to, but I can’t stay. I’m on a case, trying to find a missing child.”
Mother blinked at me, her eyes widening. It took a lot to get through her obfuscatory fog of self-congratulatory New Age ideology, but that seemed to have done it. “Oh, my. You’d better get moving, then. I’ll go to the Saraha temple and pray for you. Good thing for you it’s Tuesday.”
“Why’s that matter?”
“Tuesdays are slow days. They have a lot of positive energy to put into prayer.”
“Great, Mom. Don’t forget to bring your own incense this time. You hate what they have there and it’s overpriced anyway.”
“Monks and nuns have to eat, too.”
“And tourists are suckers. If you want to help them out, just drop a few bucks in the collection plate.”
“Buddhist temples don’t have collection plates. They have boxes.”
“Mom, for someone who’s supposed to be so laid back you sure do nitpick about labels.”
“You’re right, Callie,” she said indulgently. “Forgive me. What kind of people-killing device are you carrying today, a fifty-caliber Browning?”
“It’s a forty-caliber Glock, Mom –”
“Aha!” she said, wagging her finger at me. “Do unto others.”
“That’s a Christian saying.”
Mother’s nose rose, holier-than-thou. “I embrace all truth from whatever source it derives.”
“If only.” I leaned over to rub Snowflake’s belly, eliciting an affectionate four-pawed grab. “Listen, I’ll hang out and rap with you when this one is done, okay?”
“Hanging out and rapping is good. Go find that girl.”
My eyebrows rose. “How’d you know it’s a girl?”
“A mother knows.”
“So now you’re my mother again?”
She plastered on that enigmatic smile I hated. “I do not see myself as one or the other.”
“I hate Taoist koans, and you twisted that one.”
“Koans cannot be twisted or untwisted.”
“How about this one: if you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha.”
“You and your killing.” Mom scowled.
“I’ve never killed anyone in my life, but there’s always a first time.”
Mother stared at me blandly, but I knew she was thinking about the bomb tech, the one who’d died in the blast that maimed me…and she knew I knew.
Survivor’s guilt stabbed me anyway, though a pinprick compared to what it once was. I raised my hand. “I have to go. Be well, Mommy Starlight.”
“Be well, Callie-gee.”
Glad to get away from Mother’s surreal world-capsule and back to the crisp reality of my beloved streets, I walked briskly to clear the cobwebs, picking up a half-dozen assorted pastries from Malek’s before heading to my office. On the way I texted Mickey to meet me there immediately.
Once inside, I went upstairs to my kitchenette and brewed a pair of quadruple lattes, dividing the baked goods evenly into two baskets. Putting them all in one risked Mickey making the rest disappear before I’d finished with the first turnover.
From behind my desk downstairs I dialed Mickey’s cell.
“On my way, boss,” he said when he picked up, not sounding on his way at all.
“Your four-shot and fresh pastries are sitting on my desk getting cold and stale,” I told him.
His next response seemed more sincere. “Be right there.”
I knew the food and coffee would motivate him. Three minutes later he stomped heavily up the stairs to throw himself into the chair in front of me, both hands reaching for the goodies before his butt hit the seat. “Mm,” he said after the first bite of pain au chocolat.
“Enjoy it, because I want you handy all day.”
“You know I’m very handy, boss. Your wish is my command.”
“Right now I command you to keep working.”
“I got a couple things for you,” he said with a did-I-do-good expression.
“Let’s hear it.” I finished my first turnover and wiped my fingers on a napkin. I’d long since learned not to lick them with Mickey around; his eyes would lock onto my mouth and sometimes he let out an involuntary moan. Do you wonder why I never set foot in the basement bathroom?
“Okay, your pharmacist client called several different numbers since Friday night. Two to prepaid cells, I think. Another to your buddy Cole, his private cell number, but it was very short, fourteen seconds. Probably voice mail. After that she received a call from one of those prepaids. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Everyone uses them nowadays, even you.”
I sighed audibly, making a hurry-up motion with my non-eating hand.
“Okay, okay. Then she gets a call on her home phone from a different prepaid, but what’s weird is, it’s a number that’s almost sequential to one of the other ones she has been talking to. Like it was in the same lot, maybe bought at the same store near the same time.”
My mind chewed on that one for a moment. “Anything else?”
“She called Cole again Sunday morning. Short. Probably just left a message again.”
“Hmm. She never said anything about that.”
“What do you think it means?”
“No telling. That it?”
“I still have more numbers to correlate.”
“Okay, here’s a new lead to research. Somebody in the drug trade called Houdini. A big player, I’m thinking. Might be the guy who commissioned the heist, or at least will be buying the load.”
“Houdini. That’s all you got?”
“There’s another guy called Luger. Aryan Brotherhood, neo-Nazi, mid-level dealer by the look of things. Might be into other stuff; he’s a little unusual. I believ
e he owns the entire block of apartments where he lives.”
“I’ll add that to the list.”
“Be careful. These guys ID you fishing in their pond, they might come after you.”
“I didn’t know you cared, boss.”
“I don’t, except they’d come after me next. Or your mom.”
“Ouch.” Mickey’s face lost its banter. “I’ll be very careful.”
“Good.” I stared at him for a long moment, and then snapped, “Go on, take your goodies and get to work.”
“Right. Don’t have to be mean,” he mumbled as he got up.
“Sorry, Mickey.” I pulled out my freshly recharged money clip. “I’m just wound up and running on very little sleep right now.” Tossing five twenties onto my desk for him to pick up, I said, “That’s a down payment. I’ll give you the rest later.”
“Thanks, boss,” he said, mollified, scooping up the cash before heading downstairs to his lair.
I checked my answering machine, not hearing what I wanted – Cole Sage’s voice. Only telemarketers, an inquiry from a potential client that sounded like he wanted me to surveil his cheating wife and a personal call from Elle Saint John, the chief of police out in the dusty San Joaquin Valley town of Turlock. She was wondering when I’d be coming through again and would I like to have lunch. I sent her a quick text telling her I was on a case and I’d get back to her, and then tried to figure out where to go from here.
Mira was being surprisingly reasonable by not freaking out and calling me every few hours for an update. Was that suspicious? Maybe. I picked up my landline, which activated the automatic record function.
My client answered on the first ring. “Yes?” she said, her voice thin and shaky.
“Mira, it’s Cal. Have you been contacted?” I liked to ask open-ended questions because sometimes people ended up telling me completely unexpected, revealing things. Not this time, though.
“No, nobody’s called. Please tell me you’ll find her soon!”
“I’m getting closer, Mira. I really am. So…no one from your job has talked to you yet?”
“No. Should they have?”
“Not sure.”
I thought about the fact that someone with Mira’s biometrics had ripped off the warehouse last night. If the theft had been reported to the police, they’d have detained her for questioning already. Was it possible no one working there had noticed yet? Of course, I’d told Bill to overlook anomalies – not to call it in unless he absolutely had to. Once the cops got involved, the kidnappers’ hand would be forced. They’d have to wrap up their heist and I didn’t want them pushed into something hasty or desperate, like murdering Talia.
“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.