Luger steepled his hands and stared off into space, thinking. No matter how much Cal might wish for plain speaking, she doubted she’d get it from him.
“I didn’t invite you here merely to warn you off,” Luger said eventually “I’m trying to help you without compromising my own position or sending you into deeper danger.”
“So, help me.”
“You are looking in the wrong direction. You are stumbling around, thinking that this Jenna Duncan was killed out of jealousy. A lover’s quarrel.”
“They were both seeing different people and the boyfriend confessed, so yeah, I’m thinking it was probably jealousy. If not that, then at least a personal quarrel. Most homicides are personal, emotional.”
He shook his head. “There is much more here than meets the eye. Or…you’re not looking hard enough.”
“Oh, that’s useful. ‘Work harder, Cal, or you’ll never amount to anything.’ Very helpful. Well, I’m far from done, and I have dug up a few clues. The boyfriend, he didn’t have any GSR on his hands, and I think the injuries to his arms were staged. He was used to this medieval fighting in a way most people aren’t. There were other weapons all over that living room. Why wouldn’t he just pick up a sword to defend himself? Or even better, a shield. Why put out his hands? Why one stab in each arm, when she would have had to reach across his body to inflict one of them?” Cal waved as if brushing away flies and reiterated, “Staged.”
Luger made a reciprocal waving-away gesture. “Minutia. True, though it hardly matters except as confirmation it was not a crime of passion.”
“So what does matter? The missing cross? The chainmail? What?”
“Ah…” Luger sighed. “What about the chainmail?” The way he said it gave Cal a sneaking suspicion that he knew even more than he was letting on. She wasn’t enjoying the Socratic method and wished he would just speak plainly, but clearly this was entertaining for him.
She couldn’t pass on specifics of the autopsy, especially things that could have only come from Stone and his forensic science, but she could talk about something any cop could have observed at the scene. “She was wearing her chainmail a lot, judging by the state of her skin. Was she paranoid? She thought someone was out to get her? Someone who would use a blade, not a gun?”
“The fact you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get you.” Luger met Cal’s eyes. “She is dead, after all. Does that seem paranoid?”
“No. Maybe there was something going on that made her think her life was in danger…and it was. So okay, it wasn’t just a lover’s spat, like Randy says.”
“She was wearing this chainmail when she died?” Luger asked, eyes narrowing intently.
Cal chose her words carefully. “There’s reason to believe she was.”
Luger rose abruptly from his seat, startling her. He folded his napkin once and dropped it on the table with an air of finality. “Let me show you out.”
She stood as well, staring. “That’s it? We’re done?” She put her hand out and touched his arm to stop him, to work through the point. “She was wearing the chainmail when she died. It didn’t provide any protection against bullets, so she must have misjudged the danger. It didn’t come from a Renfaire fighter or a low-level thug after all—is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
He locked up her arm in his and walked her toward the door. “Your police force didn’t think it was strange, finding this girl in chainmail? Executed?”
“No. No, she wasn’t wearing it when they got there.” Cal froze, her mind spinning at high speed. “It had…it had been removed before they got there, and it wasn’t on the scene. So someone took it away with them. Someone…who didn’t want the police to see it?” Cal put her hand on the door frame, stopping herself from being escorted out. “Was it…maybe it was a gift from someone? It would have tied her to the murderer?”
“A gift?” Luger snorted. “Did you know the word gift in German means ‘poison’?”
“That’s pretty cynical. And meaning what?”
“Meaning perhaps not every gift should be accepted.” He angled himself through the door, drawing her along. “California. Go home. Schlaf gut. Think about what we have talked about. Maybe once you have had a good night’s sleep, you’ll be able to make sense of it.”
Cal disengaged her arm with some difficulty. “It would be a lot easier if you would just tell me straight out. You say these guys are players. Hiding behind their costumes and their faked language. How are you any different?”
Luger ignored her question, merely escorting her down the stairs to the front entrance of the building. “I’ll see you again, liebchen.”
“I’m not your sweetheart. Not your anything. You said you know how to treat a beautiful woman. Well, next time you call me, have something clear to say. Because this was not it.”
He shook his head, his face mask-like in the harsh glow of the streetlights. “I’m doing you a favor by being cryptic, California, if you’ll only see it. If I make myself too clear, you might end up dead…and that would sadden me greatly.”
Cal snorted and stomped over to her car, where the skinhead held the door for her as she slid in behind the wheel. Yet, for all Luger’s game-playing, he did seem to be sincere about the danger to her.
She resolved to remain wary.
Chapter Twelve
Cal slept fitfully. She’d known she was going to have trouble unwinding after the meeting with Luger. Every time she drifted off, she fell into restless, wild dreams as if feverish. Her desperate brain tried to process things even as she tried to sleep.
She dreamed of Luger. She dreamed of Thomas, dressed in chainmail. When she tried to talk to either, he would move away from her, ignoring her pleas, eventually disappearing from sight. And then she would wake up again, tense, provoked, ready to punch someone.
Yet she was not only alone in her room, but in the house. Even Snowflake stalked off after a couple of hours of tossing and turning forced the cat to relocate every time Cal tried to find a comfortable position.
She dragged herself out of bed in the morning and guzzled two cups of coffee, cooled just enough with milk. She needed to figure out what was going on. She needed someone with the bigger picture, someone who knew about Luger and Pete Potoczek of the Misty Hills. She needed someone with an objective viewpoint and a wide, inquisitive mind.
In other words, she needed Cole Sage.
Cal attributed the extra flutters of her heart to the two cups of coffee. She was over Cole Sage. They’d never been compatible to start with. So she’d had a crush. Everybody had crushes. When it became obvious the older, prizewinning journalist would never return her feelings, she had been mature enough to move on.
At least, that was how she felt the last time she talked to him. She had Thomas—sort of. She had Tanner Brody—if she wanted him. She had creeps like Luger. She had passing carnal offers from people like that security guard—what was his name? Tyrell, Tyrone? She could afford to let Cole Sage go. Release him like a trout that was too old and canny to ever be caught. There were plenty of other fish in the sea.
Only she hadn’t heard from Thomas in a while, and she had the feeling she’d missed the boat with Tanner. They just couldn’t seem to connect at the right level. They were both disappointed with how the cruise had gone, but neither brought it up.
Rather than trying to pin Cole down by phone, which was always a hit-or-miss proposition, Cal decided to drop by the Chronicle. Hopefully, he would be there and not out investigating a story. She wanted to be able to look him in the eye and to discuss the details with him, face to face. No hanging up because he was busy, or dodging her through the pool secretary.
She wasn’t able to waltz by the security guard, though. She supposed it had been tried too many times by too many people, including her.
“You have an appointment?” asked the guard, a big ape of a man with sweat rings under his armpits despite the cool weather and underheated building.
; “I’m Cal Corwin, here to see Cole Sage.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Not per se…but—”
“I don’t see your name on the visitor list. If you’re not on the visitor list, you don’t have an appointment.”
“Well, no. But if you call him, he’ll see me.”
“You’re going to have to talk to the front desk and get an appointment. If they okay it, they’ll give you a visitor badge and a pass. Otherwise, no go. Sorry, lady.”
“What is this? The White House? I just want to talk to a reporter. He’s an investigative reporter. I’m an investigator myself, and I have something for him to investigate. He’ll be really ticked off if he finds out that I was here and you wouldn’t let me in. He’s going to want to hear from me.”
“If he wanted to hear from you, maybe he could have put your name on the permanent access list.” He flipped the papers up and down on his clipboard as if to make the point. “Nope, don’t see no Cow Corbin.”
“That’s—never mind.” Cal growled and withdrew.
The guard watched her for a minute. Then he sat back down, relaxing again behind his counter, ignoring the people with Chronicle press badges who buzzed in.
Cal pulled out her cell and waited impatiently for Cole to answer. He’d better not ignore her when she was right outside.
“Cole Sage.”
“Cole! Cal Corwin.”
“Hey, Cal. How’s life treating you?”
“Like shit, if the security guard out here is any indication. Why am I not on the list? That’s what you should be asking.”
“You’re here now?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “Poor Cal. You must be losing your touch if you can’t sweet-talk your way past ol’ Harvey.”
“I guess that was my mistake. I’m not in a sweet mood.”
“Hang on. I’ll come down.”
Cal put her phone away, folded her arms and stared at the sweaty security guard. She didn’t approach his station, so he ignored her. In five minutes, Cole Sage stepped off the elevator. Cal couldn’t hear what he said to the guard, but soon she was strolling past him. She ignored him, he ignored her, and then Cole escorted her onto the elevator.
“So, what’s up, Cal?” Cole said after they’d reached his floor, giving her one of his patented talk-to-me smiles, which didn’t fail to make her heart skip another beat. It was a moment before she could answer him.
“Maybe we could go out for a coffee and Danish,” she suggested. “Discuss it over breakfast.”
Cole looked at his watch. “Bit late for that. I’ve had breakfast and I’m booked for lunch, so if you want me, you’re going to have to take me when you can.” He started walking slowly down the hall, ignoring the bustle of people and rattle of fingers on keyboards.
Cal breathed, fighting her silly fantasies—fantasies she’d already rejected. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested. She tried to calm her thudding, over-caffeinated heart and get her brain back on track. She was there for a reason, and it wasn’t to flirt with Cole. He was a source. He was going to give her information, and that was all.
“Fine. I’m hoping that you know, or can do some digging around and get the word for me, on the Renaissance Faire people around San Fran. There’s a guy, a Pete Potoczek, who’s a bigwig in the local society. I met him at the Renfaire going on in Escondido last weekend.”
Cole frowned. “Pete Potoczek.”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Never met him. I know quite a few things about that name from a while back, though.”
“How far back, and what things?”
Cole ran a hand over his perfect hair, considering his answer, and then motioned her to follow. He led Cal not to the reporters’ bullpen, but to a small conference room where they were less likely to be overheard.
Cal sat down as Cole paced the length of the room and back, obviously working his brain as he considered what he knew and what he might tell Cal. There was a pot of coffee sitting on a hot plate and she poured them each a cup, despite his assertion that he didn’t need it. Cal certainly didn’t need another cup herself, but she sipped at it anyway.
Cole leaned on the edge of the table, half sitting on it. He took a sip, winced and put it on the table next to him. “I hope that stuff was actually made today, and not for a meeting last week.”
Cal chuckled. “It’s pretty bad.” But only sitting-on-the-burner-two-hours bad, not sludge made days ago. “So…Potoczek…?”
“You met him at a Renfaire, you said?”
“I’m looking into a homicide. One of the members of his chapter was killed. At first, he was just my starting point, but later I got some hints that he might be something more. Some kind of player, power broker, something? Something maybe illegal, even?”
“Yeah, there are rumors. This Renfaire stuff, Cal…I don’t know that you want to get involved with that crowd. Things aren’t always as they seem.”
“I’ve already heard all that. Some people say it’s all innocent; some people say there’s a dark underbelly. I’m looking for something more substantial.”
“You’ve looked into his background?”
“Mickey’s running it, which is what triggered these warnings to stay away from him,” she half-lied smoothly. “That’s why I thought I’d see what you could tell me. Mickey might be able to give me his social security number and his credit score, but I need the real story. You’ll know what he’s been up to the past twenty years.”
“Don’t flatter me too much. I don’t know everybody in this town.”
“So where has he been the past twenty years?” Cal persisted. “I take it he’s done time?”
“He’s done time,” Cole agreed. “Like any mobster. They’ve got to make their bones, and sometimes they get caught.”
“Mobster?” Cal pictured friendly, courteous Prince Petros in his regal robes. He’s not a buffoon, Luger had said, but it was a struggle for Cal not to think of him as an overgrown kid playing dress-up. But she’d seen the ink under his collar. “That’s pretty strong language.”
“It is, and I can’t guarantee he’s not still connected. You don’t think I would tell you to stay away just for the heck of it, do you?”
“You’re telling me to stay away?”
Cole considered, then nodded. “Advising, let’s say. You’re the last person I’d tell to keep out of it, because I know you’d just go rushing in, caution to the wind. Like telling a teenage girl to stay away from the bad boy on the motorcycle. But Cal…Potoczek is dangerous. The police may think that he’s reformed, and that he’s been quiet for a long time, but…well, a leopard doesn’t change his spots. Not without a religious conversion, I’ve found.”
“Do you have sources in the Renfaire scene? Or is the society just a smokescreen for something else?”
Cole let out a long breath. “It’s real, and mostly innocent, but I’m fairly sure he’s using it for his own purposes as a smokescreen,” he said slowly. “He’s grown his chapter up a lot, beyond the usual starving-artist hobby scene. I think it’s a legitimate venture being used to hide a much larger, more sinister enterprise. I’m not sure exactly what, but it’s always about making money, usually through vice—drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, something like that. Of course, not everyone in the Renfaires has anything to do with Potoczek’s syndicate. I’m sure most have no idea what’s going on—just a few trusted people. Secrets can’t be kept by more than a few. But that doesn’t mean you can just blunder in there and ask questions without attracting notice.”
“I’m investigating a homicide. I didn’t use a cover because I had no idea I was walking into a hornet’s nest. But I do not blunder. I stalk. I observe. Lately, it seems, I flush out the game with some well-placed bush-beating. No blundering.”
Cole smiled. He picked up his coffee cup for another sip, apparently forgetting how vile it was. He made a face and put it back down. “Well, I’m not writing your obituary r
ight now, so you at least survived your first meeting. I may not be able to say the same if you dig into his background without taking precautions. Don’t make me investigate your death.”
“He knows that I’m looking into Jenna’s homicide. I’ll tell Mickey to be extra-careful—that reminds me, I need to see what he’s come up with—but if Potoczek has something to do with Jenna’s death, I can’t ignore it.”
“I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m asking you to back away, be careful, and feed the police the information they need to find out the truth.”
“Nice idea, except the police tend to ignore me, especially with my history. They like neat cases. They want to believe this is as simple as it looks on the surface. That means I have to dig up something really compelling. Something that proves Jenna’s death was a murder, not a domestic tragedy.”
“But what would Potoczek have to do with that? Even if he’s still dirty, he’s been very circumspect for years. This would be sloppy, and draw attention.”
“Maybe it didn’t go down as planned,” Cal said. “It feels to me like a hasty cover-up. Jenna knew she was in danger. When she was killed, she was wearing chainmail. And that means—” as Cal spoke, she suddenly saw what Luger had been trying to tell her the night before. “It was something to do with the Renfaire society. That’s why the mail was taken off of her body and removed from the scene. So no one would connect her death to the Society.” She stared at Cole. “She knew something was going on with the Renfaire and she knew she was in danger because of it. I have to get to the bottom of this.”
“Dangerous ground, Cal. You can’t stir up Potoczek’s organization. If they did kill Jenna, they’ll kill you too if they think they have to.”
“You really think he’s that dangerous? Luger never said—”
The Girl In the Morgue Page 13