Cole raised an eyebrow. “Luger?”
“Uh…a source in the drug scene warned me that the Renfaire people don’t follow the same rules as the rest of society. But he meant…” she trailed off, looking at Cole and trying to sort it out. “I thought he just meant because they were following medieval or renaissance rules…you know, chivalry and ‘might makes right’ and all that…” She pondered on her own words. “Those do sound similar to mob codes, actually.”
“You didn’t meet with Luger without your muscle, did you? The M&Ms?”
“Well, yeah.” And not for the first time, either. “My two guys wouldn’t stand a chance against all of Luger’s soldiers anyway. Not walking in the front door of his lair.”
“Walking in his front door? You’re not even meeting on neutral ground? In a public place?”
Cal’s mind drifted back to sitting across the red-draped table from Luger, drinking wine and eating Chinese food. “No…not exactly.”
“You don’t have the weight of the police force behind you anymore, Cal. If Luger or Potoczek decided to make you disappear, you’re just one private eye, one citizen in all of San Francisco. How many resources do you think SFPD would put into it?”
“For me? Not much.” Hopefully, Brody would do everything he could, but what pull did a rookie like him have? And Jay Allsop? Would it be a matter of pride to solve his old partner’s murder? Or would he treat her in death as he treated her in life? “Ron might have something to say about it, though.”
“One brother in the FBI isn’t magic. There are a lot of people who care about you, Cal, but none of us could do anything if someone like Luger decided to get rid of you. The best we could do is bring them down, which wouldn’t be much consolation for your mother and your friends.”
“Nah. Luger likes me. More than likes me. Got a thing for me…” Cal trailed off.
“That wouldn’t stop him. Not a cold fish like Luger. Scumbags like him have a long history of disposing of anyone who gets in their way. Family, friends, lovers, it doesn’t matter. Not if you interfere with his enterprise. Or if he decides you’ve spurned him. Lovers kill each other all the time if they feel betrayed.”
“I’m not his lover!”
“You may be in his fantasies. You’re playing with fire again.”
“I wasn’t causing him problems, though. He called me because he was worried about me, just like you are. Not because I was interfering with his business.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know how much business he and Potoczek might have together. Why would he be concerned about you stirring up trouble, unless it impacted him?”
“I figure it was an excuse to see me. He’s always playing the mystery man. Probably thinks I actually like mysteries.”
“You do.”
“I like solving them, not investigating them per se. That’s just a way to pay the bills.”
“That’s like saying a poker player only likes winning—but as Shakespeare said, the play’s the thing. Don’t fool yourself, Cal—you love every minute of it. The hunt, the chase, the kill. Only sometimes, the prey turns and kills the hunter.”
Cal slumped back in her chair and stared at the vile coffee.
So she should have stuck to the smaller, safer jobs? Divorces? Surveillance? Corporate background checks?
Oh, who was she kidding? Cole Sage was right. She loved the race, the chase, the catching and the winning. She loved it all. Why be alive if your heart didn’t pound now and then?
Still, when everyone was telling her to back off, her friends and not-friends alike, maybe she should listen.
Yeah. No. Where was the fun in that?
Chapter Thirteen
Cal considered not going to the battle in Golden Gate Park. She really did. She thought about it all of the rest of the day, and all the next. She pulled Mickey back from the research into Pete Potoczek’s background and read through the stacks of paper that he had already printed off.
Luger and Cole had been right about Potoczek. He wasn’t the fatherly, benevolent Prince he pretended to be. That was just a mask. And who knew how many other faces at the Renfaire had just been masks. Did Potoczek’s wife know about his criminal background? Of course, if they’d really been married for thirty years.
Did Pat, Brook, and all of the rest of the players? Probably not. Cal had walked through the crowds at Renfaire without fear, like it was a child’s birthday party. Looking back, she wondered why she hadn’t felt some kind of subconscious twinge that everything was not as it seemed and she could be in danger. Where was her father’s ghost when she was watching the tournaments, thinking it was just an exciting spectacle?
The background Mickey compiled showed a nasty man who clawed his way up from the gutter to become Prince Petros. There were investigations of suspicious deaths, but he’d never been charged. He’d done a nickel on drug-related charges and extortion. Then, after he got out a few years back, nothing. He was on the straight and narrow, it seemed.
Mickey shook his head. “I could have found more if you’d let me.” There was a hint of a whine in his voice. “Just because he didn’t do any more time after that, there was probably still plenty of stuff after this. And there are indications he’s still involved in organized crime—”
“I know. You did good work, Mickey, but somehow you drew attention to yourself. Somebody noticed, and tipped off Luger, maybe others. You have to be more discreet.”
“I was discreet. Maybe it wasn’t me that drew the attention, boss. It’s not like you’ve kept it on the lowdown.” He held up his hands defensively. “Just sayin’.”
“Somebody knew you were running background on Potoczek. I shouldn’t have a neo-Nazi drug lord lecturing me about it.”
Mickey’s face fell at this. “I’ll go over what I did…where I might have triggered something…they must have had sniffers in place to alert them to someone accessing the database…certain search word triggers…” Mickey went on muttering about search engines and the dark web as he turned back to his computer, scratching behind his ear. “Maybe if you’d give me money for some better ICE…”
Cal had planned on getting Mickey to see what Cole Sage had written in the past about Polish or Russian mob connections, or the Renfaire itself. But the Wiz was obviously gone, completely distracted by the need to check his tracks and figure out what had gone wrong. And that was important, because it would help him to protect himself better in the future—and protect her.
“Okay. I’m going to go shopping with the M&Ms, and then we’re going to this Golden Gate battle enactment.”
Mickey didn’t look away from his computer.
“Shopping?” he asked vaguely.
“A costume shop. Special one, with battle gear too.”
“Oh.” Mickey’s ears had apparently filtered out anything that didn’t involve food and hacking, and he continued to tap at his computer with a frown on his face.
“Okay,” Cal told him. “See you after the war.”
When she went with Meat and Manson, Cal’s part-time muscle for hire, they used the M&Ms monster truck, since they were each the size of two regular people and didn’t appreciate being squashed into Molly or Madge. When their lifted 4x4 roared up in front of her office, Cal jogged out to it and climbed in.
“Tell me again where we’re going?” Meat, the larger, older brother, demanded. She had already explained it to him, but he obviously thought she was jerking their chains.
“We need costumes,” Cal said. “We have to dress up for this medieval battle enactment in the park.”
“Right. We’re all dressing up like knights ’n’ shit.”
“Yes.”
“You too?”
“Me too.”
Meat shook his head, a crease between his eyebrows. “You’ve done some weird stuff, Cal, but this takes the cake.”
“I was just going to go by myself, but after what Luger and Cole Sage said, I figured I’d better bring you guys along.”
> “Luger and Cole Sage?”
“Yes. It’s unanimous. These guys may look like a bunch of grown-up dorks playing make-believe, but there’s apparently some serious crap behind the scenes. As in, criminal crap.”
“And you’re going because…”
“To interview witnesses. Get a feel for what’s going on.” It was a part-lie, of course. She’d already interviewed the ones she was looking for. Now, she was on a fishing expedition—with herself as bait.
Both Cole and Luger had advised her not to go. That was part of the problem. The more they tried to warn her off, the more determined Cal was to get to the bottom of it. After all, she’d taken Sergei’s money. He was depending on her.
Yeah, that was it.
“Why you gotta dress up to interview people?”
“I want to blend in. If you don’t dress up, they know you’re just a visitor and a mundane.”
“Mundane?”
“Yeah, a normal person.”
Manson laughed. “Nobody ever called us mundanes before, Cal. You neither.”
“And they won’t if I can help it. Besides, I’m going to participate in the battle. Be one of them, then they’ll feel more inclined to talk openly with me.”
“So, you’re interviewing them after the battle?” Meat said.
“I don’t know, Meat. Just leave it alone. I thought you guys would have a good time with this. You like to clobber people, right? Maybe you can join in.”
Meat shrugged and drove, lips pressed together. “Maybe.”
Neither man seemed particularly interested in getting dressed up to play on the way over, but once they got into the shop and started to look around at the fighting gear, their attitudes started to change. Their voices got louder as they called back and forth to each other, each showing the other their discoveries.
The weapons room in the back was full of an eclectic collection of items that reminded Cal more of a hockey locker than a costume shop, which was why this was the place Pete had recommended. It clearly served the SCA and other Renfaire groups by renting gear—armor, shields, weaponry, some only for costume and some sport-functional.
The M&Ms turned into two kids in a candy store, racing from one sword to another, admiring the matchlocks and other period firearms, picking up flails and maces and various other murderous-looking instruments. And just like little boys, they started in with pleas of, “Cal, can we get this…?” and, “Cal, what about that?”
Cal laughed and looked them over. “We can’t get everything. This is only one day of battle; you don’t need a whole armory. No firearms. One unsharpened costume sword—and it won’t be the one you actually use. One set of armor, one shield, one SCA sword. They use rattan and wooden weapons and shields, not steel. See, it’s this section.” She pointed at the area with clearly marked racks.
“What about knives?” Manson asked. “Daggers? If we get disarmed, we have to have some kind of backup. Maybe one in an arm sheath, another in a boot…”
“Everything is just on loan, and these prices are outrageous. I’m not paying to rent extra daggers just so you guys look extra-badass.”
His expression fell. “Well, I could get my own, then I could keep it after.”
“Yes, if you wanted to.”
“Can we get an advance on our pay?”
Cal snorted and told them yes.
They put their heads together to discuss options and Cal took the opportunity to pick out what she wanted.
The first thing she learned about medieval armor and weaponry was that it was heavy. Normally, when she got outfitted for the day with her guns and blades and tools, Cal felt sleek and light, with everything fitting into place and allowing for range of motion, like a human puzzle with all the pieces neatly in place.
But in the medieval armor, she felt clumsy and restricted. Picking up the tape-wrapped rattan swords, she suddenly realized that if she were going to fight in a battle, it would have been a good idea to do arm and wrist strengthening exercises. For a few months…or years. Diving straight into a melee without any experience, as Potoczek had suggested, suddenly didn’t seem like a great idea.
He’d said that anyone could participate, and that for a lot of people, it was their first taste of anachronistic role-play. It had seemed like fun thing to join, but while she had some experience with Kendo, she was no longer sure that was going to be enough against seasoned SCA fighters. Hopefully they’d just put her up against beginners, give her a taste, stuff like that. She’d leave the heavy-duty rough stuff to the M&Ms.
When the sales clerk helped her to put on a helmet to complete her outfit, Cal could barely see a thing. The steel bars of the grille kept anything from poking her in the eyes, and the opening wasn’t large, so she could only see what was directly in front of her. She had no peripheral vision, and turning her head to look around, while possible, took practice.
Meat and Manson had picked out their show swords, their garb, and soon chose the gear that they wanted to fight in. Eventually, they were all outfitted. Cal pulled out her credit card to cover the rental bill, which was significant. She didn’t wonder about expensing it out of Sergei’s money, most of which she’d dropped safely in the bank deposit. He never seemed short of cash, and he was the client, so he got what he wanted.
The M&Ms were in high spirits as they climbed back into the truck after loading up all the gear. They’d adopted cheesy British accents and attempted to speak in some bad version of Middle English, with a bunch of thees and thous, milords and miladys, which was torture even to Cal’s untrained ears. Yet, she was the one who had precipitated it by taking them to the battle, so she joined in and tried to share the fun.
It was hard to feel like fun when thinking about Jenna. The chainmail she’d rented reminded her of the dead young woman, and how the stuff wasn’t proof against bullets. Maybe she should put on Kevlar under the medieval armor, but if she did, she didn’t think she’d be able to move.
All parties seemed in agreement that Pete Potoczek was a dangerous man, despite his benevolent dictator act. She would stay away from him and not ask any more questions about him specifically. She’d keep her eyes open for any signs that there was anything illegal going on. If the Renfaire or the associated groups like the SCA was being used as a front, they would keep it looking as clean as possible, but Cal still might catch something. It might be a long shot, but her instinct was that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark, and she’d taken Sergei’s coin, so…
“Cal?”
Cal blinked and turned to Manson. “Sorry. Thinking. What’s up?”
“Just wondering how Rostislav is. You seen him lately?”
“I visited him at the hospital. He’s out now, healing up.”
“And this whole thing.” Manson twirled a finger to take in everything. “It’s all to do with Sergei? With Vyazma?”
“Jenna was one of the waitresses at Vyazma. She was killed. Sergei is the client.”
“So this thing with the Polack—”
“Can’t say Polack, dude,” said Meat.
“Oh, whattaya call them then?”
“Crackers.”
The two men laughed uproariously. “Yo higga, that was funny.”
“Higga?” Cal asked.
“Yeah, like a combination of ‘homes’ and—”
“Don’t say it. I don’t want to know.” Cal was never sure if the two, who loved to play on their mixed Mexican and black heritage, were punking her or not. “Polish guy. You say Polish, or Pole. Or white. He was probably Aryan Brotherhood, too, so don’t push it, all right? From what I saw, the Renfaire is pretty inclusive, but there’s no reason to add fuel to the fire, okay?”
“Sure, boss. Don’t upset the crackers. So is this a mob thing? Some kind of fight over Sergei’s territory?”
“No, no,” Cal said immediately. “It isn’t anything to do with Sergei. And Sergei’s not connected.”
“He’s Russian. He runs an illegal card room.”
<
br /> “That doesn’t make him mob,” Cal asserted more confidently than she felt. “He’s not involved in anything like that.”
“You sure?” Meat asked. “’Cause I always thought Sergei was pretty cagey…one of those old birds who pretends to be harmless, but really…”
Like Potoczek? There were definite similarities between Potoczek and Sergei. But Uncle Sergei had been in Cal’s life for as long as she could remember, and while she knew that there was illegal gambling at Vyazma, and maybe he’d been involved in the drug trade and the usual rackets back before Cal was born, he wasn’t a hardcore criminal. Besides, he didn’t have the ink the Russian gangsters proudly displayed—the ornate Orthodox and Maltese crosses, the exquisite depictions of St. Basil’s, the snakes, the faces of famous Russians.
Cal shook her head at Meat and Manson. “No. He’s not in the mob. They probably have an understanding, sure. His only involvement in this case is that he liked Jenna and he doesn’t believe her boyfriend killed her. He wants to see the killer brought to justice.”
“And is it the Pol—Polish guy?” Meat asked, turning to look at Cal as he drove. “He’s the one responsible?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t think he did it personally, but it could have been someone in his organization or circle of friends. I really don’t know what he’s into. Mickey was digging, but I called him off.”
“So you’re more worried about Mickey than us?” Meat grinned.
“You can take care of yourselves, and you can always retreat to Oakland where your homies are.”
“No worries, Cal. We love you too. You should move over to Oaktown by us. Could buy a dope crib for what you could get for that antique you livin’ in, with a pool and everything. We could put the word out to our crew. Fine shortie like you needs protection.”
“And have to commute across the Bridge? Hell, no, homes.”
Manson snorted. “Ha ha, ‘homes.’ I see what you did there, bleed.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, Manson. Besides, Mom couldn’t take it. That’s the only real home she’s known.”
The Girl In the Morgue Page 14