I laughed, liking her in spite of the rough edges. “Welsh,” I said. “With a bit of Japanese and Mexican. That okay?”
“Of course, silly. I ain’t prejudiced. Mind if I smoke?”
“It’s your office.”
“Mike don’t like me smoking in here but there ain’t nobody else but me to man the phones and the radio so I can’t be sitting outside now, can I? God damn the pussified liberal People’s Republic of California anyway. How can you stand living over there in that crazy town?”
“San Francisco? It has its ups and downs. Mostly on the Richter scale.” That made Marilou laugh, and I fed her more of what she expected. “The Bay Area’s where the criminals are, so business is good. A Santa Clara girl like you ought to know.”
“Silicon Valley’s pretty tame compared to the City, so good luck with that, honey. You’ll get tired of it soon enough and want to move away like I did. Anyway, Frank’s out sick today and I don’t imagine he’ll be wanting a visit at home, so you’ll have to try him tomorrow at the school if he’s over whatever ails him. He takes lunch from twelve to one, same as the kids. Anything else you want to know?”
Clearly I had hit the mother lode, a perfect combination of boredom and loquacity. “Any other burglaries like that? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not much. There was one thing, now that you mention it. Couple days before the burglary a resident got his bike stolen. Bicycle, that is. Riders like the hills around here. Anyway, Jerry Conrad, he took a break at the old rest stop a couple miles up the J59 toward Don Pedro. Went in to take a dump. Didn’t lock his bike, the dumbass, and when he came out it was gone. Worth three thousand bucks, he claimed. Probably overestimating for the insurance, not like he needs the money.” Marilou peered through her reading glasses at the file she’d pulled from a drawer. “Says he remembered an old red F150 parked there when he went in and when he come out it was gone along with his bike.”
“Didn’t see anyone?”
“Nope. Here, lemme write down his address and phone number for you too.” She juggled her lipstick-smeared cigarette while scribbling the information down for me.
“Thanks, Marilou. You’re my new best friend.”
Just then the phone rang. I waved at her and took my leave as she picked it up.
Obviously there was no point in trying to interview Frank as he was probably still stacking Zs at the Mission District hotel I’d sent him to. I glanced at the paper Marilou had given me and decided to swing by his place here anyway.
Driving slowly through the town, I had a powerful sense of peace and quiet, something that occasionally called to me, like hearing a particularly amazing piece of classical music – by which I meant Metallica, Rage Against the Machine and Nine Inch Nails were more my speed. It was a rare moment and mostly served to remind me how bored I’d be if I were ever trapped in a place like this.
Still…maybe when life slowed down in twenty years I’d go Marilou’s route. In the outfit she’d been wearing I was sure she had her fair share of middle-aged admirers. More power to her.
Frank’s place turned out to be only four blocks away, an older, robin’s egg blue farm-style house on a shaded street at the edge of downtown. For those who liked small-town life it seemed perfect. Among other things I’d passed a small grocery, a bank branch, the town library, several historic buildings, a wine tasting boutique, a couple of bistros and restaurants, and a tattoo parlor with two Harleys parked outside.
Nothing remarkable about Frank’s. Very respectable, in keeping with his public reputation. There wasn’t anything I could do there unless I wanted to break in. No point in that, so I drove onward toward the house of Jerry Conrad the bicyclist. I didn’t need to interview him as I didn’t think the theft had anything to do with Frank getting blackmailed, but I had a feeling if I didn’t at least try, somehow Marilou would hear about it and wonder. Better to keep my stories as straight as possible. Call it background.
Jerry’s home turned out to be quite different, a new five-bedroom three-story McMansion in the priciest phase of Sycamore Pointe. Half acre plot, big house, lots of landscaping. Four car garage. One double-sized door stood open as I pulled into the driveway. I could see a man working on a bicycle inside.
“Nice car,” he said by way of introduction as he walked up to me, wiping his hands on a rag. Fifties, bald, fit and tanned, he smiled appreciatively at both Madge and me. I didn’t offer to shake.
“Thanks. You Jerry Conrad?”
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”
“Cally Jones. I’m a bail bondsman out of the Bay Area, looking for a jumper. A fugitive. I hear you got a bike stolen last week?”
“That’s right.” Jerry turned and waved me into his garage. Two BMWs, one an M3 and the other an X5 SUV, filled the other two spaces, but this section sported a fully outfitted bicycle workshop. Three two-wheelers hung on hooks while he worked on the fourth, a mountain bike. I was no expert, but they all looked expensive. “I was at a rest stop and stupidly left it unlocked for a moment while I used the restroom. When I came out it was gone. I reported all this to the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Yes, I’ve just come from there. I have reason to believe my guy is the one who stole your bike.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sorry, that’s confidential. You said he was driving a red F150?”
“I saw a red F150. Old one, really beat up and dusty. Didn’t get the number, but I think it had a modern white California plate.” State tags had several color schemes over the years, not to mention vanity designs. “I didn’t see the driver, though.”
“He might have been hunkered down in the cab waiting for someone like you. Do bicyclists stop there much?”
“All the time. Got to bring our own paper but the toilets work and there’s clean running water so we can refill our bottles.”
“So he was probably just waiting for a lone cyclist like you to come along.”
“I guess,” he sighed. “It was insured, though. I’m well enough off so it was more a blow to my pride than anything.”
“Early retirement?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m an accountant – was, I guess. I’ve let my CPA lapse. But I worked hard young and invested. Got out before the 2002 crash and bought this house and some property in town. Great place to ride.”
I’d noticed no ring on his finger, but there was a tan line. Maybe he just didn’t like the metal on when working with his hands. Lots of guys do that. I don’t wear rings, but if I did, I wouldn’t have them on when I had my fingers inside machinery. Then I reined in my curiosity and reminded myself that this interview was just a cover. I wasn’t here for bike thieves.
“Did you notice anything else? Anything I can use to help me catch this guy?”
He leaned over to stretch his back, and then sat down on a small bench. “I told the deputy everything.”
“The deputy’s out today. Please, sir, anything at all?” I wasn’t sure why I was pushing him. Must be the cop in me.
“No, sorry.”
I got the funny feeling he didn’t really care about the theft, that he’d let it go already. In my experience that was unusual. I shrugged mentally. Some people were just like that, and as he’d said, he could afford it. Maybe the embarrassment of making a dumb mistake kept him from wanting to talk about it, and masked his undoubtedly wounded pride.
I glanced around the workshop one more time and said, “Okay, thanks anyway. Have a good day.”
As I drove away I continued to wonder about his attitude. Most crime victims are happy to talk. Often you can’t get them to shut up about it, what with the combination of outrage, indignation, and the opportunity to vent on someone who might have a chance of obtaining justice or payback. This guy, though, had just stated the facts and that was it. He hadn’t even asked me for a card or pleaded with me to return his bike if I found it in my bail-jumper’s possession.
No wonder I stay in business. Every time I turn over a rock
I find something interesting. Too bad it wasn’t relevant.
My watch showed three-thirty so I swung back by the school again, wanting to take another look around and explore the job connection some more. Only two cars were parked in the lot, both by the main building, and most of the buses had gone. I pulled around to the rear, out of direct vision, and quickly made my way to the back door.
Most standard institutional push-bar doors can be popped open from the outside as long as there’s a handle to yank on, especially if they have any wear on them. It took me only two tries and I was in. I made my way down the single central hallway to the office marked “Franklin W. Jackson, Director, Special Education,” and slipped inside.
Opening the blinds for the light, I made a slow sweep with my eyes. Awards, photos, and children’s artwork adorned the walls. I stepped close and examined one picture of Frank in a suit, shaking hands with the governor.
His desk came next. One drawer was locked, but a quick twist with my multi-tool gave me access. Inside I found some petty cash, school papers and a box of twenty-four condoms with nine missing wrapped in a brown paper bag and buried deep. Guess he wanted to make sure he was ready for anything, anywhere. This discovery also told me he hadn’t been honest with me when he claimed to keep his party lifestyle well away from his job.
I caught the smell of perfume so I dug through and found three envelopes inside a folder. Fancy stationery and neat feminine penmanship. Love letters. Dearest Frank, they started. The middle dripped with lovey-dovey stuff and little else, but my impression was that the girl was local. She wrote about meeting “where we always do,” which could be anywhere. The letters bore no signature, not even an initial.
In fact, they seemed deliberately devoid of detail. A private affair? The reason for the box of condoms? But why hidden? More prejudice, or was the woman embarrassed to be seen with Frank? I made a mental note to ask him if he had a steady girlfriend here because whoever the writer was, she wasn’t it. I carefully cut the bottom inch off one of the scented sheets, unlikely to be noticed, and slipped it into a fresh envelope to take with me.
Digging around a bit more, I found nothing of interest so I locked the drawer again and slipped out before the janitor found me. After driving away I pulled in at a gas station and filled up, and then backed Madge over beneath a spreading oak to call Mickey. Reception was a bit iffy but I got through.
Mickey said he’d had no luck on Frank’s car and he was still working on the Chicago drop. I passed on Frank’s home address and also Jerry Conrad’s, and then I told him about Linda Davis and the red F150.
When he was on his game, Mickey became my own personal intelligence cell.
As I looked up from the call, I had the feeling of being watched. Now, some people say such things are bunk, and I’m not trying to convince you of the supernatural, but the subconscious mind often sees things the conscious does not. Call it intuition or my sixth sense, it was buzzing right now. I held up the phone like I was dialing for a moment, looking past it, and then using the rear-view mirror and rubbing the corner of my lip as if adjusting my makeup. I couldn’t see anyone to my front or rear so I started Madge up. Often it was easier to spot surveillance when driving, as the spy had to move too.
I cruised here and there through town, thinking and watching, but couldn’t see anything. I also was stymied for further leads. I suspected Frank’s burglary related to the blackmail. Either the blackmailer had been looking for more to use and broke in or a burglar had run across evidence of Frank’s alternative life and decided to make a few extra bucks on the side. I suspected the latter.
One thing that bothered me about the blackmail: most such crimes went down a bit differently. Usually the victim was told to pay a one-time sum of money he could afford in exchange for the evidence. He’d think that would end the matter, but then the criminal would renege and ask for more. The perp would keep the fish on the line as long as he could, trying to play for all the money possible. There was an art to long-term blackmail – not asking for too little or too much. Mostly not too much.
This case was unusual, more businesslike. One G a week, like clockwork. As if it was protection money rather than blackmail. It smacked to me of organization and patient confidence. The way the mob would work, perhaps. Racketeering. A leap, sure, and I could be way off base, but it smelled a bit more pro than usual.
Just then my phone beeped. “Yeah?” I pulled over in front of the tattoo parlor.
“Cole here, Cal. Your drop box is connected.”
“Huh.” Connected, as in organized crime, like I had suspected. That put a chill and a twist on things. “I was just turning that possibility over in my mind. A grand a week seemed more like a protection racket than a standard blackmail opportunity.”
“Good nose,” Cole said.
“Any way to find out where the money goes?”
“Not likely. Anyone in a mob operation isn’t going to roll over or rat, and unless your guy wants to go to the DA’s office and they get a federal warrant, mail is sacred. As soon as you do that, whatever you don’t want publicized, is. Even then the place will be sanitized within hours.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “The crime’s not big enough to put enough scarce resources against it. I get it. But a grand a week is pretty weak, so the blackmailer is low level, I’m thinking.”
“Sure. Nothing says the upper levels even know the details. In fact, they probably don’t want to know. The money gets bundled up, sent somewhere, the organization takes their cut and the rest goes into your scumbag’s account.”
“Which means if I can find the guy I still might be able to recover the pictures.”
“Yes,” Cole said. “Or just convince him not to use them.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” I had a few ideas, but I was always willing to learn from someone who’d walked the trail.
“You need leverage. Turn the tables. Find out something he doesn’t want known. That’s what I’d do.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, Cole.”
“Welcome. I still want to hear the story later, even if I don’t publish.”
That was Cole: insatiable curiosity. “Of course, once it’s all done. You’re buying.”
“If you’re selling. See ya, Cal.”
I ended the call and mused. That seemed to go well, and he was right. Leverage. What does a blackmailer not want known? His identity revealed to his other victims, perhaps, or to the cops. Or his connection to the mob? Any one of those might do.
Chapter 4
From my parking spot I looked up to see four guys watching me curiously from the sidewalk tables in front of the tattoo parlor. When Cole had called I’d turned instinctively into the nearest space. Maybe that had been a mistake. I didn’t think I’d been speaking loudly enough for them to overhear.
They looked rough, as expected. It was part of the mystique of outlaw biker gangs, but they were often real sweethearts if you didn’t get on their bad side. Most imagined themselves knights-errant, upholders of freedom, and only a fraction were really deep-down bad. Besides, I wasn’t in the law enforcement business anymore. Working to help my client get relief and justice was all I really wanted most days.
Two of them glanced at each other and walked over. Niners by their patches, a small club out of Placerville if I recalled correctly. They earned with a little midsized dealing, this and that, here and there. Not connected to the mob that I knew of, certainly not to Chicago. These guys were full members by their colors.
“Hey. Sweet ride.” The speaker was young, dark-haired and looked clean, with just a bit of a moustache scraggling his upper lip. The other, older one had the full-on Jesus look and suspicious piggy eyes.
“Yeah. It was my dad’s. Just out for a drive.”
“High Country Special?”
“California Special,” I corrected him. “Small-block 289 with the C4 automatic.”
“Nice. I didn’t know they made a convertible.”
“They didn’t. My dad was handy. He customized it for me.” I teared up suddenly, covering it by getting out and shaking my head as it did it. When I faced him again my eyes were clear. “I see a brand-new softail there.” I shut the door and walked over to the bike. “Yours?”
“Yeah, just got it. I’m Laser. This is Pork Chop.” He held out his hand to shake, putting on the smooth move.
“Cally.” I curled my fingers into a fist and bumped his instead. We talked bikes and cars for a minute before I asked, “Those your boys over there?” I nodded at the other two bikers still sitting drinking beer at the outdoor table, the ones with nomad colors. I couldn’t tell what club they were from, only that they were non-chapter right now.
“Naw, they’re Huns just passing through. You ride?”
“I can,” I replied. “I prefer auto racing, though.”
“You a cop?” Laser smiled a winning grin. “Not that I have anything against cops or to hide.”
“Used to be, actually. Bondsman now. I’ve posted bikers.” I liked representing myself as a bail bondsman – which I was, technically, though that wasn’t how I made my living most days – because of their peculiar status holding street cred with criminals and law enforcement. Both sides understood the niche and the rules.
“Cool. I don’t see no rings. You ever think about being a ol’ lady?”
I laughed. “You ever think about becoming a skip tracer?”
“Naw, too confining.”
“Exactly.” I slapped Laser on the arm and glanced at Pork Chop. The man’s eyes narrowed even more and I got the feeling he didn’t like me. I wondered why. Maybe he had something to hide and didn’t like anyone nosing around. If so, I thought Laser’s casual approach was smarter. Glaring daggers at an investigator was likely to raise suspicion, not lower it.
The other two didn’t look too friendly either, which seemed a bit unusual. I was no supermodel, but most of these guys would bang anything female between fifteen and fifty. Maybe a brother of theirs was a bail-jumper around here after all and they figured I was looking for him. That might be the problem. I decided to play that hunch and hoped it would work out for me two ways – put off their suspicions and maybe turn up a little information.
In a Bind Page 4