“Okay, Cal. We’ll take it from here.” Jay seemed annoyed he didn’t come up with anything I hadn’t, so he started punching buttons hesitantly on Frank’s cell. Brody held out an open palm, and after a moment the older man handed it to him.
“I’d like to know what you find on the phone, and on the body,” I said in a neutral tone.
“You’re a civilian now, Cal,” Jay said almost apologetically.
Damn, we’re nearly getting along, I thought. “I spent the day investigating at Granger’s Ford. Found out some interesting stuff,” I said.
“Withholding evidence is a felony.”
“No evidence, just info. Besides, it’s privileged information between me and my client.”
“Your dead client,” Brody said.
“Still my client. He paid me to find out who was blackmailing him and I intend to find out. When I do, somewhere around there I bet I find a murderer. You want the first phone call or not?”
“Yeah, we do. But why would a blackmailer kill his mark?” Jay asked, still trying to sharpshoot me.
I shrugged. “Not saying he did. Just that it’s gotta be related somehow.”
Jay stepped toward me, pointing his finger. I got the feeling that if I’d been male he’d have actually poked me in the chest. “We’ll take the murder and you keep on your blackmail trail, all right? You call me if you get anything relevant.”
“Don’t you mean we call each other?”
“The Department doesn’t discuss ongoing cases with civilians.”
I sighed and put on my most winning smile. “Come on, Jay, let’s get over this thing between us. I’ve never done anything to you personally.” I pulled out one of my cards and held it out to Allsop. “Call me in about an hour. I’ll be on the road to Granger’s Ford. Plenty of time to talk. I’ll tell you some things I know. In return, I just want whatever you can give me, all right?”
It rankled to be the nice guy here, but I really, really wanted to nail whoever did this, even if I didn’t get any credit for it. I could always stick it to Allsop later. He took the card and nodded, that permanent sour look on his face.
Chapter 7
As I’d requested, Allsop called me on the road. I filled him in and asked him how long until he expected to inform anyone in Granger’s Ford. The detective said because Frank lived alone they had to search for next of kin to try to notify them first. That gave me a day or so until they would call Frank’s employer or show up in town to get in my way.
Afterward I called Elle St. John and arranged to meet her for breakfast. By the time I got to Turlock I was starving. Over bacon and eggs at Latif’s diner, a local gem whose retro décor remained genuinely unchanged since Sinatra’s swinging sixties, I told her about Frank’s murder.
“My gut tells me the Bible is the real clue,” Elle said after she’d listened. “Everything else is impersonal, but that…that seems to have some kind of significance. Like the killer was trying to say it was divine retribution.”
“Or maybe an exorcism of the lewd pics on the phone,” I quipped. “Should I go over to Sacred Heart and talk to a priest?”
“You sure there was nothing in the Bible? No dog-eared pages, no verses marked?”
“They didn’t let me examine the evidence. I didn’t have much time on my own.”
“Was the phone face up or down?” Elle asked.
I squinted as I tried to recall. “Down, I think. Yeah, face down, because the newbie picked it up with his fingertips, like so –” I held my hand like a claw and grasped my coffee mug as if my arm were a junk crane, “– and turned it over. Yeah. Definitely face down. Why?”
“Not sure. Just digging for detail. Maybe the perp instinctively put it face down, as if they didn’t want to look at the screen.”
“Emotional response, then. Puritanical?”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe I should go talk to a clergyman in Granger’s Ford. Might know something.”
Elle nodded, though I hadn’t been serious. “Find out who the town crusader against immorality is and you might make some progress.”
“Right. Unless the Bible is a red herring.”
My friend snorted. “You know how many genuine red herrings I have seen murderers plant?” She held up her fingers in the O sign. “Zero, hero. I’ve read about them in a few serial murder cases where the killer is crazy like a fox, methodical, ritualistic. Sometimes they include elements designed to mislead, but…”
“Okay. Even red herrings are red herrings.” We chuckled. Cop humor. For a little while it made me feel like an officer of the law again and it felt good. Tempted me to take Elle’s offer, which I knew stood open. I thought about it some more. Me, small town cop? What about Mom and my beloved City? I’d have to sell my office, rearrange my life, lose friends…give up any shot at Cole, that persistently annoying little voice inside me said.
Not yet. Besides, maybe in a few years certain people in the Department would retire or lose their grudges. Hell, if Jerry Brown could become the Mayor of Oakland after screwing up his term as Governor so badly or Marion Barry could get convicted of using crack, and then come back to win a seat on the D.C. city council, why not me?
Just had to serve out my time in P.I. purgatory.
When Elle’s phone beeped with a text and she looked, I knew it was time to go. We hugged and parted with promises to see each other socially rather than just on the job. Good intentions. It’s not like we were insincere, just busy. I watched her climb back into her unmarked cruiser and suppressed a longing urge.
“Can’t always get what you want,” I muttered under my breath as I buckled into Molly, gunning it out of the parking lot onto old Highway 99 that ran through the heart of town. Letting my GPS find the way I allowed myself to enjoy the rest of the drive from the flat valley floor to the river bluff road and up into the foothills, windows cracked to let in smells of dairy farms and growing things.
At the Old Mill I drove on past. It was early yet for Kerry to be bartending, just after ten a.m. and besides, I didn’t want to tip him off before I grilled him. Likewise I stayed well away from the Sheriff’s substation with Marilou and her mouth apparently ready to blab to all and sundry. I rolled past the tattoo parlor and saw three different bikes parked there. One rough character gazed idly at me as I drove on by but I kept my head behind the car’s doorpost and didn’t stare back. With Molly here today instead of Madge I hoped to maintain some anonymity for a little while.
I couldn’t come up with a good excuse to go talk with Jerry Conrad the bicyclist and while I might be able to manufacture something for Linda Davis the teacher, the school would be finding out about Frank’s murder pretty soon. After that, my inquiries would seem out of place. No, I was stumped. I had to manufacture a new lead.
While thinking about parking at the first church I found and doing what I’d jokingly suggested to Elle, I caught a break. Outside the Forty-Niner Diner, one of those wonderful joints by the train tracks made out of an old railroad car, I spotted a marked sheriff’s car and realized I hadn’t talked with Deputy Mike Davis yet. In fact, he would have heard about me poking around yesterday and it would seem quite natural for me to follow up.
Small place, only about ten booths and a counter with the same number of round, bolted-down chairs. I could see the fry cook and his grill and there was only one waitress in a pink pantsuit and a nametag that read Alice, I kid you not. It made me smile. I also made a mental note to talk to her later if I didn’t get what I needed from the deputy.
Davis sat back when he saw me approaching, dropping his hand casually to his hip as my weapon peeked out of my open blazer. I reached upward to my jacket pocket and pulled out my bondsman’s license, showed it, and then gestured at the bench across from him.
“Sure, have a seat,” he said. In his forties, I’d say, Davis’ hairline had receded a bit but his eyes were clear and sharp. Not a bad looking guy, but not my type. Uniform very neat and clean, starched and creased, his Smokey h
at brushed just so and sitting on the bench back above his shoulder.
“Thanks.” I waved at Alice, ordered coffee and waited while Davis finished up his eggs and toast.
“Next time please park legally,” Davis opened with.
I cocked my head, nonplussed, and then looked out the window. I’d parked Molly away from the other cars the better to avoid door dings, but he was technically correct. My tires overlapped the lines painted on the pavement.
Oh great, I thought. A real anal type. Not wanting to poison my opening conversation with the local law, I swallowed a snarky response and said, “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
Davis nodded, apparently satisfied. “Heard you came by yesterday asking about a skipped tweaker?”
“Yeah, I did.” I stared at him for a long moment trying to gauge his attitude. Frank had said something yesterday about Davis lacking drive, but then again, that didn’t speak to his character or trustworthiness. My gut hadn’t rendered a verdict yet on the guy so I proceeded cautiously, turning the topic from me to him and his town.
“I also got chased down J59 from the old rest stop by a couple of nomads. I don’t suppose you know anything about them?”
Davis’ eyes narrowed. “Probably just high on crank, picking an easy target. All the clubs around here deal or use meth. The best I can do is try to keep them calm, bust them when I have to, but I’m just one guy. Sheriff says as long as there’s no violence I’m not supposed to go hard after them.” Lips thinned and nostrils flared, he went on, “Says we don’t have the manpower and resources to fight a real drug war and as long as they keep it among their own…”
“Do they?”
“What?”
“Keep it among their own? Or do they deal in town?”
Davis rubbed his jaw. “Mostly they keep it out of town,” he admitted.
“Mostly?”
The deputy’s mien turned angry. “Some people just don’t know how good they have it living in a nice, orderly place like this. They have to invite the corruption in and mess things up for all the law-abiding citizens.”
“So we’re not talking about just bikers or skipped cons like my guy anymore.”
Shaking his head, I could see Davis’ face turning red. This subject really got him worked up, which I found interesting in light of what Frank had told me. Instead of lacking drive, it seemed like he was being held back against his will. Of course, maybe he had gone overboard in the past and had to be called off. Nitpicky, overzealous cops were often worse than lazy ones.
Lazy ones did less damage.
Then I remembered I had interviewed his daughter at the school, so I decided to come more or less clean before two stories clashed. “I have a confession to make. Just so there won’t be any hard feelings later.”
“Yeah?”
“I talked to Linda earlier, using a false name. I was at the school sniffing around and she was the first one I happened to see in the teacher’s lounge, so I interviewed her for background, general town stuff. I had a tip the guy might be connected to the special-ed program somehow. I only found out she was your daughter as we chatted.”
“Huh.” Suspicion warred with his good-guy cop ethos. “You used to be on the job.” It wasn’t really a question.
“Yes. Eight years, SFPD. Ended up as a detective. Had an argument with a bomb.” I drew back the hair by my right ear so he could see the mess there.
Davis winced, smoothed his face. “Why’d you leave the force?” No slouch, this one; spotted that omission right away.
“A bomb tech died. My lieutenant tried to pin it on me. Spread the blame around, take one for the team, she said, but she really meant take one for her because it was her screw-up. I fought the law and the law won.” I grinned and let the hair drop. “But I burned her down with hard evidence. Publicly. I was pissed. Made the department look bad. Legally I could have been reinstated, but she had a lot of friends and most of them turned against me. So I left and now I’m doing this crap. It’s all right. Keeps my hand in.”
The deputy had flinched and frowned slightly each time I used a vulgar word, which I found interesting. Even if they have clean mouths most cops are accustomed to the language of the street. Of course, Andy Griffith here might be an exception, but even Granger’s Ford wasn’t Mayberry anymore. It was 2005, after all.
Still, I did feel slightly embarrassed, remembering Dad’s lectures about ladylike speech and decorum, so I resolved to clean up in deference to Davis.
“I’m sorry to hear about your situation,” he said more formally, and I realized I had crossed some line with him. Some people are like that. Offend their sensibilities and one minute you’re in, the next you’re out. Me, I was more old-school despite my age. As a rookie shield, my first partner before Allsop, a senior detective named Flint doing his final year before retirement, had a mouth like two sailors in a drunken argument over a bar girl. When I got around cops I guess it came out.
I waved a hand. “And I apologize for the language. Guess I work with too many scumbags now.”
That seemed to mollify him somewhat. I considered asking about the potential Bible-thumper connection but thought better of it. This guy might side with that type even if he wouldn’t ever stoop to blackmail or murder. Might assume that a fellow goodie-two-shoes was above suspicion.
Might even tip him off and he might then talk out of turn to Marilou. I’d already experienced his dispatcher’s lack of discretion and the speed of gossip in this town. “I’d appreciate it if you keep my inquiries confidential,” I said, and he nodded.
“Of course. And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me apprised of any operations you’re going to do around here. If you locate someone with an outstanding warrant I’d like to be along when you apprehend – to back you up. Make sure everything’s done by the book.”
“Happy to,” I said with a smile. That was an easy promise to make, as I had no intention of apprehending my nonexistent skipped tweaker. “Anything more energetic than asking questions and I’ll let you know.” I handed him one of my bondsman’s business cards and scribbled my cell number on it, got his in return.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Corwin,” Davis said as he slid awkwardly out of the booth. It was small and he was bigger than average, like his daughter. “Keep in touch.” Once he had his feet on the floor and his equipment belt adjusted again, he reached down to the seat where he had been sitting and picked something up.
A Bible.
Small, leather bound, well worn and dog-eared. Hefting it at me in a kind of a salute, he ambled on out of the diner to his Crown Vic and drove away.
I sat there sipping coffee for a moment, thinking about Davis, his daughter Linda and the boyfriend she said her father didn’t like. I thought about the way she had reacted when she saw Kerry the bartender’s name and number on the placemat and how Frank had said Kerry was his drug connection.
So who was Kerry’s supplier? The bartender was most definitely “in town.” A righteous cop like Davis wouldn’t let that pass, dealing so close to home and involved with his daughter. He’d bust the man and make it stick, and the Sheriff couldn’t complain about an excess of zeal. No, I didn’t think the deputy knew about Kerry unless he was watching him close and watching for him to make a mistake. Waiting for a bigger felony, maybe.
Either way, that would explain Davis not liking Linda’s boyfriend. Add a father’s general protectiveness to his cop reasons, throw some Old Testament hellfire into the mix…but how did Frank fit in?
It seemed like the more I dug, the less his part in things made sense. Despite the way everyone praised his work at the school, he still seemed like an outsider. His ethnic type didn’t fit in here, though that could be chalked up to a decent-paying job that he loved and felt strongly about, willing to be the only black man around. His little person status was neither here nor there, though it did make him an oddity. Probably the only one of those in town as well. Actually, that was something I needed to ask about.
Frank’s lifestyle, though, was pure big city. Only in large groups of humans could nonconformists really thrive – ironically, by gathering together with others of like mind. That was what made urban areas so interesting, vital, diverse and dangerous.
“More coffee?” The waitress with the iconic name stood there with a pot and I looked up from my musing to realize there were no customers but me. The fry cook was puttering, probably prepping for the lunch rush if there was such a thing in a town like this, but Alice here would be bored.
“Thanks. Can you sit down?” I gestured at the seat across from me.
“I can do any darn thing I want,” Alice said as she topped off my cup. “I own the place.” She set the pot back on its warmer and returned to sit down at my table. Brown hair, strong jaw, clear eyes, one of those no-nonsense women people call “handsome” when admiring them or “horse-faced” when they weren’t.
“I’ll order lunch in a little while,” I said as an icebreaker. Give them business, tip them. That was how I handled service workers to get them to open up. It usually worked.
“Great. What’s your game?” Frankly appraising, she didn’t seem hostile, just direct, a bit stiff.
“No game. I’m Cal Corwin, a bondsman out of the Bay Area looking for a skipped client. Spotted the deputy’s car in the lot and decided to come in and have a courtesy chat.”
“Cal, huh?”
“Short for California. My mother’s a bit…eccentric.”
“I think it’s a pretty name.” Alice relaxed and smiled. “Okay. Anything I can help you with?”
A-ha. This was about Mike Davis, then. This was personal.
“Sure.” I ran through my now-standard spiel about the tweaker on the run and she denied knowing anything, though she did give me a bit more background on the meth and pot culture out here in the foothills.
In a Bind Page 8