Chapter 9
I believe in coincidence, but I don’t trust or depend on it. The odds of Bill’s murder being unrelated to the case were slim and I’d been the one to involve him in it. That made me responsible at a certain level, though I refused to claim fault.
The real question was, why hadn’t they come after me instead? If someone had noticed my inquiries, I was the logical target. Maybe Bill had started poking around apart from me, tipped someone off.
Then I remembered the four guys last night. They’d seemed unusually persistent for mere muggers, chasing me through the dive and into the alley, only breaking off when I sent a round their way. But they were hardly pros. Freelance muscle, punks for hire. Maybe they didn’t even have orders to kill me – just put me in the hospital for a week or two.
Yeah, that was comforting.
Hopefully Mickey would dig up something on Houdini. Until then, it appeared I had only one lead.
Lattimer.
Somehow I thought simply talking to him might not do the trick. Circumstances pointed to him covering for the heist, making sure it went smooth. In my book that made him as guilty as anyone.
Now Bill was dead. Someone was tying up loose ends, and Lattimer might have pointed the way to his boss.
He also might be next in line.
I needed some muscle myself, now. Pulling up my speed dial, I called Meat and Manson as I eased into Molly and locked the doors.
Their real names were Malcolm and Mason Estridge, but they preferred their street handles, or collectively, “The M&Ms.” Huge, mixed-race guys that reminded me of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, they could pass for almost anything but Scandinavian depending on their dress and manner. Based out of their iron-fenced home in Oakland, they freelanced for several bail bondsmen, had their gun cards and enough flexibility in their morality to get jobs like this done.
“Cal, what up?” Meat, the older brother, came on the call.
“Hey, Meat. Got a job. Usual rates.”
“When and where?”
“Today, soon. Probably up in Marin. I have to pin a guy down and ask him some questions.”
“Okay. We’ll head on up to Maderos.”
“Right. Get me a chorizo and huevos burrito. I’ll call you when I find him. Oh, and Meat? Dress like P.I.s, not thugs.”
Maderos was a family-owned Mexican joint, one of those sprawling over-the-top stereotypes filled with outlandish paint, indoor fountains, sombreros and live plants that nevertheless managed great service and outstanding food. Any time they ended up north of the Golden Gate, the M&Ms found some excuse to go there. Today, it made an excellent holding location, especially as they were open for breakfast.
I forced myself to drive reasonably, heading in the direction of the security center. On the way I dialed its number. When it picked up, I said, “Sal?”
“This the lady that called before?”
“Yeah.”
“You get ahold of Bill?”
“Before I tell you, I need to talk about Lattimer. Is he there?”
“No. Comes in at five.”
“Five p.m.?”
“Yeah.”
“He say anything about skipping his shift?”
“Nope. What’s this about?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there in ten minutes.”
Sal met me at the door, a fortyish swarthy fellow of Sicilian descent if I had to guess. I pushed past him and into the lounge where I’d first talked to Bill. “You alone?” I asked.
“Yeah, since Bill didn’t come in.”
“Have a seat.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, and after a moment he grabbed a chair and set himself on it, puzzled.
“You don’t look like I pictured you,” he said.
I ignored that and put on my best bad-news sympathy expression. “I just came from Bill’s condo. The cops were there.”
“Something’s happened?”
I nodded slowly, heavily.
“Mother of God. Is it bad?”
“Bad as it gets. He’s dead, though it didn’t look like he suffered. Hit on the back of the head for sure. I’m waiting on an official cause.”
I watched closely as Sal buried his face in his hands, looking for a hint of anything off. After all, if one employee here might be in on it, who’s to say another wasn’t? A moment or two later, he ran his fingers through his slightly too-long hair and took a deep breath. “That sucks,” he said, and I saw his eyes were full.
“Yeah. Majorly.” I lifted out my P.I. license and showed it to him. “Bill was helping me on a case. It may have got him killed. Last night four guys made a run at me too, but I scared them off. Can you keep your mouth shut?”
“Me and Bill, we go way back. He brought me out here from Chi-town to work. Best move I ever made,” Sal said, scratching under his watchband.
I noticed he had prison ink there. “How’d a con hook up with a cop?”
Sal shrugged. “You know. He busted me for armed robbery, put me away in juvie when I was seventeen. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
“How so?”
“Bill visited me every week in the joint. I was just a stupid young punk. Mob wannabe, you know, and maybe I would have been, but Bill kept me off that path. Father figure, I guess you’d call him. Got my record sealed and when I got out told me to come out here and work for him. Gave me a real chance at life.” Sal shook his head and a tear fell.
“You want some back?”
Lifting his head, Sal’s eyes narrowed. “How? I ain’t gonna get sent up again. That’s not what Bill would have wanted.”
“Lattimer is involved. We weren’t sure how, but some way. Give me everything you got on him and I’ll take it from here. Nobody will know about you unless you tell them.”
“That rat-bastard. I knew there was something I didn’t like about him. Bill’s got – he had – a soft spot for reformed cons, but some of them you just can’t trust, you know? I tried to warn him. Takes one to know.”
“Just tell me where I can find Lattimer.”
“You gonna kill him?”
I chuckled grimly. “I’m a P.I., Sal, not a hit man. I might rough him up a little, but he’ll be alive when I leave him. More than that you don’t wanna know.”
“Yeah. Okay. Gimme a minute.” He stepped briefly into the monitoring room, showing me a glimpse of a room full of computer screens, and then came back with a piece of paper. “Here’s his info. You didn’t get it from me.”
“Nope. He tough or what?”
“Naw. White collar. Nerd.”
“Good. By the way, I wouldn’t be surprised if Homicide interviewed you soon. Best to forget you talked to me, okay?”
Sal nodded solemnly. “Just find out who did this, sister.” He placed his hand on his heart. “I’ll owe you big.”
“No sweat.”
“Hey…what do I do about the business?”
I shrugged as I stood up. “Not my department. Did he have relatives?”
“A sister back in Chicago.”
“Call her, then. You next in charge?”
“Yeah. Assistant manager, more or less.”
“Sounds like it’s all on you. Sorry, Sal.” I handed him one of my business cards. “Put that out of sight. Call me if anything comes up.”
“I will.”
“Oh, one more thing. You ever hear anything on the street about someone named Houdini? Maybe a dealer?”
“No, sorry. I’m clean now, and I stay away from people in the life.”
“How about Luger?”
“Nope.”
“Fair enough.” I turned to leave, and then looked over my shoulder, hand on the doorknob. “You might want to plan for someone to cover Lattimer’s shift.”
Loose Ends - California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series Book 1 Page 9