Loose Ends - California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series Book 1
Page 14
Chapter 13
The large metal building the Audi had entered backed up to a dozen huge oil tanks. I could see them looming like fat cylindrical high-rises through the back fence. Between the petroleum containers, tall uncut grass provided ground cover for the sandy coastal soil.
I was about to follow the Audi through the gate when I finally came to my senses. Pulling over at the gap in the barrier, I watched my target roll up a ramp and into the warehouse itself.
While there might be a rear vehicle exit, as far as I could tell from here the big building was ringed by a ten-foot fence. If this was his destination, now was the time to be smart, to think about Talia and what might happen if I drove straight in and got myself ambushed.
So I wouldn’t drive. I’d do a lot better on foot.
But first, I’d get some insurance.
Calming my breathing, I dialed Mickey. “Mickey, you got me on GPS?”
“Yeah, boss, I got you.” Molly updated her location in Mickey’s computer once a minute. It was a very cool system that he had built himself. He’d said someday everyone would be findable on GPS, day or night, but I didn’t really believe that either. Where would the electronics go? It’s not like you can cram it into a cell phone, after all. Maybe cars, sure, but…that was for the year 2050, not 2005.
“Get the cops out here right now,” I told him. “Warehouse fifty yards north of me. Anonymous tip, kidnapped child, perps armed and dangerous. Give them the Audi, too. Tell them female officer on scene.”
“But you’re not an officer anymore, boss.”
“So lie. It’s better than getting shot on sight.”
“Righto. You going in?” Mickey sounded eager, like this whole thing was a video game. Maybe to him it was. Cal Corwin, avatar…only real life had no respawns.
“I shouldn’t…but I am.” Just like with the bomb and falling for Cole and a dozen other things I could name in my life, I was pushing all in and hoping the right card fell.
“You crazy, girl. Stay low.”
“Doubtless.” I hung up.
Mickey was right. I was crazy, but the thought of the girl kept me in that zone where it seemed like I could do anything, like in a perfect rally, like a hot streak at the tables, like that one sweet break in a case.
Riding the tiger.
PD would take from three to ten minutes to respond with a couple of cruisers and they would be alerting the tactical team in case they were needed. With plenty of crazies calling 911 every day they had to confirm the tip before committing resources. That left me just enough time.
Dropping Molly into first, I accelerated smoothly along the outside of the fence line. It met another barrier at the corner, one more warehouse, but that was fine. It gave me a chance to get out of sight. I swung wide around the second building and passed behind it along the old access road that dead-ended at the oil tanks in the back. Nothing barred me from driving straight into the deep grass between the painted white cylinders, though I slowed to under twenty. It wouldn’t do to blow a tire slamming into some hidden chunk of concrete.
With her rally clearance and four-wheel drive, Molly powered through the scrub. Gonna be hell to pay on the undercarriage, I thought as something banged up into a wheel well and a hidden pothole made Molly bounce hard. Not at all what I figured I’d be doing when this whole thing started.
I drove deeper into the forest of cylinders and parked behind one of the tanks, out of sight of the back of the warehouse the Audi had entered. Once hidden, I hopped out, hurriedly stripped off the blazer and opened the hatchback. Shrugging on a Kevlar vest, the one with SECURITY in big white letters on the back – technically I wasn’t impersonating a law enforcement official – and a ball cap with the same, I grabbed a 12-gauge shotgun and a set of bolt cutters.
Crouch-running in the high grass, I reached the back fence to the warehouse and began cutting. The cyclone wire popped with metallic pings as I worked the cutters as fast as I could from the bottom up. As soon as I had a little door of fencing material I bent it out of the way, dropped the tool and wormed through, and then ran for the building.
A loading dock ran along this side of the warehouse, the big doors all closed. At each end a personnel entrance beckoned. I made for the left one, the closer of the two.
Sirens wailed in the distance. I hoped it was the response to Mickey’s call coming in hot. If so, they would provide a distraction. If not…well, I’d do the best I could.
At the door I paused and racked a beanbag round into the shotgun. Useful for taking down wanted criminals without killing them, I used it for my bounty hunting sideline. The attached sling held slugs and buck in case things turned ugly, and then there were my handguns. I was as ready as I could be.
Reaching out, I tested the rusty round knob. It turned, so I tried pulling. It resisted, but only because it was stuck, not locked. Slowly, trying to avoid too much noise, I dragged the barrier open by half inches.
Eye to the crack, I could see nothing. The wan daylight outside made the dim interior even darker.
Taking a deep breath I crouched, and then reached my fingers around the edge of the door and gave a steady pull. It ground against the concrete floor for a moment before coming free. Quickly I slipped inside and pulled it shut again with some difficulty, but left it not-quite-closed in case I had to get out fast.
I found myself behind tall cylinders, visible by looking upward to see light reflected off the steel-strutted roof’s underside. Reaching over to touch one, I found it was composed of enormous rolls of paper stacked on their ends like coins, resulting in towers six feet wide by at least twenty high. As my eyes adjusted I was able to see down the row to a gap.
I stood there a moment more, ears straining to hear anything above the faint background hum of the city outside, the breeze catching the edges of the metal building, and the spinning rattle of the ventilator balls on the roof. Voices, maybe; the burbling tones of conversation.
The sirens came closer.
A low thud came to my ears then, and I turned the left to listen, because my right eardrum had been burst by the bomb blast and had never completely recovered. Not hearing anything yet, I moved stealthily forward toward the gap. As I drew closer I thought I heard a faint cough, and then two more thuds, as of sacks of dirt being dropped on hard ground.
I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and hurried to the gap, swinging around it to my left and pausing to assess. More rows of paper appeared, braced like gigantic worshippers in a church with me standing in the center aisle. Light from the large open door the Audi had entered poured from the far end.
Gliding forward on soft-soled boots, my heart thudded and I fought the urge to sneeze from the paper dust kicked up by my footsteps. I sped to a run as I heard a car start up, its engine revving once before its tires squealed and the sonic evidence faded.
Must have been the Audi driving out the door again. I wondered why it had done that. Maybe the kidnappers had fled, warned by my pursuit and the approaching sirens.
At the end of the aisle between the giant sentinels of paper I slowed, carefully easing out into the better-lit open space, scanning across my field of vision for threats.
To my left sat pallets stacked with boxes, barrels and cans. To the front, the row of giant access doors, one of them open. To the right, an enclosed office space with windows, portable air conditioner visible on its roof, one door, and a heavy-duty white van parked farther in and surrounded by a spreading puddle.
On the concrete floor in front of it, three bodies.
I took two more deep breaths to calm myself and pushed them all the way out, yoga style. Then I moved forward, keeping the shotgun ready, and approached the scene of death, smelling gasoline from the puddle.
The body nearest the office door was female, and appeared to have been shot twice in the back of the head at close range with a very small caliber, probably a .22.
Reaching down, I turned the dead woman’s head just enough. I could see no exit
wounds, which supported my theory about the weapon. Such tiny bullets might penetrate a human skull once, but not twice, especially if, as I suspected, they were unjacketed soft lead, maybe hollowpoints. Those would expand and dump all their energy into the soft matter of the brain and then stop at bone.
The woman looked like Mira, kind of. Except for the being dead part.
The other two bodies were male, mid thirties maybe, each shot twice in the chest and then once through an eye. One was the driver of the van I’d seen last night on the stakeout. It looked like the two had been killed near the cargo doors, and then dragged over to the woman and the puddle of gas. I could see the marks on the floor. Bullets to the face looked to me as if they had been delivered last, from close range. The possibility that any marksman, no matter how expert, would make two head shots, putting rounds precisely through the standing men’s eyes, and then shoot them twice each in their chests afterward, strained belief.
So…this was no gunfight, no sudden quarrel over the goods. They had all been executed.
On the concrete near the big door I could see the marks where the Audi had peeled out and down the ramp. The driver was younger and none of the dead wore trench coats. This seemed a well-planned, quick double-cross: a few precisely aimed shots and an escape with the money.
Glancing behind, I realized the puddle of fuel from the SUV continued to widen, dripping from its undercarriage, undoubtedly a punctured gas tank. It had reached the bodies and would soon surround them, soaking into their clothes. I made very sure I didn’t walk in any of the blood or gasoline.
I could see flashing lights approaching in the distance and the sirens were getting louder. Apparently law enforcement had decided to come in fast and noisy.
A loud ding sounded from the direction of the office door. I turned to aim the shotgun before I saw what had made the noise: a white cooking timer, the spring-powered kind. It lay on the floor in front of the office entrance, weighting a piece of paper to the concrete.
The girl is in the office, read the computer printout, and beneath: Take her and go. You have three minutes until the bomb goes off.
I looked up to see a child’s wide-eyed face behind the office window.
The girl, Talia.
I seized the office doorknob, turned and pushed. “Hi, Talia. I’m Cal. I’m here to rescue you.” I reached out my hand to her.
“They said not to come out.” Like a skittish animal, she held her own hands behind her.
“The bad people are gone.” I gestured, come here.
After a moment, that seemed to do it. “Okay. The other man said you’d come.” Talia seized my hand in both of hers, and then she threw her arms around my waist and clung on.
I struggled to walk with sixty pounds of girl attached to me. “Let go, Talia. A bomb is going to go off soon, and we have to go now.”
“Okay,” Talia said, and then began to run for the nearest opening, pulling on my arm.
I swung her around and directed her toward the rear of the warehouse, retracing my steps and shielding her vision of the three corpses with my own body. “This way. My car’s out back.”
The squad cars rounded the last corner in front, but by then Talia and I had made it to Molly without being seen. I hoped the cops would approach with caution. The Audi driver was cutting things close with the bomb. Maybe he didn’t care about cops, only little girls.
Driving sedately out of the tall grass of the tank farm, I casually skirted the fence line where I could see three cruisers pulled into the warehouse parking lot. I turned away at the corner and reached for my phone. At that moment came a whoomph, and smoke started pouring from the open warehouse door, startling the cops into ducking behind their cars.