Slipknot: A Private Investigator Crime and Suspense Mystery Thriller (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series Book 3)

by D. D. VanDyke

  “Boss, what’s our next move?” Meat asked.

  I knew he wasn’t one to complain, but he ought to get his gunshot wound taken care of and we needed to ease back onto the right side of the law, so I phoned Mike.

  Or tried to. “No service,” I said. “Check your phones, guys.”

  “Never work up here,” Crane said.

  “And no landline.”

  “Nope.”

  “Guess we need to head out.”

  Crane raised his eyes. “What about me?”

  “Entirely up to you…but where you land will tell a lot about your real motives and loyalties.”

  He stared at Bacardi’s body. “I’ll go. Let me get some of my stuff.”

  “Two minutes. Manson, watch him.”

  Crane went into the bedroom, Manson behind. Meat smiled at me through the pain. “We having fun yet?”

  “Never a dull moment with you two around.”

  “I was about to say the same thing about you, boss. Hey, get me that bottle, will you?”

  I got a half-filled bottle of bourbon off the shelf and handed it to him. He took three swallows.

  Crane stepped into the kitchen with a small backpack. “Listen.”

  I stood up, as if that would help me hear better. “Helicopter?”

  “I don’t think so. Excuse me, kids, gotta run.” He hurried out the back toward the motorcycles parked there.

  “What is that sound?” I said.

  Meat and Manson exchanged looks. “Harleys. Lots of Harleys.”

  Chapter 10

  I should have recognized the rumble of biker hogs sooner. Chalk it up to living in the City, where the buildings, the hills and the cold humidity shape every sound. “Shit. Let’s get out of here.”

  We hurried to the truck. “Give me the keys!” I yelled as we ran.

  “Why?” Meat asked.

  “Because you’re wounded and Manson’s driving sucks! I rally, remember?”

  Meat tossed me the keys and we climbed in.

  “Buckle up, boys,” I said, cranking the V-10 and making sure the four-wheel drive was still set. I eased around the cabin to the back, trying not to raise dust, and then followed Crane, who was motoring up a graded logging road. He obviously didn’t want to encounter the approaching motorcycle club any more then we did, and he had to have a back way out.

  “Keep trying to reach Mike Davis,” I said.

  “What’s the number?”

  I cursed, manhandling the wheel around a switchback and said, “My phone, front right jeans pocket. Don’t go exploring down there, either!”

  Manson grinned and fished out my phone. I gave him the unlock code and he started speed-dialing. “It’s ringing.”

  “Tell him to come out to the cabin with backup, now! Once he’s on his way, give him a rundown of the situation.” I was far too busy trying to keep us from sliding off the steep hillside to talk. The unpaved one-lane road had no guardrails and the scrubby trees would be barely enough to slow us down if we rolled.

  Manson rapidly described the situation into the phone.

  “They’re following,” Meat said, looking out the back window.

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “Should I shoot?”

  I warned him with a glance, flicking my eyes toward Manson and the open phone connection. “No. No justification. They’re merely following us on motorcycles and we have no proof they’re hostile.”

  “Then why are we running?”

  I grinned. “We’re not running. We’re avoiding an encounter on unfavorable terms.”

  “Sounds like running to me.”

  “Okay, we’re running. Better part of valor. How much lead you figure we got on them?”

  Meat looked some more. “Thirty, forty seconds.”

  “Not enough to stop and fell a tree. Damn.”

  Manson ended the call. “Davis is on his way, but a couple Sheriff’s units from Coulterville will probably get here first.”

  I grunted. “We’ll have to hope they’re not too bent, I guess. At least we have the recordings.”

  Meat hefted the rifle. “Let me shoot them, boss. We can say they were firing at us.”

  “Not yet. They can’t gain on us too fast, not with all the dust we’re generating. Do we have anything that’ll slow them down?”

  The M&Ms exchanged glances. “Spike strips!”

  I slowed as much as I dared. “Manson, climb into the back. As soon as you say the word, I’ll stop and you set them up across the road.”

  Without hesitation, Manson rolled down the window and levered himself out using the big roll bar, and then stepped into the truck bed. I sped up again, only slowing for sharp curves.

  “Ready!”

  I braked rapidly, stopping. “Go!”

  Manson hopped out and did something we couldn’t see as the seconds ticked by.

  “They’re getting close,” Meat said.

  “Hurry up, dammit!”

  Manson rolled over the tailgate into the bed. “Done!”

  I floored it, throwing a plume of dirt and gravel I hoped would hide the spike strips. The delay had put us only a hundred yards and one switchback ahead of the approaching bikes, and I thought I could see Pork Chop in the lead, face set in a mask of anger.

  Ten seconds later, Manson cheered. “They’re goin’ down!”

  “Looks like three or four lost tires,” Meat said. “They’re pulling the strips out of the way.”

  “Good.” I concentrated on driving.

  Two minutes later we reached the top and my relief turned to deep concern. The road ended in a flat open space with steep edges all around, as if a giant trowel had planed off the top of the hill.

  “Where’d Crane go?” I asked as I drove the perimeter, looking for a way off that didn’t involve a 60-degree slope.

  “There.” Meat pointed at a dust plume down the hill.

  I stopped the truck to look. Crane had maneuvered his bike onto a narrow trail and was taking it like motocross. No doubt the Harley would be beat to crap by the time he made it down, but I didn’t blame him for doing it.

  “Boss…”

  The first of the chase bikes made it to the top. I didn’t see Pork Chop or Laser, which was small comfort. Everyone was wearing club colors, and they all had guns out.

  Talk, or try to make it down the slope? If I’d had Molly, I might have gone for it it, confident in my ability to avoid the worst rocks and not roll, but this truck…. If I could keep it pointed straight down we might be all right, but one mistake and the high center of gravity would throw us into a tumble that wouldn’t stop until we hit the bottom a thousand feet down.

  Maybe I could split the difference.

  I picked the best spot I could and put the big front tires over the rim, and then stood on the brake. “Back off or we’re going for it,” I yelled as loud as I could, craning my neck around to watch the bikers.

  They pulled up in a semicircle, watching us, but nobody advanced until Laser got off the back of one bike, where he was riding double. “Hold up, Cally!” He made a show of putting away his pistol and walked forward, hands empty. Pork Chop made as if to accompany him, but a snarled word from the younger man sent the burly one stalking back to the line of motorcycles.

  I let Laser get close enough to converse out the window. Manson covered him with his shotgun from the bed. To his credit, Laser paid no attention.

  “You said I had until noon tomorrow,” I said.

  “Not my call. Just following orders.”

  “You seem to be leading this bunch.”

  “I am, for now. Club pres had other concerns.”

  “Did you see Bacardi in the cabin?”

  “Yeah. You do that?”

  “Yes. Me, personally.”

  “Bad-ass.” He grinned. “You did half our work for us. But I need to know where Crane is.”

  I waved to the front. “Look down the slope and you can see him in the distance, probably.”

&nbs
p; Laser stepped forward, grabbing the front crash guard to steady himself at the edge. “Crap. Why didn’t you keep him at the shack?”

  “It’s not our job to help you take out your enemies, Eric. I got the answers I needed, and when we heard your Harleys, he took off and so did we.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What answers?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing that matters to you…unless you’re trying to kill me too?”

  Laser showed his teeth. “If we are, you’re in a bad spot.”

  “So are you. Get in.”

  “What?”

  Manson gestured with the shotgun. There was no way he could miss at a range of five feet. “The lady said get in.”

  Laser held up his hands toward his buddies and walked around to get in the passenger side. Meat moved over after taking the other man’s weapon, which he pointed at him.

  “You’re gonna regret this,” Laser said mildly.

  I smiled. “Lots of things in life I regret. Don’t worry, Eric. We’ll drop you off as soon as we’re clear. You’re our ticket out of here.” I carefully reversed the truck from its precarious position, and then turned it around, aiming for the road back down.

  “Tell them to put the guns away and you’ll be all right,” Meat said, setting the pistol to Laser’s head so the rest could see. “And have them stay well back!”

  Laser yelled out the window, and his men lowered their weapons and glowered as we cruised on past and started down.

  “Don’t forget the spike strips,” Manson said from the bed. As we reached their position, he jumped down and recovered them, and then we continued.

  When we arrived at the cabin, two sheriff’s units were parked next to it. A man stepped off the porch to wave us down, another with a shotgun watching. I thought about blowing past, but I had to do the right thing by law enforcement if I was going to avoid being charged in Bacardi’s death.

  “You guys stay in the truck and keep the weapons out of sight. Don’t worry, Eric,” I said as I pulled to a halt. “I’ll keep you out of it. Just don’t cause trouble.”

  The bikers trailing us stopped on the dirt road about a hundred yards off. The deputies stared at them curiously.

  Displaying my bondsman’s credentials, I got out and explained to the deputy in charge, a big, younger man with a name tag that read Stilwell, what had happened at the cabin. “Here, listen to this recording,” I said, playing the conversation with Bacardi.

  “Hm. Cut and dried, then. I don’t see any problem.” He glanced around. “Mind if I see that?” Before I could react, he closed his paw around my hand, stripping the small recorder from it.

  A chill went through me. “I really need to hang on to that,” I said, an edge to my voice, hoping the tone would give the M&Ms warning.

  “Naw, I think I’ll hold it for safekeeping. It’s evidence, after all.”

  What could I say to that? I cursed myself for showing it to him. I should have simply given him my statement, but I was hoping he’d let us go on recognizance.

  “I think we’re going to have to detain you and your guys, Miss Corwin,” he went on, placing his hand on his sidearm. “Just until we sort everything out. Would you please place your hands on the hood of the vehicle?”

  Dammit. Drawing down on outlaws was one thing, on cops, quite another. If I believed what Crane had said about the Sheriff’s department, since neither of these guys was named Renner, they were dirty. Worst case, we might never make it to jail.

  I moved slowly toward the SUV he indicated, and then gasped with relief as Davis’ cruiser came speeding up the gravel road to skid to a stop. “Mike!” I said, waving. “This guy’s trying to detain me.”

  Davis popped out of his Crown Vic with a shotgun in his hand, vest over his usual uniform shirt. “Afternoon, Stilwell. I got this from here.”

  “This is our collar, Davis. Bartlett’s orders.”

  “Call him, then.”

  Stilwell tried his cell, then his radio, getting nothing.

  “I guess in the absence of instructions to the contrary, I’m senior on the scene, so stand down,” Davis growled. He turned to me. “Your man told me you shot someone in self defense?”

  “Yes. The dead guy’s in the cabin, and I have a recording that proves he and his partner were going to kill us…right there in Stilwell’s hand.”

  Stilwell dropped my recorder and stepped on it with a heavy boot. “Oops.”

  Chapter 11

  Davis turned white with anger as Stilwell ground the pieces of the audio recorder under his heavy booted foot. “I’ll have your badge for destroying evidence.”

  The younger man shrugged. “I doubt it. And since there’s nothing but this suspect’s word that it was self-defense, we’d better take her in to the main station and let Bartlett handle it, don’t you think?”

  I could see the wheels turning in Davis’ head, just like mine. If we ended up in the custody of a corrupt sheriff and his subordinates, anything could happen. No doubt the depth of the rot had never been revealed until now, but Stilwell’s action made it plain.

  “I have other evidence,” I hissed to Davis, stepping close. “Just get us out of here. Lock us up at Granger’s Ford if you have to.”

  Davis nodded slowly, his eyes still on Stilwell. “Miss Corwin, I’ll escort you to my substation. Please return to your vehicle and drive on ahead.”

  “You don’t want to do this, Davis,” the deputy snarled.

  “I think I do.” He backed toward his cruiser. “Get going, Cal.”

  I climbed back into the truck. “Out, Laser.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice, and we left him standing, chatting with Stilwell. No surprise there.

  Davis followed all the way back to Granger’s Ford, and then pulled up next to us at the substation. “You guys get out of here,” he said, stepping from his cruiser, shotgun still in hand.

  “I don’t like that idea, Mike,” I said. “You just made an open break with your department and I know exactly how that plays out. You’ll be suspended by tomorrow and fired by next week if they don’t come here and kill you first.”

  “Good thing I’m going to be the new Granger’s Ford chief of police, then,” he said with a grim smile. “Don’t worry, Carol Conrad has my back.”

  “The same Carol Conrad whose husband may have ordered the nomad undercovers to kill that tweaker?”

  “You have no evidence of that. Besides, Carol’s not Jerry. She’s on the up-and-up. Why else would she be pushing for a clean PD? She’s a shoe-in for city council the next election. She has a fundraiser tomorrow evening and everything. And she knows people in Sacramento.”

  “Yes, I remember her bragging about that,” I said drily.

  “Don’t condemn her just because she likes to be in charge. We need strong leadership around here to keep people like Bartlett from taking over.”

  I shrugged in defeat. “You got me there. Oh, here.” I retrieved the two bikers’ phones and walked them over to Marilou, who was standing in the doorway watching the interplay. “Give these to Eric, will you?”

  Marilou took them from me with her nonsmoking hand. “Sure, honey. Did my boy give you trouble?”

  “Not as much as I gave him,” I said, grinning.

  “Good for you.”

  I turned back to Davis, and then thought better of speaking loudly, walking over to murmur in his ear. “You’re right about needing protection. Where do you think Carol Conrad is right now?”

  “Eating dinner at home, I imagine.” He checked his watch. “Then bridge club at eight.”

  “Good. Follow me.”

  “Cal –”

  Ignoring him, I hopped back in the truck and drove briskly to Sycamore Pointe, the tony subdivision on the edge of town where I first encountered Jerry Conrad working on a bicycle in his garage. Davis followed.

  “You guys stay in the truck,” I told the M&Ms when we arrived.

  “Uh, Cal? I’m still shot here, a little.”


  I’d forgotten. “Oh, damn, sorry, Meat. Turlock’s got the nearest emergency room. Head there now and call me when you get patched up. I’ll be fine with Mike.” I took the mini-VHS tape out of the dash-cam and stuck it in my pocket. Then I broke down my shotgun and stowed it in my gear bag, which I tossed into Davis’ cruiser.

  Feeling bad about Meat only stiffened my spine. I led Davis up to the front door and knocked loudly, ignoring the bell. I saw the peephole darken, and then the door opened to reveal Jerry Conrad, slim and bald like a younger Patrick Stewart. “Evening, ah…”

  “Cal Corwin. I investigated Frank Jackson’s death, remember? Is your wife home?”

  “Let her in, would you, darling?” I heard Carol’s voice from inside.

  “You remember Mike Davis,” I said, thumbing over my shoulder as I stepped past Jerry.”

  “Sure. Good to see you, Mike. What’s this about?”

  “Let’s sit down and we’ll tell you.”

  “In here, Ms. Corwin,” Carol said from the elegant open-plan kitchen-dining space. She rinsed her hands and wiped them on a linen towel, and then set a plate of rigatoni on the table.

  “You’re a renaissance woman, Mrs. Conrad,” I said, instinctively returning her formality. “You cook, you play bridge, you do charity work, you run for City Council…”

  “You heard about that. I thought it time to push things in a positive direction. Granger’s Ford has been something of a rudderless ship since I moved here. I’d like to set that straight.”

  “By seizing the rudder?”

  The redhead regarded me calmly from her nearly six-foot height. “If no one else will, then yes. Now what can I do for you?”

  I heard a throat clear behind me, and I turned to see the two men. I moved around the table in order to create a more circular conversation. “Pardon me for speaking out of turn, but Carol, Jerry, you’re obviously pillars of the community, and Mike Davis here needs your help.” I consciously ignored the possibility that Jerry ordered the tweaker killed.

  “Of course,” Carol replied, and Jerry nodded in agreement. “Let’s sit down. What can we do for you, Mike?”

  Davis set his smokey hat carefully on the table and took a seat, as did the rest of us. He said, “I’ve tried to fight my own battles, but things are starting to get out of hand. You know Sheriff Bartlett, right?”