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

by D. D. VanDyke

  Me, I had a few more loose ends to tie up, a few more strings to pull. A quick chat with Mike Davis got me permission to see Linda at the Clovis Psychiatric Health Facility. Then I called Meat. “You guys fit enough to work today?”

  “Pain pills and antibiotics got us all fixed up,” he replied. “We from the hood, yo. Gunshots just a fack o’ life.”

  “What happened to the cholo shtick?”

  “Naw, that so over. We home wi’ our nigs now.”

  I shook my head. “Well, I got cash, so you my nigs today, mi vatos. Dig?”

  Meat laughed loud enough to hurt my ear through the phone.

  “I’ll meet you at McCarthy Ranch. We’re heading south today in my Subaru.”

  “Aw, man, you want us to fold ourselves into that rice-wagon?”

  “I’m okay with just one of you, whoever’s less damaged. Just need someone to watch my back.”

  “Manson can do it, yo, but you swing by and pick him up.”

  I sighed. I hadn’t wanted to make the detour to Oaktown, but life was a compromise. “Fine. Half an hour.”

  I told my two geeks where I was going, left them a loaded and registered shotgun within easy reach, and then I locked the office up tight, even bracing the front door with a chair in case the lock was picked. Then I walked warily home, hand under my blazer, palm on my holstered weapon, and checked in with Rostislav and Mom.

  My mother eyed me blearily from above a steaming mug of herbal tea. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, California?”

  “And a good morning to you too, Starlight,” I said with a cheerfulness I knew would grate. “It appears I’ve pissed off a crime lord to the point he wants me dead, and was willing to use you as bait to do it. You’re staying put with Rosti here as company. If you need anything, call Sergei.”

  “What I need is to go to temple and do a couple hours of hot yoga.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t leave until this is over.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Two or three days, I hope.”

  She sighed and her prickliness crumbled. “Come here, honey.” When I approached, she stood to hug me, and it struck me how frail she seemed.

  “Mom, what are you eating lately? You’re losing weight.”

  “You can never be too thin, right?”

  “Yes you can. That vegan diet is killing you. Eat some free-range eggs, for Confucius’ sake. Olive oil, cheese, veggie-burgers. Something more than tofu. You need fats and animal proteins.”

  She didn’t even protest, just hugged me harder. “Don’t leave, California. You’re all I have.”

  “I don’t want to. I have to.” A white lie. I really, really wanted to get working, like a dog with a squirrel on his mind. I squeezed her again. “I talked to Ron today. Told him he needs to visit soon.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “What, no diatribe on selling himself to the evil governmental machine?”

  “Please, Cal, be cool.”

  She was right. Old habits died hard, but I needed to turn off the bicker switch while she was vulnerable. “Okay, Mom. I’m cool. You be cool too, but I have to finish this.”

  “Then I’ll pray for you.”

  “Good idea.” I kissed her forehead and extricated myself from her embrace. Then I turned to Rostislav with a smile. “If anything happens to her, I’m coming after you personally, big man.”

  He showed his teeth in return and opened his coat to display two guns. “Let them try.”

  It was a funny old world where the Russian mob was more dependable than the cops. How far I’d fallen, though even when I’d been on the job I’d known the difference between morality and the law. They didn’t always line up very well, even in America. I hated to think what it would be like in a completely corrupt system.

  With one last stroke of Snowflake’s back I exited the inside door to the one-car garage. The pass-through was a nonstandard feature I’d added when the house had been renovated. Flipping on the bare overhead bulb, I squeezed past Molly and bent down to reach for the handle that would release the big counterweighted car door.

  Then I froze, staring at a wire that ran from the frame to a bomb affixed to the heavy wooden slab.

  Chapter 19

  For a long moment I simply stared, forgetting to breathe as flashbacks threatened to overwhelm me.

  The moment of noise and impact that the doctors told me I didn’t actually remember, but which I was sure I did.

  The jerk of my helmet strap snapping and the feeling of the blast ripping the skin from my neck.

  The smell of my hair burning.

  The tunnel vision and complete deafness, a result of the concussion, they told me.

  The police psychiatrist I’d seen had insisted these were reconstructions, not memories, built from watching the video and hearing the accounts of witnesses, but they all seemed quite real to me. I guess it didn’t really matter. My guts twisted up and I clamped down on the urge to pee my pants, reactions that seemed to bypass any reservoir of courage I possessed.

  Once the moment passed and I had control of myself, I looked for any readouts or indications of a motion sensor, but I saw nothing. Slowly, I removed a mini-light from my belt and looked the thing over.

  I’d done quite a bit of research on explosive devices after the incident, so I was glad to see a simple pull switch with an electronic detonator: in essence, a tripwire. When the door was opened, the tension would flip the switch and a charged capacitor would fire a blasting cap embedded in the kilogram of military-grade C4 that formed the business part of the bomb. I could see the official lettering stamped on the plastic that wrapped and sealed the explosive.

  There was irony for you. Warning labels on explosives.

  A charge that size would total Molly, wreck the garage, my house plus the ones on either side, and probably kill anyone within fifty feet, even behind walls. These were old wooden structures, after all.

  I breathed shallowly and backed up, reaching for my phone, and then stopped the motion. I couldn’t be sure the signal wouldn’t set it off.

  Inside, I ignored Rostislav’s and Mom’s curious looks and grabbed the landline, dialing 911 so the operator would instantly know the address. “There’s a bomb in my garage,” I told her. “It’s primed and ready to blow when the garage door is opened. I’m evacuating the premises. I’ll meet the response team in the front and brief them. I’m armed and licensed to carry, so for God’s sake pass that on. I have enough people trying to kill me without the cops doing it too.”

  I hung up before she could ask more questions. Then we hustled out the front door, weapons drawn.

  Down the block I could see a marked unit facing us, as if it had been waiting. Its rollers came to life and its siren whooped once before it pulled out. I almost pointed my Glock at it before I realized it was maneuvering to block the street. SFPD must have put a protective detail on my house because of the kidnapping. It would have been nice if someone had told me.

  I was already hustling Mom across the street to a sheltered spot next to a neighbor’s porch when a shot rang out, plucking at my sleeve. Damn, more ruined clothing, I thought as I shoved her into a corner behind the tall steps.

  Rostislav returned fire with the two hand cannons he carried, shooting in the direction opposite the uniformed cops, and more gunfire rang out. I saw him stagger as I edged forward, trying to spot the attacker.

  The cops were moving too as Rostislav took another round and fell on his face. I marked the flash of a rifle from a balcony down the block and unloaded an entire magazine at the dimly seen figure, driving him inside. He must have invaded the home, perhaps keeping the owner hostage all night so he could watch for his shot.

  “He’s on that balcony with a rifle!” I screamed at the uniforms. “Call for backup and SWAT!” Then I started trying to drag Rostislav out of the street.

  I might as well have been pulling on the corpse of full-grown steer, so I let go and mo
ved in a crouch to a position behind a pickup truck, watching through its windows as I reloaded. “Get him out of the street! I’ll cover you!” I yelled to the cops.

  The two officers grabbed Rostilav’s arms and dragged him out of the line of fire while I braced my Glock on the vehicle and aimed. The balcony was a good fifty yards away, a very long shot for a handgun. The best I could hope for was to suppress the shooter. If he was a real expert, he would pull back inside where I couldn’t see him and…

  “Down,” a quiet voice said next to me, and I dropped into cover just as a heavy round punched through two panes of safety glass and the space where my head had been, showering me with shards. I looked around and saw no one, but it had been my father’s voice. I knew – I knew! – that he wasn’t a ghost. He was merely a manifestation of my subconscious.

  Some part of my brain must have spotted the shooter preparing to fire.

  Yeah, that was it.

  By now, multiple sirens were approaching. In San Francisco’s dense landscape, nowhere was far from anywhere, and two dozen units must be converging on the report of multiple shots fired. The shooter would be making his escape right now.

  When enough cops showed up, I holstered my weapon and kept my hands open and spread, pointing the paramedics toward Rostislav, who was still breathing. “Lung-shot,” the senior of them said after a rapid examination. “Looks clean. He should make it.”

  I nodded, and then walked over to a uniformed lieutenant, identifying myself. “I called in the bomb, and when we evacuated, we took fire from a single shooter with a rifle on that balcony. My bodyguard was hit.” I pointed at the correct house. “There might be a homeowner that needs help inside.”

  “Where’s the bomb?”

  I indicated my own home, and the man started yelling instructions to cordon off the area and clear the shooter’s position. Me, I found Mom sitting in the corner with her hands over her ears.

  “Come on, Mom. Starlight. It’s okay. It’s over.” When she didn’t respond, I sat down next to her and held her as she keened softly. “You’re not hit, are you?”

  She shook her head and fell to silence, crying. “I hate you,” she said without vehemence.

  I didn’t contradict her. I knew she didn’t hate me. She hated the violence that I’d attracted.

  I recalled my father’s voice when he’d give me his blessing to apply for the police academy. Unlike Mom, he’d understood, even if he’d wished things were different. “Sometimes the sheepdogs have to do more than bare their teeth at the wolves who want to eat the flock. Sometimes they have to meet them tooth and claw,” he’d said, sounding as if he were repeating a quote or a maxim. “Don’t ever be afraid to fight when you know you’re right.”

  Back then, I hadn’t fully understood what I was getting into, nor had I understood my father. Though it had been cancer that ultimately took him, he’d been ready to die for his beliefs in a way that my gentle, silly, lovable, openhearted mother never would be. He’d stood up to evil every chance he could, in courtrooms and on the protest lines. He’d been a true warrior for social justice long before those who later bore that label had become, in true Orwellian fashion, the very oppressors they decried.

  “California?”

  Mom’s voice brought me out of my fugue. I could feel the post-action shakes brought on by an excess of adrenaline and a drop in blood sugar. I helped her to her feet, wishing I had a granola bar in my pocket. “Is Randy home?” I asked her, referring to one of her semi-deadbeat friends.

  “Randy’s always home,” she said.

  “Good. You’re going there, and I have to get back to tracking down the filth who did this.” I spotted Allsop and Brody getting out of their unmarked car, and I waved them over. “Jay, can you get a uniform to take my mother to a friend’s?”

  “SFPD isn’t your taxi service, Cal,” he snapped.

  I lost it, striding forward to give Jay a two-handed chest shove. “What part of Protect and Serve don’t you understand, you son of a bitch? This is my mother we’re talking about. She’s been through hell and ought to be in protective custody, but I’d rather have her with people familiar to her than locked in some cell, so put your beef with me aside and do your damn job!”

  The cops, firefighters and EMTs nearby were all staring, and for once I felt like the prevailing sentiment was on my side.

  Jay must have felt it too, because he lifted his hands in surrender and pointed at a female patrol officer. “You, get her to her friend’s place and take her statement, then stay on scene. Call in an hour or so and I’ll have someone relieve you.”

  Brody winked at me as Jay stalked off and Starlight was escorted away. “She shoots, she scores,” he said.

  “Not in the mood, Tanner. Tell the bomb squad I’d appreciate having a house to come home to. I have things to do.”

  “Someone needs to take your statement. Might as well be me.”

  “Okay. Give me the form.” While he watched, I scribbled a concise recitation of the facts and signed it at the bottom. “Thanks. Bye.”

  “Cal, don’t do anything stupid. Let us handle this.”

  I rounded on him. “You haven’t handled it yet. Remember, I used to be one of you. I know the limits of law enforcement, and I know how long the beast takes to wake up. Maybe this will finally rouse the dragon, but if not, you just wait until Monday.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I wavered between prudence and the self-satisfaction of telling him about the upcoming exposé on Houdini. I split the difference, snarling, “It means that if SFPD doesn’t make some progress on finding out who kidnapped my mother and who’s trying to kill me, you’ll have a lot of egg on your faces.”

  Then I walked off before I said something I’d regret. It wasn’t Brody’s fault. Police weren’t equipped to prevent crime. That wasn’t even in their job description. They were supposed to catch criminals and put them in jail.

  Deterrence was the best they might accomplish, and only if a criminal hadn’t decided to commit a crime. A paid contract killer barely took police into account, except to plan for a getaway.

  I strode out of the perimeter and over the sloping sidewalks toward my place of business, looking forward to raiding my fridge. As I walked, I called Manson. “Change of plans. Pick me up at my office. Details later.”

  Rounding a corner as I was putting my phone away, a nondescript female figure approached me, so bland and unremarkable that my sense of danger let me down until it was nearly too late.

  The middle-aged woman’s right hand came up and thrust at me, and it was only years of self-defense training that caused me to execute an instinctive slashing block with my left forearm.

  A syringe skittered away on the pavement and I found myself face to face with the Old Maid, her expression frozen with cold rage. Her left hand came up in a hard motion similar to her first attack, only this time it held a short, wicked blade. I felt its hot bite in my right forearm as it penetrated the flesh between the radius and ulna.

  But she’d made a mistake. As a lefty, my strong hand was still free and unwounded, and my fist was already in motion. It struck behind her ear as she began to duck and she staggered away, leaving the knife embedded in my arm.

  Twenty-one feet is what they teach you in the academy, the distance needed between the officer and a hand-to-hand attacker in order to draw and fire a weapon. My training didn’t fail me as I backed up to create the space I needed.

  The Old Maid might prefer poisons, but it seemed she carried a gun anyway. We drew and fired at the same time.

  We both missed.

  My second shot, one-handed and lucky, took off the left side of her head. It looked to me like the expanding round had probably entered her eye socket and blown out the back of her skull. She dropped like a sack of wet mud and lay still.

  A late-arriving squad car screeched to a halt and the cop jumped out. “Drop your weapon, now!” he roared at me.

  I tossed the Glock o
nto a patch of struggling grass and lifted my hands. “It was self-defense. She had a knife and a gun. There’s a syringe of poison over there.” I pointed with one careful finger. “The knife’s still in my arm.”

  The officer called for backup and made me sit on the curb until the paramedics appeared to pull out the blade and stitch up my wound. “You need to get this seen by a doctor,” the woman said. “Tell the cops. They’re not always sympathetic.”

  “I will,” I replied.

  Brody showed up to take over. By that time a crowd of bystanders had gathered.

  “Exciting day for your neighborhood,” he said as he cuffed my hands in front of me and lifted me to my feet.

  I gingerly pushed the metal bracelet away from my wrapped wound. “Is this necessary?”

  “You just shot and killed someone, so yes, it’s standard procedure. There will have to be a hearing. Tell me where your weapons are and I’ll take you by the ER, and then to the station for processing.”

  It must have been the adrenaline talking, because as he frisked me I said, “In other circumstances this might be fun.”

  “The handcuffs or the groping?”

  I just smiled. “You got anything handy to eat?”

  After he put me in the car, he handed me a stale muffin.

  Was the universe trying to tell me something?

  Chapter 20

  Four hours later, Jindal posted my bond, as he had the cash handy. He and Manson met me at the station with a welcome hoagie in hand, and they escorted me back to my office as I wolfed down the food.

  “Is my house still standing?” I asked as I finished up.

  “Yeah, they defused the bomb. I heard it on the scanner,” Manson said, tapping the device installed in the truck’s dashboard.

  “Then let’s get Molly and go.”

  “Uh, Cal, we can drive the truck.”

  I flexed my hands. My right arm hurt like a son of a bitch, as I hadn’t taken the Vicodin they’d prescribed. I wanted to remain sharp. “I need to get behind the wheel of something with legs, Manson. I need to drive. So drop Jindal off at my office, and then take me home.”