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

by D. D. VanDyke

  When Jindal was back at his financial analysis and Manson had pulled up in front of my house, he said, “You still want me to come along?”

  I gave him a weak smile. “No, thanks. Hang out with the guys. The Old Maid is dead, but that other shooter is around somewhere. He may think I’m in my office there and try again. I’ll be safe enough on the road.”

  “What if he follows you from here?”

  I looked around, seeing cops still roaming nearby, taking statements and showing the flag. “I doubt he’s within five miles. And I’m not going to drive slow. If he tries, better that I meet him car to car than gun to gun.”

  “Cal –”

  “Shut up and get out of here, Manson. And thanks. You’re a real friend.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. I think he blushed under his dark skin.

  Double-checking the bomb squad, I did a full search of Molly, making sure she wasn’t wired to blow, or bugged. Then I strapped on a new primary – they’d kept my Glock for evidence – buckled in and roared out of the neighborhood as fast as my supercharged six would carry me. If someone were still waiting, I would make myself a hard target.

  I headed south this time, down the peninsula on 280 through San Jose until it hit 101. That took me out of the suburbs to Gilroy, America’s self-proclaimed garlic capital, confirmed by the aroma. Then onto 152 past Casa de Fruta through the low, hilly Pacheco Pass and across the San Luis dam down into the San Joaquin Valley.

  The drive calmed me even as I hit extralegal speeds, twisting through the snaking roads, seldom dropping below ninety. The fuzzbuster saved me once, but speed traps were rare in rural California. By the time I hit the flats and rolled into the nowheresville of Los Baños – “the baths” in Spanish, though the locals nicknamed the town “the bathrooms,” – I felt myself again. No one had followed me, I was sure, unless they’d hired a helicopter.

  Which wasn’t completely impossible…but I hadn’t seen any hovering around.

  When I reached the town of Clovis, tucked up against its big brother Fresno, a sprawling grid of orchards, suburbs, irrigation canals and pavement, I let my GPS find the psych facility. It didn’t resemble a prison, but its patients weren’t free to leave, and around here, “committed” took on a different meaning. No, it looked like a secure corporate headquarters with an outer and inner fence, and windows that didn’t open.

  Once I checked in they let me sit with Linda Davis in a room with plenty of windows, under the eye of watchful staff.

  “How are you?” I asked her.

  The tall girl had lost weight, and her eyes seemed haunted. “I don’t like it here, but…”

  “Go on,” I prompted after a long pause.

  “But I’m getting better.”

  I resisted the urge to try to help her. That wasn’t my job, and she had deliberately killed Kerry Lindquist, though the State hadn’t convicted her of murder. All the witnesses had testified as to her mental state and the court-appointed psychiatrist had diagnosed a psychotic break, so she’d been committed indefinitely, in lieu of being charged.

  “Do you remember Kerry?” I asked. Might as well take the bull by the horns right away. Maybe it would shake something loose.

  “I killed him. I’m sorry.”

  “You weren’t in your right mind. Besides, he was a scumbag. But what I need to know is, do you remember him talking about his business?”

  “The Old Mill? Sure, all the time.”

  “I was actually thinking about other business. Dealing drugs, or anything else illegal.”

  “He never told me about any of that.”

  “What about anything the Conrads were into? Maybe something they owned or ran, other than the Old Mill and the gas station across the street?”

  Linda sucked on her lip. “I wish they’d give me some tea, but it’s too hot.”

  “That’s too bad.” I repeated the question.

  “Gold,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Kerry was a big shot at Deadwood.”

  “Deadwood? South Dakota?”

  Linda shook her head emphatically, her dishwater hair flopping around like a little girl’s. “No, silly. It’s up in the Sierras. A gold mine, like in the old days, but with big trucks. He took me there once. Showed me around. Said he was going to be the boss soon. I told him I didn’t like it, because he’d be gone so much.”

  “How far away from Granger’s Ford is this gold mine?”

  “I don’t know. An hour?”

  “So he wouldn’t be moving onto the site? That’s a long commute.”

  Linda waved vaguely. “He liked his house. Said he didn’t want to leave town. Not me, town. I guess he didn’t really love me.”

  “No, honey, he didn’t. But your father does.”

  “I know.” She stared at nothing. “I wish I could go home.”

  How could I explain to her that, until she showed herself to be firmly in touch with reality and no danger to society, she’d be stuck here? There probably wasn’t a facility closer to Granger’s Ford, and if she didn’t improve, the only way Mike Davis could see her more often would be to try to take a job nearby. I didn’t think he was the type to let his only child rot forgotten in some genteel cage.

  “I wish you could go home too, Linda. Did Kerry say anything more about this gold mine?”

  “Not really.”

  I probed for a few more minutes, but Linda began to slip away. When I stood up from the sofa, a white-clad orderly poked her head in and I nodded. “We’re done.” I turned to the girl. “See you later, Linda.”

  Linda stood to reach for a hug. “See you later, Mom,” she said, and a bony hand clamped around my heart. Poor kid. At least she wasn’t suffering. Not physically, anyway. I squeezed her and kissed her cheek.

  Once on the road again, I phoned Mike Davis to tell him about the visit. “Do you know anything about a gold mine in a place called Deadwood?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Deadwood’s north of Duckwall Mountain. Nothing there, really, except for the mine. Big one, I hear.”

  “I didn’t know anyone was still mining commercially. I thought it was almost impossible to get permits.” Large-scale gold mining required a lot of caustic chemicals, chief among them cyanide, one of the most poisonous compounds in the world. Even the less toxic alternatives were heavily regulated. It was hard to show a profit in the environmentally protected Sierras, so most mining concerns looked elsewhere.

  “I suppose they got approval somehow. Why?”

  I told him what Linda had said about Kerry’s attempt to impress her. “Ring any bells?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Anything Kerry was into, Jerry was likely involved in as well.”

  “Unless he was planning on leaving Jerry’s employ.”

  “I didn’t get that impression when I, um, interviewed him. And Linda seemed to think he was going to commute an hour each way.”

  Davis remained silent for a moment. “Okay. So Jerry backs the gold mine with money. Carol swings the permits through her family contacts. It must be an investment. Remember, Jerry’s some kind of money guy too. They’re always buying a piece of this, a piece of that.”

  “Putting his fake and crooked nephew in charge means more than just an investment. That’s control and influence. And what would some mobbed-up ex-punk from Chicago know about gold mining? No, Mike, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “But what does? How does this fit in to…to whatever the hell is going on?”

  That reminded me he wasn’t up on the latest, so as I drove northward toward Turlock and the hospital where Thomas still rested, I filled him in about the attempts on my life.

  “Your days always this exciting?” he asked.

  “Not until I came up on Houdini’s radar. And somehow, it seems to all tie back to your little town. Every time I get near it, bad things start to happen. Any idea why?” I said it lightly, but he got my gist.

  “The ‘why’ is that the devil has his hooks int
o Granger’s Ford, Cal. I’m doin’ my best, but it feels like he’s winning.”

  “You serious, Mike? You think this is Satanic?”

  “All evil is Satanic, Cal. Doesn’t mean I’m a nut case. I don’t mean young girls are being possessed or any such nonsense. I just mean the devil whispers his temptations to people, good and bad, leading them down the broad path to destruction. Usually they end up dragging others with them.”

  He said it with such emotion that I shivered. “Can’t really argue with you there, Mike,” I said, remembering what my father’s ghost had said to me about finding my spiritual anchor. “But I also think some people are corrupt enough they don’t need any extra prompting. They’re their own devils.”

  “Fair enough. What’s your next move?”

  “Not sure yet. But I’ll be there in a couple of hours. How about we take a look at a gold mine?”

  When I reached Emmanuel Medical Center in Turlock, I got a shock. Another shock that is, as if I hadn’t had enough for one day, one weekend – hell, for one year.

  Thomas was gone.

  “I’m sorry, Cal,” Elle St. John said when I showed up at Turlock’s police headquarters, irate. “He slipped out. My officer was watching for unauthorized visitors, not trying to hold your guy prisoner.”

  “The doctor said he was surprised Thomas could even walk! Are you sure he wasn’t kidnapped?”

  “He could yell and scream, couldn’t he?” she retorted. “Don’t put this one on me.”

  I waved, as if brushing away words. “I’m sorry, Elle. I’m at the end of my rope here.”

  She grinned. “You know what they say.”

  I nodded. “Tie a knot and hang on.”

  “Look, if he ran off, he must have had a reason. Who was he, anyway?”

  I eyed her. “If you don’t know, you don’t have to be an accessory to anything criminal.”

  Elle walked over to shut the door, standing close to me and speaking quietly. “We’ve known each other since college, Cal. Are you really afraid to tell me?”

  “Maybe I’m protecting you.”

  “I can handle it.”

  Impulsively, I hugged her.

  She patted me on the back, and then pushed me gently onto her office sofa and sat in her swivel chair. “Tell me.”

  “He’s a contract killer.”

  “Ouch.”

  “But he saved that kidnapped girl a couple months back, then let me take the credit.”

  “Double ouch. And you fell in love with the bad boy?”

  I shrugged. “Love’s too strong a word, but…yes, we have a thing going.”

  “Things don’t protect you with their lives.”

  “You think that’s what he did?”

  “You tell me.”

  That tore me up. “He likes me more than I like him, that’s all. It happens.”

  “Excuses. You’re keeping your walls up.”

  “You think I shouldn’t?”

  “Walls keep people apart.”

  “Did I tell you he was supposed to kill me?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Now it’s getting interesting. What happened?”

  “He decided not to.”

  “And now we’re back around to being in love.”

  “Damn you, Elle, and damn him. Why did he run off?”

  Elle folded her hands in her lap and eyed me from under skeptical brows. “Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is leave, if you think you’re hurting the other person. Or putting her at risk.”

  I tilted my head back and rubbed my eyes. “I don’t want love. I don’t want entanglements. I want to put Houdini behind bars and get back to a normal life.”

  “When we took the police oath we gave up on ever having normal lives. But cops find love. I did. Cops even get married and have kids, you know.”

  I thought of Mike Davis and Linda. “Yeah, how does that usually work out?”

  Elle shrugged. “C’est la vie.” She sighed, brushing off her pantsuit, a signal to move on. “Anything else I can do?”

  “You’re kicking me out?”

  “I’m not the touchy-feely type, Cal, and neither are you. You need to get moving toward a solution. If there’s something I can do, just say the word. Otherwise, I got drug traffic to suppress and shitheads to throw in jail.”

  I knew she was being gruff for my benefit, trying to shake me out of my mood, so I stood. “Yeah. Ever thought about running for sheriff?”

  “Of Mariposa County, you mean? Against Bartlett?”

  “Maybe you’ll run unopposed. Bartlett may be going down soon. They could use someone clean.”

  “It is nice up there in the foothills. But what about your deputy friend?”

  “He’s never run a department. But I’ll mention it. Take care, Elle.”

  “Take care, Cal.”

  I grabbed a burger at McD’s on the way out of town and an hour later I rolled into Granger’s Ford. It was starting to get dark; I’d been too optimistic in my timelines, thinking Mike and I could get out to the gold mine before nightfall. I decided to presume on Mike and Alice’s hospitality once more. The Old Maid was dead, after all, and I was pretty sure the backup shooter had lost me.

  Or maybe, on some level, I wanted him to come after me one more time and settle things. I’d stay vigilant.

  Alice put me up again, after parking Molly out of sight in Davis’ garage. I made sure he realized there was a small but very real chance the hunter had tracked me and might think I was there. Davis said he’d be ready. I didn’t ask, didn’t try to micromanage.

  In the morning, I forced myself to get up when Alice did and I rode over with her to open the diner, availing myself of coffee and breakfast while making phone calls. Jindal said he and Mickey were making progress, but he didn’t have anything significant to pass on. I told him about the gold mine and he said he’d factor it in.

  Tanner Brody was my next conversation. He sounded as chipper as ever. “We got a description of your shooter from the homeowner he took hostage. Young, white, fit, nondescript.”

  “Sounds like the guy I saw at Granger's Ford the other night.”

  “We put out a BOLO, but he’s probably long gone. Where are you?”

  “Back up at Granger’s Ford with Mike Davis. We’re going prospecting.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “What about Mom and Rostislav?”

  “Your mother’s at her friend’s, and we’ll have an officer on her for a day or two. Your Russian buddy is at SF General. Should be fine. Is he…”

  “He’s family. Other than that, I don’t ask. He works for an old friend of my father’s.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me if anything breaks.”

  “Will do.”

  My next call went to Cole Sage, but he didn’t answer. Probably floating comfortably at the marina, in bed with his latest cougar, I thought uncharitably. That wasn’t really fair, but at some level I still wondered why he’d choose a fifty-something over me.

  Childish, I know, but I decided to give myself a pass this time.

  Then I tried the number I had for Thomas, not expecting anything. It went to voice mail. He might have already ditched that phone. I’d have to wait for him to contact me, and for some reason that hurt. No, I didn’t love him, but we’d connected. I’d started to get used to the idea of sleeping with him, at least now and again. What if I never saw him again?

  “Mornin’ Alice, Cal,” I heard Mike Davis say as he entered the diner with a jingle of the cowbell hanging from the door’s handle, smokey hat in hand. He placed it carefully on the tall back of the booth and sat across from me, turning up his coffee mug for Alice to pour. “Thanks, hon.”

  “Looks like you two are getting along,” I said after she’d gone to serve others.

  Davis nodded. “We’ll probably get hitched next year. Seems like time.”

  “You don’t seem enthusiastic.”

  He shrugged. “We’re compatible. Romance is a trap,
anyway.”

  I kept my silence. Given my limited experience, I didn’t really disagree with him.

  A couple minutes later, his breakfast appeared as if by magic. Alice must have put in the order before he arrived. Davis wolfed it down in record time. “Let’s get going,” he said. “Maybe we can get back in time for services.”

  I nodded. It was Sunday, after all. “What does Alice do?” I asked as we got into his Crown Vic.

  “Gets an atheist named Sheila to cover for her.”

  I stared at him for a moment. “You kidding?”

  “Yep. Sheila’s more of an agnostic, really.” He chuckled as he piloted the big car out of town.

  True dawn broke behind the Sierras as we rode. The upcoming end of daylight saving time hadn’t yet brought more light into the early morning hours, but the deciduous trees were well into their autumn reds and golds, and the evergreens seemed forlorn without the snows to come.

  As we pulled into the parking lot of the Deadwood Gas and General Store we saw a few vehicles with the Deadwood Prospecting logo on them, a rather misleading title. Dozens of small companies in the gold country catered to tourists and small-time prospectors, people who panned enough dust out of their favorite streams to eke out a living. Some bought acreage unfit for development, or sneaked onto public land to use small dredges, water pumps and riffle boxes to make middle-class money, but it was hard work. It was a truism that the only people who really got rich off California gold were those who supplied the miners with tools and services.

  “Guess they’re trying to keep their operation low-key by not calling it a mine,” I said.

  “Lots of the locals don’t like mining. Tends to mess up the landscape and hurt property values, not to mention the watershed, and doesn’t provide enough jobs to compensate. This ain’t West Virginia.” He rubbed his jaw. “Now how do we find the place?”

  I pointed at one of the company vehicles. “Follow that truck.”

  The marked dually full of roughnecks led us up a nameless gravel road and over two ridges. When we topped the second, we saw a graded area smaller than I would have expected, perhaps a hundred yards across, with a single-wide for an operations shack, and one obvious mine shaft. Narrow-gauge rails led from it to a machine the size of two big houses, some kind of ore processor I supposed.