Ferris turned to Davis and said, “Deputy, I understand the FBI is offering you full immunity. The State of California will join them in that offer if you’ll agree to make your testimony available to us as well.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Davis said. It seemed as if he was coming out of his daze now that he could see some light at the end of his tunnel. Later, I’m sure it would hit him hard that he might be about to send the woman he loved to prison. Maybe any time could be served at a minimum-security facility.
They took Davis away in the helicopter, a wise precaution considering his value to the investigation. Me, they let go on my own recognizance. To retrieve my car, I had to bum a ride down into Granger’s Ford with the task force that was sent to arrest the people named in our statements. They dropped me off at Davis’ place. Obviously they weren’t letting me anywhere near the unholy triumvirate of the Houdini syndicate.
I snorted a laugh as I stared at Davis’ house, because Molly was locked securely in his garage and I had no key. Eventually I was able to jimmy the side door and make my way to the Subaru.
One more careful check of the car showed no bombs or tracking devices that I could see. What irony that would be, to be blown to bits after the whole thing was over. I suppose I should be grateful I hadn’t been killed in my sleep at Alice’s place. I shuddered, realizing how vulnerable I’d been in the guest room. Fortunately, I figured she’d wanted to avoid the inevitable suspicion and get me well away from town before the killer finished me off.
I had to say I was happy to see the Granger’s Ford city limits sign in my rear view mirror. Frankly, if I never came through again, it would be too soon. I resolved to make Turlock the boundary of my travel this direction, unless it was for a romantic weekend in Yosemite – in which case I’d take another route.
I ate a late lunch with Elle, filling her in on everything, and the Sunday-night lights of my city were just coming on as I rolled across the Bay Bridge. My bones ached, my arm ached, my ego and my face were both thoroughly bruised, and a strawberry adorned my cheek, but I was home once more, and that was enough for now.
Chapter 22
Two days of rest and recuperation later, Tanner Brody dropped a special edition of the Chronicle onto my office desk and sat down on the sofa, his usual toothpick protruding from his mouth. “Front page story, more than forty inches and a ‘to be continued;’ they’re talking another Pulitzer for Cole Sage, but I don’t see your name anywhere in it.”
I shrugged, not interested in telling him I’d turned Mickey’s and Jindal’s research over to the journalist. It was technically illegal and inadmissible in court anyway, but Sage could claim he’d gotten it from a protected source – which was the truth, after all – and publish what he could corroborate. “Maybe he forgot.”
“Maybe you told him to forget. Why not take the publicity? You’d have clients around the block.”
Another shrug. “I don’t need the money and I don’t feel like taking any cases for a while.”
“What do you feel like?” he said with a flirtatious lift of his eyebrows.
I gave him a flat stare. “Beat. Dirty. Exhausted.”
“Cal, you won! You brought down Houdini, and no one’s trying to kill you anymore. You should be happy.”
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling as if calling on a deity. “Bill’s dead. Lassiter escaped. The Sorkins are off enjoying their millions on a beach in some piss-ant non-extradition island nation. Frank Jackson is dead. Mike Davis is in protective custody, and Alice turned out to be one-third of a criminal mastermind. Linda’s on the funny farm. My mother is traumatized and doesn’t want to leave the house. Jay still hates me. The city owns my father’s car. Oh, and I still have these notices of audit for the bureaucracy that Stanger sicced on me,” I said, slapping two subpoenas onto the newspaper. “Yeah, my life’s a dream right now.”
I didn’t even mention Thomas, of course, or that he hadn’t called me from whatever hidey-hole he’d crawled into. I couldn’t blame him for running, but an anonymous email telling me he was all right would have been nice. I wondered if I’d ever hear from him again. I found that stung more than I expected, but it didn't devastate me.
“I can help you with at least one of those things.” Brody slid a piece of thick paper onto the pile.
“Madge’s title. You stole this from evidence?”
“Would I do that?” He grinned.
“I don’t know, would you?”
“Actually, I did something much more difficult,” he said, buffing his nails theatrically. “I went over Jay’s head and got the Commissioner to release it to you, all legal and aboveboard.”
“How’d you get him to sign off on that?”
“Appreciation for services rendered. And, I might have told him you have Cole Sage’s ear. They’re all waiting with bated breath for the rest of the series. It’s going to wreck a few careers, and make others.”
I brought forth a dry, humorless laugh. “Thanks, Tanner. Really. Nice of you.”
“I might be able to do something about those subpoenas too, if you like.”
I shrugged, unable to muster any enthusiasm. “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”
He gazed at me for a while.
I stared back. “What?”
“You need a vacation. Badly.”
“I –” I was about to protest, when I realized that idea held its attraction. “Maybe so.”
“Someplace warm and sunny. San Francisco is depressing.”
“Nobody forced you to move here.”
“I like everything but the weather. At least in L.A. you could see the sun through the smog.”
“I can’t leave my mother.”
“So bring her with us.”
“Us?”
He reached inside his suit jacket and dropped a brochure atop the growing pile.
“A cruise?”
“Think about it.”
“We haven’t even had a first date and you’re asking me to spend a week trapped on a ship with you?”
“It’ll be fun. No mysteries, no murders, no hit men, no nothing. Just the sea and the sun, and all the rum punch you can drink. And you can tell me to go away, any time.”
Could I do that? Leave all my entanglements behind for a week or two, forget everything? The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. I had a bunch of spare cash – okay, most of it was Thomas’, but I could pay him back if he ever got in touch – and no pending cases. The various agencies tearing apart the Houdini syndicate had gotten everything they needed from me.
“I have one more reason for you to say yes,” Brody said. “A reporter from the Inquirer has been asking questions of the cops that worked the bomb and shooting at your house. Eventually she’s going to connect you to the Houdini thing and splash your name all over. Wouldn’t you rather be a thousand miles away when she does?”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll consider it. Where were you thinking?”
“You ever been to Hawaii?”
“Nope.”
“Ships leave from Port of Long Beach every week. You want me to book three cabins, or only two?”
“Keep it in your pants, big guy. Three is good.”
“Fair enough. There’s a ship sailing Thursday.”
“Okay.” I felt a smile steal slowly over my face. I couldn’t help it. I could use a change of scenery, for sure. Mom sure could.
“Great. I’ll email you the details. Oh, and you still owe me dinner. How’s tonight work for you?”
“You just crossed the line from confident to cheeky.”
Brody took his toothpick from his mouth and flicked it unerringly into my wastebasket. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I didn’t have the energy to object.
He left, whistling.
Epilogue
The man called Thomas breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he put down the copy of the morning’s San Francisco Chronicle. Her name wasn’t there, but reading between the lines told him she
was safe.
He gazed over the painted white porch railing at the meadow fronting the historic Wawona Hotel, set among the Sierras just inside Yosemite National Park. A flock of deer – or was it a herd, he couldn’t remember – foraged near a flowing stream that ran through the alpine landscape.
The peace of the scene contrasted sharply with the tempest sweeping California’s capital. Multiple arrests among the Marzetti clan coincided with raids on the Forty-Niners’ motorcycle clubhouse, several meth labs and multiple marijuana fields. The indictment of Sheriff Bartlett, the chief warden at Folsom State Prison, and several dozen other elected and appointed officials had already been announced.
The rats are running for their holes, he said to himself as he watched five Harleys rumble northward toward the passes over the Sierras. Heading for the open deserts of Nevada, no doubt.
But what does that make me, he thought. A rodent, perhaps, but an admirable one. Thomas often envisaged himself as a mongoose, that courageous slayer of poisonous snakes, immortalized in Kipling’s “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.”
Today, though, a few of the vermin would get away. No matter. There were always more snakes and rats.
And more women? He closed his eyes. Better that Cal remained angry with him for running without contact, forgot him and moved on. She was special, but the very qualities he admired, respected and yes, even loved in her – relentless curiosity, intelligence and a penchant for risk-taking – were the ones that would get her killed if he remained near her for long.
And he refused to get her killed. She’d had a brief taste of his world, brimming with lies, betrayal and sudden death, and had survived that metaphorical poison just as he’d survived his literal dose.
But if you dance with the devil long enough, he’ll have your soul, Thomas mused. He surely has mine.
Cal would go back to the mundane reality of stalking adulterous spouses and skip-tracing bail-jumpers, a world where her biggest danger was a fugitive resisting apprehension, or perhaps rolling her car in a rally. The pain in his heart would die down, would recede to its normal chilled state where he could do his job without remorse.
Speaking of jobs….
He took out a burner phone and dialed a number from memory. The voice on the other end spoke. “Evergreen.”
“Tango-four-two-one spruce.”
“Acknowledged.”
“I’m operational.”
“Preferred?”
“Reno, Nevada. Noon tomorrow.”
“Assigned. Code is Papa-six-five-niner.”
“Got it.”
“Good luck.”
“A man makes his own luck.” Thomas ended the call, methodically stripped out the phone’s battery and SIM card, and then wiped down everything before wrapping it in all a cloth napkin and putting it in his pocket. When he reached the parking lot, he crushed the contents beneath his foot, and then recovered the packet. He’d toss the pieces out the window as he drove.
A man makes his luck by careful attention to detail, by ruthlessness, and by minimizing entanglements, he recited to himself, a formula that had served him well. He took one last look to the west, toward the unseen City by the Bay and the woman he couldn't afford to love, before sliding into his stolen car and steering for the garish lights of Reno.
The End of Slipknot
Look for more Cal Corwin mysteries, and possibly a Thomas the Hitman thriller or two, in 2016.
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