Apparently, Houdini’s buyers got what they paid for. Kept them happy and it was smart business on his part. Fewer overdoses, fewer dissatisfied customers ratting to Narcotics or pushing back against the supply chain…in short, a sterling reputation in the community of his peers.
Houdini was the Warren Buffet of pharms, the Steve Jobs of pills.
I knew from my time on the job smart abusers even got legitimate prescriptions from real doctors, providing bottles with genuine labels and keeping them filled with the uncontrolled versions. As long as they didn’t drive high, no cop could even arrest them for possession. It was a beautiful system for everyone with few of the risks of distributing street drugs.
As long as Houdini could keep getting high-quality supplies for cut rates, that is. Like paying a heist crew a few hundred grand to score ten mil worth or more.
Near the end of the second article a paragraph mentioned the possible connection to a pharmacy warehouse heist in Canada, one of the big mail-order outfits that made a specialty of re-exporting cheap drugs to the US – all legal, at least on the Canadian side. The theft had been carried out by two men and a woman, never caught, and the article didn’t report how it was done.
It did mention that they had left a security guard dead on the warehouse floor, shot several times in the chest. That chilled me. Once they’d crossed the line to murder there seemed no reason to flinch from killing Talia.
Looked like they had lived on their profits for a couple of years and were now ready to score again. I made a note for Mickey to look for more on the heist and crew. Maybe he could connect them to more jobs they had pulled.
I threw down the printout. All this was great background, but got me no closer to freeing the girl. I was starting to feel irrelevant. Or worse, that poking into the situation had made myself a target, gotten Bill killed and put Talia at greater risk. I had a horrible vision of Mira collapsing on her kitchen table as I brought her the worst news any mother can get.
Yet again I pushed all that aside, all the distractions that liked to chew their way into my brain, tried to shut it all down and think. All the great real-life detectives from Vidocq to Pinkerton to Serpico emphasized thinking first, being smart, only taking action when the time was right.
But this wasn’t a case of catching the criminal after the fact. In that sense I had more in common with fictional investigators such as Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot, racing against time to save the latest victim chained in a basement somewhere…only real life seldom wrapped up the plots so neatly. I had a strong feeling that even if I got Talia home safe I wouldn’t be tying up all the loose ends on this one.
I picked up a pen and began jotting down notes, reviewing what I knew about the case starting with the beginning to see if I had missed anything.
Miranda Sorkin called Cole Sage for help getting her missing daughter back. On one hand I had no independent or concrete evidence Talia was really kidnapped. Therefore, she could be anywhere – visiting her father or some other relative, for example. On the other hand, I could think of absolutely nothing Mira would gain by lying. If she was in on the deal, why call attention to herself?
Yet Mira seemed distraught but not the wreck I would have expected. Was that a result of Valium-induced numbness or did she know more than she was telling? If the latter, was the lack of concern from despair or from confidence Talia would be all right?
If confidence, she wouldn’t have called me.
So, despair or tranquilizer.
And what did Mira paying her ex-husband Dennis large sums of money have to do with it? I’d love to go up to Seattle and grill him about it, but any trip there would take a minimum of twelve hours. Someone like Cole could do it, but I knew no one else with the investigative chops, not that I trusted anyway. Not unless I wanted to go against Mira’s wishes and inform SFPD. I made a note to phone Dennis, though. Not as effective, but maybe I could get something.
Next, Cole Sage was out of town and had passed the case on to me. Mira had apparently reached him, but now I couldn’t. Might he be putting me off, avoiding me? I couldn’t see why.
The heist crew was fairly competent. They’d exerted leverage against Lattimer at the security center to smooth the way, they’d put the armlock on Mira with her daughter to get easy access to the warehouse and they’d employed a young white man in a stolen green Audi to stand back, watch and cover them if necessary.
That guy may have killed Bill, may have gone to Lattimer’s to do the same to him, may have employed some thugs to take me out. However, killing seemed a bit extreme, likely to draw more attention, very unprofessional. It didn’t fit.
Until I knew cause of death for sure, Bill dying might have been an accident when things got rough. The guys in the alley might have just administered a beating to me and maybe the guy at Lattimer’s door was there to drop off his payment or threaten him further.
Maybe.
Or maybe these people were more ruthless than I thought and intended to tie up all their loose ends with bullets. That would mean Talia’s corpse might already be rotting in a hole somewhere.
If so, I’d do my damnedest to bring Houdini down.
I wished again that Meat had thought to snatch the young white guy at Lattimer’s door. I’d have enjoyed beating the info I needed out of him.
Try as I might, I couldn’t put any more pieces together, nothing that would help me. That left only one thing I could think of, a weak long-shot: calling Dennis Sorkin, Mira’s tax-evading ex-husband with the offshore accounts.
I reached for the phone after making sure Mickey’s gadgetry blocked my number on caller ID, and then dialed.
Chapter 12
“Equalizer Investments, Dennis Sorkin,” said the smooth, pleasant voice on my phone.
“Hi, Dennis. This is Norma Jones and I’m an auditor at Valley View Credit Union in San Rafael?” I deliberately put that question into my voice. I’d found it made my impersonations more believable. “I noticed you and your wife have a number of recurring high-dollar transfers over the last couple of years and I was just making sure everything’s all right?”
“Sure it’s all right. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m really sorry, sir,” I went on in my best apologetic and matronly voice, “but it’s my job to check on these things. We are required by the federal government’s credit union insurance program to maintain certain accountability standards, and by the IRS to report transactions exceeding certain limits.”
“Our transactions haven’t exceeded those limits, Ms. Jones. I know. I’m a financial analyst,” Dennis said with a hint of pomposity.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I gushed. “Your job must be so much more interesting than mine. All I do is stare at spreadsheets all day. Anyway, I know according to the guidelines you haven’t exceeded the limits, but we are coming up on an audit and anything approaching the limits is bound to raise some eyebrows, don’t you know? If I could at least have some kind of sensible reason for these transfers it might head off questions later.”
Silence poured from the earpiece for a moment, and then came a sigh. “Just put down that I’m investing some of my wife’s salary for her,” he said. “That’s what my job involves: investments.”
“Oh, that’s fascinating. I have all my money in money markets myself. Do you think that’s wise?”
“Ms. Jones, I am really busy, and I’m sure a local financial adviser can help you. Will there be anything else?”
“Why can’t you help me? I do like to invest with someone I already know. I do have quite a lot of money my husband left me when he died. My friends ask me why I even work when I have so much I could retire today, but I’d be bored, and the ladies at the office are so nice…”
“How much did you say you have to invest?”
“Well…I suppose I could tell you. My dear departed Harold just left me his estate, over a million dollars worth.” That should hook him.
Dennis’ voice changed smoothly from un
interested to charming and eager. “Well, Ms. Jones, that’s quite a lot to be tied up in the money markets paying a couple of percent when I could easily get you at least ten percent, perhaps more.”
“Oh? How would you do that?”
“Properly timed trades, informed by a deep understanding of the market and proprietary analytical methods I’ve come up with myself are how to do it. I specialize in short selling, puts and calls, leverage, that sort of thing.” Dennis’ charming manner slid smoothly into patronizing his clueless potential client, the jargon obviously designed to flim-flam. I’d have to go over the recording and make a call later to a day trader I knew. Maybe he could give me some insight.
“Oh my. That sounds very profitable!”
“It can be. Do you mind giving me your full name and phone number, Ms. Jones?”
“Yes, it’s – oh, my supervisor is waving at me. I have to call you later. Goodbye!”
That hadn’t told me much, but at least I got a sense of the man. A smooth salesman, but a bit gullible himself. I’d have insisted on calling Mira’s credit union back and confirming the existence of Ms. Norma Jones, auditor, before talking to her at all.
I felt stymied, irritated. I had to get out and do something. But what? Where could I go that might have some bearing on the case, even in the slightest? Tyrell? Maybe he could lead me to a dealer in performance-enhancing steroids, and I could get the M&Ms to try to beat it out of him, work our way up the food chain…naw. That was a real long shot. These wouldn’t be street dealers. They’d be doctors, pharmacy techs, physical therapists and trainers, and not the type to keep a good pummeling from the police.
Then I thought of Cole. I’d run into dead ends every time I tried to contact him, but what about doing it old-school? Yeah, that’s what I’d do. I made sure I had all my gear with me and walked down the stairs.
Before leaving, I said to Mickey, “I’m heading over to the Chronicle to see if I can get some answers about Cole. I’m sick of talking to answering machines and flunkies.”
Without turning from his screens Mickey said, “You want me to hack their office emails and see if I can find out where he is?”
I thought about that, thought about what it might cost me with Cole if he got caught. “No, thanks. I’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I didn’t answer as I closed and locked the door behind me, scurrying beneath leaden skies through the drizzle to Molly. Shaking my hair and fluffing it to lose some of the moisture, I buckled up and pulled out, emerging from the Mission District toward the newspaper offices on, ironically, Mission Street. On a sunny day I’d have walked the mile or two, but I wanted to arrive as presentable as possible.
I paid too much to park at the attached garage, and then took the service elevator up to Cole’s floor. I managed to make it to his locked and dark office before someone accosted me. Several inquiries later, I got walked to the front desk and lectured in no uncertain terms that all visitors needed to sign in and be escorted.
It didn’t matter. I’d confirmed Cole hadn’t been hiding out in his office not taking my calls, and the one semi-straight answer I’d gotten from a young reporter on the floor had confirmed that he was out on assignment. “Somewhere back east,” he’d told me, but nothing more.
I decided to go by his condo. Why not? At least I could take a look, see if his car was there. What could it hurt? Ten minutes later I was looking at his place, locked up tight, numbered space empty. After sitting there for half an hour to make sure, I left his neighborhood more frustrated than before, feeling stalled at every turn.
Two minutes later my cop sense clicked in and told me that my favorite hunter-green Audi had been following for several blocks. My subconscious had obviously noted it, but the realization only now bubbled up. Interesting. He’d picked me up at Cole’s.
I’d intended to head back to the office, but now I didn’t want to lead the trench coated man there. Watching in the mirror with half an eye, I noted the way the Audi drove, the way it kept back so it could see me, not too near and not too far. I admired the way it moved, wishing I could afford one.
Turning away from my office, I pulled suddenly into a rare open parallel parking space and shut off the car, releasing the four-point seatbelt and popping my video dash-camera from its mount. The Audi made no move to turn off or pull in behind me, but cruised on past. I recorded it as it went by. Maybe I would get something this time.
The driver held up his nearer arm and kept his face back behind it, but I caught a flash of medium-length, dark-colored hair and a light jacket before the sports sedan got too far away.
Here we go again. Was the universe giving me extra chances at this one? That’s what Mom would say. She’d invoke the mystical Rule of Three, what pop folklore had corrupted into the saying “three’s the charm,” and tell me to visualize success.
In this case, success included kicking the crap out of a kidnapper. That’s what I visualized.
Besides, if this guy was coming after me, searching for my haunts and hangouts, it was just a matter of time before he found my home and my mother.
I was really starting to get angry now. There was a time for subtlety and there was a time to grab balls and man up, and this girl was ready to grab. Maybe it was an excess of adrenaline talking; I never could say no to its request. I buckled up again and started the car. Leaving the lights off, I eased out several lengths back from the Audi and apologized in advance to Molly for what might happen soon. I resolved that, if I had to, I’d make some body shop a few thousand bucks today. Hopefully Mira would compensate me.
Now, you son of a bitch, we’ll see who follows who.
Using all my skill, I trailed him through the intermittent San Francisco drizzle. Unfortunately, a one-car follow was easy for anyone to spot in the daytime, no matter how expert the tail. It was only a matter of time before…
The Audi sped up and dove in between two cabs.
There he went. He’d made me.
Gritting my teeth, I grunted as water fantailed behind the Audi. Its tires spun in a controlled slide around the next corner. I followed fast, using both lanes and part of the center line. My world shrank to a bubble that encompassed just us drivers charging hard through the streets of San Francisco in the drizzly mist.
You don’t have to beat him, Cal, I told myself. Just stick with him until something breaks. This guy has info. He’s part of it and you’re not letting go of this lead. If you can save the kid there won’t be any charges no matter how many enemies you have in the Department.
Fantasies of putting a gun in the bastard’s face floated next to the vision of a bound and frightened little girl, erasing all thought of lawful arrest.
Twisting through the grid of the Mission District, I followed the Audi eastward, pressing close. This guy was good, and with that car no doubt he thought himself better than I was, but not today, not in my city and in my weather. Today, in the crowded hilly streets rather than the freeways, his lines through the corners were a little less clean, a little less confident, as if he didn’t know his machine and the very edges of its limits the way I knew Molly.
As we ran a red light and skidded around a leftward corner, I tagged him lightly, hoping to PIT him, to break his rear wheels free of the pavement and induce a spin, but he recovered superbly, only ripping a couple of side mirrors from the line of cars parked to the right. Down the next block I pressed Molly’s nose up against his bumper, using her superior quickness to force the pace. Just one mistake on either of our parts could end this, and fifty-fifty odds might be the best I’d get for a while.
His brake lights flared and I felt us slow at the next corner. Without knowing which way he would turn, flooring it might cause me to shoot wide, even smash Molly against the confining line of parked vehicles, so I braked hard and backed off a car length until he committed to the right.
The Audi stuck to the road like yesterday’s spilled hone
y. I followed conservatively and almost lost it as Molly’s tires slid over a manhole cover in the hard turn, the slick metal slinging us to the left and into the opposite lane. An oncoming truck slammed on its brakes and I was forced to do the same, squeezing around it as the driver gave me a one-fingered salute.
Half a block behind the Audi, I worked hard to catch up again, desperately hoping for another chance to put him into the wall, but now he’d found a straight downhill stretch that favored his heavier vehicle.
My opponent hit a hundred as the driver rushed the onramp onto I-80. Once on the freeway he wove from lane to lane, gaining distance. I was ready for him to dive off one of the next two exits before crossing the Bay Bridge, but he kept going. I followed onto the eastbound lower level, Molly’s tires humming on metal mesh and bumping over joints.
With a good clear left lane for half a minute and the Audi blocked by traffic, I floored it and pulled to within a hundred yards, then settled in through the Yerba Buena Island tunnel. The tiny spot of land in the middle of the Bay formed an anchor for the two sections of the crossing.
Nothing I could do over the water with nowhere to go.
Once past, the Bay Bridge split again from its under-over configuration to a side-by-side concrete causeway just a score of feet above the shoreline. Half a mile ahead I could see ships at anchor in Oakland’s outer harbor.
Bastard. I’d chased the van once, and later done laps with this guy around Richmond before he lost me. I wondered where he was leading me this time? An ambush maybe, and I might be risking the girl, but at this point I felt out of options.
In this situation the mind often races, working in overdrive as the body and nervous system automatically handle the physical tasks. I thought of Mira again and things about her that still felt wrong. Hidden elements, incidents and accidents and things left unsaid…but I remained convinced there really was a child in danger. Mira hadn’t been faking that, even if some of her responses seemed off, and sometimes…sometimes the best thing to do is go for the throat, get a bulldog grip and hang on, just choke the life out of the problem.
Loose Ends: A California Corwin P. I. Mystery (California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series) Page 12