Loose Ends (18 page)

“I got a hit on the Audi’s license plate. Entered into the database of the Hotel Westlane. Thomas Jones, room 311.”

“That’s two blocks away!”

We stared at each other.

“Huge coincidence,” I said.

“Too huge. Why would a criminal give the hotel the correct license number, and why so close to here?”

Shivers coursed through my nerves. “It’s a trap or a ploy of some kind.”

“Yeah. Don’t go.”

“I have to.” That same all-in feeling, that wild abandon that often came over me made my actions inevitable.

“I’ll go with you.”

I shook my head. “No offense, Mickey, but you have no training. You’d be more of a liability than an asset.”

“Then call the M&Ms.”

“They’ll take half an hour to get here, maybe an hour. By then he might be gone.”

“What do you care, anyway? You got the girl back, you said. Take your own advice.”

I licked my lips. “Why do you spend days and days trying to beat a video game boss? Because I have to win, Mickey. And I have to
know
.”

“Cal –”

“Now go home.”

“Shouldn’t I at least hang out here? You can put on your headset and I’ll stay on the line as you check it out.”

“No. You did a great job, but it’s done for now.” I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I wanted Mickey out of the way, off my mind. “Go home,” I repeated more forcefully, “shower and put on some clean clothes. You stink.”

His face fell and he scratched self-consciously under one arm before standing up with sad eyes.

 I felt like I’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry, but it’s true. Go on. Go home, say hi to your mom for me and tell her you did a good job. You helped a kid and made some money. Come back tomorrow and I’ll pay you the rest after I deposit the check.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

I watched him leave. After making sure I had my usual load of gear on me – weapons, ammo, knife, extra cell and so on – I hurried out the door and fast-walked two blocks to the Hotel Westlane, a small but upscale hostelry catering to tourists who wanted to experience the Mission District’s old-town charm firsthand.

Nodding briskly at the young brunette behind the registration desk, I flashed my P.I. badge. “Detective Colson, Homicide,” I said. “I need a key to room 311.”

“I can’t –”

“You can and you will. I have probable cause to believe there’s been a murder. Come on.” I snapped my fingers under her nose.

Fright in her eyes, the clerk handed me an old-fashioned metal key, and then reached for the phone.

I leaned over the desk to place my palm on the receiver without touching it with my fingertips. No prints. “Don’t call anyone or do anything yet. I’ll be back down in five minutes.” I held her eyes until she nodded.

I charged up the stairs two at a time.  Once in the deserted third floor hallway I drew my Glock, holding it low by my thigh. With my other hand I inserted the key as quietly as I could and turned it carefully until I was certain the door had unlocked. Slowly I pressed down on the lever-style handle, and then shoved it open suddenly, raising my weapon to a close ready position in front of my chest.

The room was dark and smelled of industrial cleaners and laundry. Leaning in, I felt for a light switch and snapped it on.

Once inside, I knew I was too late. Aside from the aroma there was nothing in the room to indicate anyone’s presence. Nothing in the trash cans, the mini-bar undisturbed. Drawers and closets empty. The bed was made with tight hospital corners, its pillows smooth and seemingly undisturbed, a complimentary mint resting on one.

“Damn,” I muttered. What the hell was going on? Was this guy taunting me? I didn’t have much time, though, before the clerk decided to call someone if she hadn’t already. I hurried back down the stairs.

After wiping the key surreptitiously on the tail of my blouse I handed it back to the clerk. “Sorry, false alarm. Nothing at all out of place. Where’s the parking garage?”

The woman pointed with a manicured finger at the elevator. “In the basement,” she said.

“Thanks.” I headed instead for the stairs and descended one floor. Within the small underground lot I immediately spotted the Audi. Looking closer, I saw it had been recently washed, perhaps even waxed. Peering in the immaculately clear windows, it appeared to be spotless. Then I noticed it wasn’t even locked.

As a cop I’d learned to always carry latex gloves, so I slipped a pair on and opened the driver’s side door to lean in. The smell of a recent upholstery shampoo assaulted my nostrils and a quick search turned up nothing.

A curiously courteous car thief, I thought. Got the car thoroughly detailed and left it to be recovered here. Forensics would find nothing, I was sure. More irrelevant information. A dead end.

Growling in frustration, I left the hotel without speaking further to the clerk and walked back to my office. I used the basement door. That reminded me again about getting the new automatic locking hardware installed. Now that I had a nice ten-grand payday I could afford the locksmith.

Ten grand. That meant a G or two for the tables.

Tonight? No, not yet. One jones at a time.

It only took a few moments to finish cleaning the upstairs kitchenette despite having to wipe the drips off the polished hardwood floor around Mickey’s chair. Messy didn’t even begin to describe it. I’d just started the espresso machine when I heard a creak on the stair.

“Forget something?” I called as I turned, expecting to see Mickey.

Instead, a youngish man stood at the top of the stairs, holding a gun in his gloved hand.

Pointed at me.

That’s never a good thing.

Chapter 15

Adrenaline surged but I froze, suppressing the cop instinct to evade, reach and draw on the gunman standing on my steps. Seeming calm, he made no move, just stared at me with clear pale eyes beneath longish dark hair. He wore a lightweight trench coat, not unusual in this weather, and had a high-end knit scarf concealing his lower face. Average tall, average looks – except for those bottomless gray orbs – Caucasian, with very light eyebrows. That clued me in to the fact that he had on a wig to cover what must be blonde hair.

“Who are you –”

“– and what do I want?” Part of a smile reached the upper half of his face, contrasting oddly with the slim revolver, suppressor pointed unwaveringly at my chest. “Just to talk, I assure you, but you need to divest yourself of your firearms first, so we can be civil.” English accent, though I wasn’t savvy enough about such things to place him better.

Slowly I slid my Glock from its holster and set it down on the counter. “You’re that bastard Audi driver.”

“And you the feisty Subaru. Put that into the freezer along with your holdout and sit down on the balcony,” he said, his aim never budging.

As I complied by taking the compact revolver from my ankle and setting both guns gently into the freezer my mind flared with memory. “You killed the kidnappers.”

“Brava. Well reasoned. Balcony.” He pointed. “Sit. I’ll get the coffee.”

I turned, keeping arms raised, and walked out onto the platform. Settling into one of the white-painted wrought iron chairs there, I folded my hands into my lap to still their adrenalized shaking. The rational part of my mind wasn’t terribly frightened. After all, he could have killed me already, and with the suppressor no one would have noticed. In the warehouse I hadn’t heard any shots.

Or maybe I had. I thought about the coughs and the thuds.

As the man rummaged in my kitchen I reached stealthily into my trouser pocket and drew out the two-shot .22 derringer I kept there.  He stepped onto the balcony with two mugs in his hands, setting one in front of me. His gun was nowhere in sight, so I kept mine under the table.

“I’m trusting you with hot liquid, Cal. Please, just enjoy it and don’t do anything to spoil the moment. I really have no desire to hurt you.”

I nodded in tentative agreement as I took a sip of the brew, not revealing that I had a weapon available. He’d made my coffee black, as I liked it. His appeared to have been creamed. I hadn’t even heard the fridge open. Eerie quiet, this guy.

“You know my name.”

His eyes crinkled again. “It
is
on the door plaque.”

“But you used my nickname, Cal.”

“A lucky guess.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t much care.”

 “Touché. What’s your name, nick or otherwise?”

The man sipped beneath the scarf, a two-handed trick, and then sat back without answering. Sounds of the street below echoed against the mishmash of classic San Francisco Victorians and more modern styles. Across the sidewalk an old woman watered plants on her balcony, an irrational act in this weather.

Nothing as strange as people, especially in a city.

“Call me Thomas,” he finally said. “It’s not my name, but it will do. Good coffee, by the way. Hard to get this side of the pond, outside of an upscale restaurant or speciality cafe.” He put the extra syllable into that word,
spe-ci-
A
-li-ty
.

I found myself liking the sound of his voice despite the opening threat. A charming rogue, then. “It’s an expensive machine. I like good coffee.”

“Then we have more than one thing in common.”

“Oh? What else? Fast cars and guns?”

“True, but not what came to mind. We both detest people who abuse little girls.”

My blood surged with memories I’d rather forget, of men who tried to do things when I was much younger, with Dad away and Mom drunk or high, passed out on the sofa. Some things are hard to forgive, but I tried.

Lucky, I’m lucky. The words ran through my mind as a mantra, lucky it never got very far, lucky I was able to scream and get away, always with the fear hovering among the nightmares, relieved only when Dad had come back home and Mom’s parties were banished again for a time.

“You’re wandering,” Thomas said, waving a diffident hand.

“Sorry. You’re right.” My voice tightened. “Very right. Kidnappers disgust me, but I wouldn’t have put them down like dogs.”

“No?” He stared at me until I dropped my eyes.

“I don’t think so. Not…not in cold blood like that. What was it? Did your gang fall out, or the plan go wrong?” I raised my chin defiantly.

“Yes, it did. But it wasn’t my gang, or my plan. I’m a contractor, not a blackmailer or kidnapper of
children
.” He sounded sincerely outraged.

“Contractor. You mean
hit man
.”

Thomas glanced away as if I’d said something distasteful. “Are you a
gumshoe?
A
private dick?
”

“I prefer
independent investigator
.”

“And I prefer
contractor
or
cleaner
. A hit man is a thug for hire, a mercenary. I tidy up certain specific problems for a limited clientele. I won’t do just anything, or anyone. I have a code.”

“A code. How nice. And you get paid well, I suppose.”

“You just took a ten-thousand-dollar check from a distraught mother. You’re not going to cash it?”

I reddened and my eyes dropped, though the set of my shoulders remained defiant. “Point taken. But that doesn’t make us the same. I did a
good
thing to earn it. I wouldn’t have killed those people.”

“Unless you had to. You have two righteous shoots under your belt.”

“Nobody died, though. Most big city cops have a couple by the time they retire, at least in this country. Goes with the territory. But there’s a difference between self defense and murder.”

“I’m not going to debate terminology. That little girl is alive and safe because of
me,
mostly, and a bit of you. They were about to kill her and run when I took care of them. They heard the sirens and they saw you chase me into the warehouse. You put her at risk by calling the police, not me. You forced my hand.”

I slammed my mug down, slopping coffee, and sat forward. “You didn’t have to bring me
there
. You could have gone anywhere else. You could have driven up the freeway and tried to lose me again, but instead you led me right to them, and the cops too. And by the way, that was some pretty close timing on the bomb. You might have killed Talia.”

Thomas spread his hands and inclined his head. “Poor planning on my part, I suppose.” He sipped again, but did not seem in the least contrite.

I shook my head. “No. I think it was perfect planning. You used me and the cops to distract them, then popped them just like you intended to. Somehow this heist went wrong. Maybe they didn’t steal everything they were supposed to, or maybe they didn’t deliver it all and held some out. Or maybe they
were
going to kill the girl, I’ll give you that. I’ll never know, I suppose. Did your boss Houdini send you to, how do you English say, ‘sort them’? Tie up the loose ends? The girl goes home, the dead guys turn out to be dangerous felons with records as long as your arm, the case is solved and the incident gets featured on next season’s America’s Dumbest Criminals? But nobody ever finds the pills or money.”

“You’re forgetting something, dear. I’m a professional and they weren’t. I could have done them in at any time with no fuss or mess. Then I could have set the place on fire, perhaps with a remotely triggered device rather than a timer, and then dropped the girl off on her own corner none the wiser.”

Nonplussed, I stared at Thomas, running left-hand fingers around my ear to push my straight dark hair back, angling my head as I usually did to minimize view of the right side. “Okay.” I stared some more, and he gazed back calmly. “Okay, well. You watched to make sure we got away.”

The sun in Thomas’ eyes came out again, but he said nothing.

“I still don’t get why you didn’t do it all yourself.”

Thomas’ nose crinkled. I really wanted to see the smile he hid. I guessed it was a heart-stopper. Unless maybe he had scars like mine?

“Perhaps I liked what I saw in my rearview mirror,” he said.

I snorted. “Right.”

“Don’t believe me?” Thomas shrugged. “Then you’ll have something to chew on for a while. Thanks for the coffee, but now I must be going.” He stood.