answering machine, not hearing what I wanted – Cole Sage’s voice. Only telemarketers, an inquiry from a potential client that sounded like he wanted me to surveil his cheating wife and a personal call from Elle Saint John, the chief of police out in the dusty San Joaquin Valley town of Turlock. She was wondering when I’d be coming through again and would I like to have lunch. I sent her a quick text telling her I was on a case and I’d get back to her, and then tried to figure out where to go from here.
Mira was being surprisingly reasonable by not freaking out and calling me every few hours for an update. Was that suspicious? Maybe. I picked up my landline, which activated the automatic record function.
My client answered on the first ring. “Yes?” she said, her voice thin and shaky.
“Mira, it’s Cal. Have you been contacted?” I liked to ask open-ended questions because sometimes people ended up telling me completely unexpected, revealing things. Not this time, though.
“No, nobody’s called. Please tell me you’ll find her soon!”
“I’m getting closer, Mira. I really am. So…no one from your job has talked to you yet?”
“No. Should they have?”
“Not sure.”
I thought about the fact that someone with Mira’s biometrics had ripped off the warehouse last night. If the theft had been reported to the police, they’d have detained her for questioning already. Was it possible no one working there had noticed yet? Of course, I’d told Bill to overlook anomalies – not to call it in unless he absolutely had to. Once the cops got involved, the kidnappers’ hand would be forced. They’d have to wrap up their heist and I didn’t want them pushed into something hasty or desperate, like murdering Talia.
“What’s going on?” Mira asked.
“I’d rather you not know. Eventually the cops will question you. The more ignorant you are, the better. If I tell you things they might get mixed up in your head and make you sound guilty because of that extra information you shouldn’t possess.”
“Please, just tell me my baby will be all right.”
“Your baby will be all right. Hang in there. I hope she’ll be back by midnight. Call you later.” I ended the call.
My assurance was a mere educated guess at best, but I needed Mira not to stir things up in the critical next hours. Now that the criminals had their goods they had no reason to hang onto the ball and chain of a child – at least, not once they delivered the drugs to whatever major supplier had the cash. Even at a deep discount there must be at least a cool million involved, maybe ten, but the girl would likely stay put until they made the trade. After that, they’d go mobile, disappear with their bundles of hundreds, and an anonymous tip to SFPD would lead law enforcement to the glorious rescue.
Probably.
I didn’t depend on probably , though. Any number of things could go wrong.
Chapter 8
My next call was to Bill Clawson. He’d given me his home and cell numbers, but both went to recording. I left messages. When I dialed the security center I got someone named Sal.
“Bill there?” I asked.
“Um, no,” the Italian-American accented male voice on the line said. “Who is this?”
“A friend of his. He’s not answering his home or cell phones.”
“I know. I’d like to find him too.”
“When’s he due in to work?”
“Ah…”
“Look, Sal, I know he drinks. He ever so plastered he doesn’t answer?”
“Hell, no. He’s not like that.” Sal sounded worried.
“Give me his home address.”
“I thought you said you were a friend of his?”
“I’m a new friend, Sal. Never been to his place.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, I said in a tone full of innuendo, “He always comes to my place, if ya know what I mean.”
“Oh. Um, okay. But don’t tell him you got it from me. And tell him to call in, okay?”
“Sure thing, Sal. You’re the best.”
Sal recited Bill’s address, in San Rafael as
Mira was being surprisingly reasonable by not freaking out and calling me every few hours for an update. Was that suspicious? Maybe. I picked up my landline, which activated the automatic record function.
My client answered on the first ring. “Yes?” she said, her voice thin and shaky.
“Mira, it’s Cal. Have you been contacted?” I liked to ask open-ended questions because sometimes people ended up telling me completely unexpected, revealing things. Not this time, though.
“No, nobody’s called. Please tell me you’ll find her soon!”
“I’m getting closer, Mira. I really am. So…no one from your job has talked to you yet?”
“No. Should they have?”
“Not sure.”
I thought about the fact that someone with Mira’s biometrics had ripped off the warehouse last night. If the theft had been reported to the police, they’d have detained her for questioning already. Was it possible no one working there had noticed yet? Of course, I’d told Bill to overlook anomalies – not to call it in unless he absolutely had to. Once the cops got involved, the kidnappers’ hand would be forced. They’d have to wrap up their heist and I didn’t want them pushed into something hasty or desperate, like murdering Talia.
“What’s going on?” Mira asked.
“I’d rather you not know. Eventually the cops will question you. The more ignorant you are, the better. If I tell you things they might get mixed up in your head and make you sound guilty because of that extra information you shouldn’t possess.”
“Please, just tell me my baby will be all right.”
“Your baby will be all right. Hang in there. I hope she’ll be back by midnight. Call you later.” I ended the call.
My assurance was a mere educated guess at best, but I needed Mira not to stir things up in the critical next hours. Now that the criminals had their goods they had no reason to hang onto the ball and chain of a child – at least, not once they delivered the drugs to whatever major supplier had the cash. Even at a deep discount there must be at least a cool million involved, maybe ten, but the girl would likely stay put until they made the trade. After that, they’d go mobile, disappear with their bundles of hundreds, and an anonymous tip to SFPD would lead law enforcement to the glorious rescue.
Probably.
I didn’t depend on probably , though. Any number of things could go wrong.
Chapter 8
My next call was to Bill Clawson. He’d given me his home and cell numbers, but both went to recording. I left messages. When I dialed the security center I got someone named Sal.
“Bill there?” I asked.
“Um, no,” the Italian-American accented male voice on the line said. “Who is this?”
“A friend of his. He’s not answering his home or cell phones.”
“I know. I’d like to find him too.”
“When’s he due in to work?”
“Ah…”
“Look, Sal, I know he drinks. He ever so plastered he doesn’t answer?”
“Hell, no. He’s not like that.” Sal sounded worried.
“Give me his home address.”
“I thought you said you were a friend of his?”
“I’m a new friend, Sal. Never been to his place.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, I said in a tone full of innuendo, “He always comes to my place, if ya know what I mean.”
“Oh. Um, okay. But don’t tell him you got it from me. And tell him to call in, okay?”
“Sure thing, Sal. You’re the best.”
Sal recited Bill’s address, in San Rafael as
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