Deadly Secrets: Cal Corwin, Private Eye Series

Chapter 1

January, 2006. San Francisco, California.

The man woke to the smell of oil and mustiness. He could hear the hum of industrial-strength electrical equipment. It set his teeth on edge. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a room heavy with desperation and fear.

He wished he hadn’t. As if waking from a nightmare and finding out it was true, his mind shied away, wishing he could be anywhere else but here.

Wondering why he was.

He’s awake, a thick voice said. Some kind of heavy accent—Eastern European?

The man looked to see who was speaking, oddly comforted to know he wasn’t alone. Memories returned to him in fits and starts. Walking from his office to his vehicle late at night. A large, shadowy figure approaching him. Relief when the guy only wanted directions. Confusion at the swift attack that knocked him unconscious.

Can you hear me, Ivan? said a new voice, pronouncing the name in the Slavic manner, ee-VAHN. That voice had a much fainter accent—just a hint.

His stupor cleared. The question filled him with relief. That isn’t my name. Whatever the problem was, they had the wrong guy.

Are you sure? asked the second voice. Its owner stepped forward into the circle of illumination produced by the spotlight light above his head. The light showed him the floor was covered in plastic under his captor’s feet. Those feet wore polished black shoes beneath suit trousers. The light showed nothing above the other man’s knees.

Is he okay? the second voice asked the first. How much did you give him?

The shadowy shape shrugged. Enough.

Where am I? the bound man rasped.

A logical question. Yet, largely unimportant, at least from your viewpoint.

Why am I here?

Better. You’re here to answer my questions, Ivan.

I think you’ve got the wrong guy. My name is Evan. Why do you keep calling me that?

Because names are important. There is power in knowing your true name. Yours is Ivan. Evan is nothing more than camouflage.

Evan licked dry lips and tested his bonds. He found that he was taped firmly to a steel chair by his wrists and ankles. The light over his head made it difficult to see anything more than a few feet away. Just the two shapes—the big one, the average-sized one, who seemed to be the boss. What questions? he asked, still trying to make sense of what was going on.

Let’s start with an easy one. For whom are you working?

What? Evan was unsure if he’d heard the question properly. Like, for a particular job?

The boss sighed, communicating disappointment. This would be much easier on you if you’d cooperate. And, on those you love. He nodded to the large man lurking in the shadows.

This man moved forward. He carried a small cage, something slithery and furtive within. He also carried a thick canvas bag.

Whoa, wait, Evan said, suddenly terrified. He jerked helplessly at his bonds. What the hell is going on here? What do you guys want?

I want an answer, said the boss. For. Whom. Do. You. Work?

Confused, Evan shook his head to clear away the fuzziness, but it didn’t go. He felt drugged, woozy. Whatever they wanted, though, he could only give them a straight answer. I work for myself. I own my own company. Consulting. Natural gas, mostly.

The boss tsked disapprovingly. I’m not in the mood for games. You’ve toyed with us enough. He nodded toward the big man, who reached into the cage with a gloved hand. This elicited a high-pitched squeal from the creature inside.

Evan wasn’t sure what was in the cage, but he felt his bowels loosen and knew he wanted nothing to do with what was about to happen. Please, ask me a question I can answer. I’ll tell you anything.

Maybe this had something to do with the money? His side job? But he found it hard to concentrate, and anyway, she’d told him never to talk about that, so he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

So hard to think.

That’s what they always say, the boss said. And they’re right, in the end. The only question is, how long and ugly is the road to the truth?

I don’t know what you want.

The one in charge gestured to the larger man. Go ahead.

The man held a furry, spitting mass toward Evan’s face. A small snout snapped near his nose, and then red eyes regarded him with anger and fear.

Wharf rats are the worst, the boss said, shaking his head in mock dismay.

The larger man dropped the rat into the bag, sealing the top. He shook it up and down a few times with a broad grin.

I assure you, none of this is personal, the boss said. It’s part of the business, and it has to be done. It will stop when you start telling us what we want to know.

I don’t know anything, Evan mumbled. I don’t even know what you want to know.

The large man moved forward and looped the bag over Evan’s head, cinching the opening tight around his neck.

His screams mingled with the squeals of the furious wharf rat.

Chapter 2

California Cal Corwin hated giving people bad news, especially on a Monday. It was the worst part of a private eye’s job. "Mrs. Devlin, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is not cheating on you."

With anyone else, this would be good news, but Cal’s client obviously wanted a certain specific result.

She was about to be frustrated.

The woman who peered back across the top of Cal’s wide wooden desk was a fifty-something cougar who’d no doubt passed for thirty-nine for many years, aided by soft lighting and superb plastic surgery. Her elegant wardrobe and stunning jewelry ensemble cost as much as the restored Victorian house-turned-office they were sitting in. The woman was beautiful, but in a detached, icy, frozen-faced sort of way. Her perfectly dyed blonde hair framed a face that dared not wrinkle without permission—and if the woman herself seemed cold, her brilliant blue eyes embodied the heart of a mile-thick glacier.

The young man sitting beside her—hell, let’s be honest, an overgrown boy—sported his own crop of precious metals and jewels. Holding the ice queen’s lacquer-nailed hand—his palm up, in the submissive position, Cal noted—he glanced at the woman nervously, and then at Cal. Cal knew from her investigation that this fawn had only recently dropped out of a local community college after taking up this highly profitable relationship.

"Are you sure he’s not cheating on…on her?" he asked, jerking his chin toward his mistress as if he had to specify the subject of his question.

Cal ignored the kid and fought to keep her face neutral. Ma’am, there’s nothing there. Nothing to find. Your husband is one of the most respected and skilled cardiovascular surgeons on the West Coast. He does keep long hours, but unless he’s banging the staff in fifteen-minute increments between surgeries, I’m sorry, he’s simply working.

Mrs. Devlin regarded Cal coolly. I hope you don’t believe a weak declaration like that justifies your fee. I paid you to find something—and you’ve failed.

Conversations like this with Devlin had made it clear that what the client really wanted was for Cal to manufacture evidence, for example by taking photos that implied he was inappropriately affectionate with his colleagues. It wasn’t that hard to do. Pay a hooker to grab and kiss him on the street, or to approach him in his car. Take a hundred shots and pick the most incriminating one.

With jobs like this, the sleaze just kept getting deeper, but Cal refused to set up an innocent man, no matter the paycheck.

Hiding her frustration, Cal flipped open the folder on her desk. She pulled out a thick sheaf of photographs that either she or one of the Estridge brothers—Meat and Manson, the M&Ms—had taken over the previous two weeks. She also pulled out a log of the activities of the allegedly unfaithful husband. This is his routine. Here are surveillance photographs, four per hour minimum. Note the time stamps.

The kid pawed through them as if eager to catch a glimpse of something scandalous. Likely an accomplished peruser of pornography, it didn’t take him more than a few seconds to determine they lacked what they sought. He glared at Cal in confusion, perhaps even a hint of desperation.

Mrs. Devlin hadn’t even glanced at the materials before her. What about Tuesday and Thursday nights, Miss Corwin? He told me he volunteers at St. Luke’s Hospital, but I know that isn’t true.

Because you called and checked on him, Cal said finishing the woman’s thoughts. She pulled a single photo from the pile that she had taken personally, with some difficulty. It showed the husband in question working intently on something, a long wooden instrument in his hand. He appeared to have a dirty lab coat on.

No, actually, a smock.

"Is he…painting?" Devlin said with a look of shock, even disgust, jerking her hand from the clutches of her pet fawn as if this were worse by far than being presented with photographs of her husband under a pile of naked teenaged girls slathered in baby oil.

He’s been taking classes, Cal told her. Basic oil painting, still-lifes mostly. He’s not half bad, as far as I can tell.

"But why would he do such a thing? the woman asked, nonplussed. Why would he engage in such a…such a…pointless, childish activity?"

Interesting, that you’re asking why he’d take up a pointless, childish hobby rather than why he felt the need to keep it secret, Cal thought. That speaks volumes about the poor man and how he views you—and you, him.

The kid reached out to grasp Mrs. Devlin’s hand again. Surely in these classes…the art classes, they painted other things? Nudes? That would be cheating in a sense, wouldn’t it? That old man staring all night at the body of some naked woman? His face lit up with excitement. Better yet, a man? Maybe he’s secretly gay!

Cal stiffened, disgusted by the kid’s naked desire to destroy a good man. She spoke tonelessly, poker-faced in order not to insult her paying client. No nudes as far as I can tell. Maybe in a future class.

The woman obviously picked up on Cal’s mood. She stood abruptly as the kid squeaked in surprise. The glaciers in her face glared down at Cal. I trust our business here is done. Not to my satisfaction, but evidently to yours.

Cal kept her seat. Not quite, she said, pulling out a bill she had prepared early, judging that this would be the end of this case. She slid the papers across the desk. This is an itemized list of my expenses and hourly rate. Your retainer covered the majority of the investigative cost, but not all.

The woman didn’t even deign to acknowledge the paper, simply stared back at Cal. Pay her, Jeremy, she said. Devlin turned abruptly and marched away and out the front door.

An awkward moment later, the boy reached out and took the bill, counted out a dozen Benjamins and dropped them on the desk, trying to imitate his mistress in her disdain.

Cal laughed. "You better run along unless you want to find yourself back at community college, Jeremy."

This horrific idea shattered his brittle cool and he raced out the door after Devlin.

I keep saying I won’t take these jobs, Cal thought, shaking her head. Let other private eyes do infidelity cases. I’ll stick to work that doesn’t drip with slimy rancor.

Still, she had to pay bills. Principles were nice, but work was work. She wouldn’t have taken Devlin’s case except the money was so good, and California Investigations hadn’t exactly been lighting up the private eye world lately. Skip-tracing and serving legal documents had kept her afloat, but if she didn’t get something real soon, she might have to do more infidelity cases. They were the most common, and the most lucrative legit jobs—and she refused to take the shady ones, like corporate espionage.

Hell, she might even have to advertise, like an ambulance chaser. Do you suspect your spouse is cheating on you? Well, give Cal Corwin a call at…

She shuddered at the thought.

Her phone rang as she was about to pour herself another cup of coffee. She saw a number she knew well on the caller ID. Sergei Volkov, her godfather.

"Dyadya," Cal said, calling the man uncle affectionately in Russian. Are you missing me at the poker tables?

"Nyet, Solntse," he answered in his heavy accent, replying with his own pet name for her—sunshine.

Well, that just hurts.

"I miss you as always, the old man continued, but not at my tables. They are not for you right now. I wish to hold you to your promise, for your own sake. You haven’t been playing somewhere else, have you?"

Cal closed her eyes and remembered losing Madge, her 1968 Mustang California Special—her dead father’s car—on a reckless bet months before. She’d been arrogant and too eager to put the other player in her place, and had paid the price.

Fortunately, she’d been able to get the car back—but it had cost. No, I’m not playing anywhere else. I’m on the wagon for the full six months like I promised, and then I’ll be back, as good as ever.

Or you could quit forever.

That prospect felt like a stiletto in her brain. Never to touch the felt, turn the cards, shuffle the chips? Might as well give up life itself. No, Sergei. I can’t.

I know. He paused. Until then, you should stay busy. Get your adrenaline fix some other way.

"What do you think I’ve been trying to do? But it’s all shit. Adultery cases. Makes me feel filthy."

I think I can help you, said Sergei, and you do me a favor by helping good friend of mine.

Remember what happened last time I did a favor for you?

Yes, you do good. You find a woman-killer.

And ended up fingering her to your mob buddies, who whacked her. I’m not playing that game again.

This case is not like that.

Promise?

"Cross my heart, solntse. No whacking."

Letterman would have a field day with you, Sergei.

I don’t know. I watch Leno.

Of course he did. To comedy, Letterman was a surgeon, Leno a butcher. Sergei was more a butcher type of guy.

Okay. So, what’s your case?

Not mine. Friends. They have problem I believe you can help them with.

Cal sat a little straighter. It’d be good to go right into another case—if it weren’t more filthy crap. What do they need?

I let friends tell you their own problems. Not my place to speak for them.

Fine, said Cal with a roll of her eyes. "Do you have a name and number for these friends of yours? They’d better not be mobbed up."

No mob. The name is Nikolai and Lydia Mikhailov, Sergei said, and recited a telephone number. "These are not Bratva. They are my friends. People of respect and dignity. They are also people of some means, so do not skimp your fee on my behalf. They can pay well. They will expect your call."

A slight smile touched her lips. In that case, I’ll call them now. And Sergei?

Yes?

"Spasibo."

She could hear the answering smile in his voice. "No, I thank you in advance for helping my friends."

Damn. The man sure knew how to lay an obligation on someone. Very Russian.

She dialed. After two rings, a woman with a rich earthy voice and a hint of a Slavic accent answered. Hello?

Yes, is this Lydia Mikhailov?

It is. Who is this?

I’m Cal Corwin, a private investigator. A friend of Sergei Volkov.

The woman released a pent-up breath at the other end. Yes, thank you so much for calling, Miss Corwin.

Perhaps we should set up an appointment to meet. I’m free the rest of the day.

Would it inconvenience you too much to come to our home right away? The matter in question is of greatest urgency to us.

Of course. Cal had no problem meeting clients in their homes. It gave her greater insight. As in poker, everyone had tells. A home shed them like leaves. She took down an Outer Richmond address —the district in the City, not Richmond across the bay—and could see by the street and number that it was close to the ocean. Pricey. Sergei had meant what he said about his friends being of some means.

Cal told Mrs. Mikhailov she’d be there as soon as she could. As she paused on her way through the empty walkout basement and into the private parking lot behind, she didn’t see her semi-assistant, Mickey Tucker. The computer room was empty—empty being a grossly inaccurate term for a room filled with trash and electronic equipment, but grossly was right on the money.

She pushed aside her annoyance. She couldn’t expect him to keep regular hours unless he was working on a specific case, and the Devlin job had involved very little online investigation. In slow times, Mickey’s pay consisted of this crash-and-gaming pad, food and caffeine.

However, if this job turned out to be as lucrative as Sergei said, she’d pay Mickey—and crack the whip. Like a fat young steer, Mickey needed a crack of the whip now and again to get him moving—for his own good.

Grabbing the keys to Molly, her blue Subaru Impreza WRX rally car, she headed west through the quaint and charming neighborhoods of Dolores Heights and up into Twin Peaks. It wasn’t the fastest way, but it avoided some of the lunch rush, and the roads were a lot more fun. The usual overcast and sharp ocean breeze made it that much more interesting.

The homes grew steadily more expensive as she crossed over Golden Gate Park, drove west and neared the ocean. While most of the houses were built so close many touched their neighbors and fronted directly on the gridlike streets, the detached Queen Anne she approached sported an actual yard around its four stories, black roof, and white wooden siding with yellow trim. Mid seven figures, she estimated. After parking in the driveway, she stood and gazed a moment in appreciation, mentally raising the rate she planned to charge.

A brass doorknocker in the shape of a hammer striking an anvil brought a short, elderly but bright-eyed and spry woman to the front door. She didn’t look like a maid or housekeeper. The family either answered their own door, or this was an exception for Cal.

Mrs. Mikhailov? Cal asked. I’m Cal Corwin. We spoke on the phone earlier?

Yes, the woman said with a strained smile, opening the door wide. Please come in. Thank you for meeting us. Call me Lydia.

Cal stepped inside onto the creaky but immaculate floorboards. The woman surveyed the street before closing the door, as if checking for watchers. Cal felt her mind shift into a higher gear. This certainly didn’t feel like a catch my spouse cheating vibe. Lydia was concerned—perhaps even frightened.

This way, said Lydia, leading her deeper into the house. My husband is in the sun room.

They walked through an interior filled with pictures and heirlooms, to a cozy conservatory addition projecting from the southwest corner of the house. Modern triple-paned windows stretched from floor to ceiling on three sides, and warm sunlight bathed every surface. A tasteful riot of plants and flowers accented, but did not overwhelm, the sunny room.

A lean, balding man set a book aside and stood to greet her. Cal guessed he was a vigorous seventy-five or so.

Miss Corwin, the man said with a smile and a stronger Russian accent than his wife. I am Nikolai Mikhailov. Thank you so much for coming. He reached out and took Cal’s hand in both of his.

Thank you. Sergei thought I might be of assistance to both of you.

The man’s face clouded. Of course. Please sit, Miss Corwin. When Cal did so the man resumed his chair across from her. He set the book aside and Cal saw it was something by Asimov.

Might I offer you something to drink? Lydia said.

Coffee, please, Cal said and Lydia retrieved a tray obviously prepared in advance. The rich aroma of expensive brew filled the room as the woman poured.

Cal took a sip. Jamaican Blue?

Nikolai nodded. You know coffee.

A little. She savored the delicious, smooth flavor while Lydia poured her own cup. Nikolai already had a glass of hot tea, Russian style, at his elbow. Perhaps you should tell me how I might be of assistance.

Nikolai opened his mouth to speak when Cal’s phone rang. She grunted an apology and pulled it out. Her mother. She declined the call. Starlight had been getting more and more needy lately, calling Cal for no reason a half dozen times a day. She set the phone on silent and slid it into an inner blazer pocket. Sorry. Please go on.

It is our son, said Nikolai. He is missing.

Cal briefly visualized a child, and then reminded herself of the couples’ age. How old is he?

Thirty-two.

Cal took notes. What’s his name?

Evan Nicholas Mikhailov, answered Nikolai, pronouncing Evan in the American way. In some older records he may be known as Ivan Nikolaievich.

Why the difference?

Because we wanted our son to have an American name. We came to this country before the Soviet Union fell. It cost us dearly to do so. There was no going back. Even today, many in the motherland consider us traitors. Evan was young at the time and it was a simple matter to file paperwork to legally change his name.

I see, said Cal. What makes you think he’s missing?

He hasn’t called in two days, Lydia said. And before you remind me of my son’s age, please understand, this is extremely out of character for him. We speak every day, faithfully…until now.

Cal nodded. Have you filed a Missing Persons report with the police?

We have, said Nikolai, but our son is an adult, and a man. We have no evidence of foul play for them. They give us platitudes, but cases like these, they are not a high priority.

What does your son do for a living?

He’s a chemical engineer, said Lydia. He specializes in the extraction, collection and processing of natural gas.

I wouldn’t think he’d have much work around here, said Cal.

Lydia shook her head. No, he travels a great deal, consulting, mostly to Asia, he has told us.

Where was he last seen for sure? Here, or overseas?

He had just returned, said Nikolai. He phoned and said he would come by for dinner to tell us about it, but never showed. That was Saturday night.

Has he mentioned having any trouble with anyone?

Both shook their heads.

Has he seemed depressed or troubled lately?

Both shook their heads.

Does he have a girlfriend?

Nikolai shook his head while