The Girl in the Morgue: California Corwin P.I. Mystery Series

By D. D. VanDyke and P. D. Workman

The long-awaited NEW RELEASE in the California Corwin, PI Series!

Thirtysomething ex-cop-turned-P.I. Cal Corwin faces her most puzzling murder case yet. When a friend of a friend dies in suspicious circumstances, the police believe it's open-and-shut. As Cal digs deeper to get to the bottom of the mystery, she finds herself a target for those who want the truth dead and buried.

The Girl in the Morgue is the fourth novel in the Cal Corwin series of hard-boiled neo-noir mystery-thrillers.

The California Corwin P. I. Mystery Series:

- Loose Ends (Contains Off The Leash: Cal Corwin Novelette)
- In A Bind
- Slipknot
- The Girl in the Morgue

More to come!

• Language: English
• Publisher: David VanDyke
• Release date: Jul 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626262089

Book preview

Chapter 1

November, 2005. San Francisco, California.

---

You don’t own me! Jenna Duncan shouted past the chrome handgun pointed at her chest.

Didn’t say I do. The gun’s wielder made an offhand shrugging gesture with the weapon. "But you wanted the money, and now you’ll do what you’re told. We have an arrangement. You can’t back out now. You made a deal. You made commitments."

You’re going too far. I won’t.

It would be sad if something happened to you. Or to your annoying retard son.

Jenna’s voice guttered with incipient rage. You keep away from him.

Sure, so long as you do what I say. Then we’ll both be happy, won’t we?

Jenna’s eyes darted around the room, looking for some way to take control of a situation that had no escape. Her opponent held a .45 this time, not the knife she’d been threatened with on other occasions.

She was prepared for a blade. Jenna was good with a blade herself, but a sharp edge usually came second to a bullet. If she drew fire, she’d have no second chances…second chances to do what she’d resolved to do, come what may.

For her son, for herself, she couldn’t live with a boot on her neck anymore.

There came a rattle at the outside of the apartment door, as of someone with keys. The gun shifted away from Jenna at the distraction and she seized the opportunity, snatching the nearest weapon, a dagger displayed on a side table. It seemed ornamental, but it was deliberately razored carbon steel.

Lunging to close the distance between them, Jenna brought the dagger up and aimed for the soft spot beneath her tormenter’s ribs.

Her opponent snarled and blocked instinctively with both hands. Jenna’s dagger skittered off the handgun and found flesh through the wielder’s long sleeves, and she sliced and stabbed desperately in short, quick motions, trying for a vital spot. Blood welled, was absorbed by clothing, but didn’t surge with the arterial pump she craved.

Not deep enough, her brain screamed.

And then: oh, shit, as her target’s trigger finger tightened, face a mask of rage.

The first round hit Jenna like a truck, stopping her in her tracks. Stunned, she didn’t quite believe it was real. The second and third shots took her to her knees. She could feel the blood soaking her chest and knew she was in trouble. Dropping the blade from nerveless fingers, she held her hands out in front of her as if to stop any more shots.

But it was a fruitless gesture.

Not fair! Not fair! The inane thought gripped her.

By the time more bullets tore into her, she’d mercifully lost consciousness.

Chapter 2

The phone on the bedside table startled California Cal Corwin from sleep, shattering her steamy dream. In it, a composite of homicide detective Tanner Brody and the enigmatic Englishman called Thomas had been rubbing sunscreen on her naked shoulders and upper chest as she sat in a deck chair looking out at the Honolulu skyline over the rail of a cruise ship. She felt cheated that fantasy wouldn’t be fulfilled now.

What? Cal snarled into the cordless handset, fumbling to turn her clock radio toward her. Twelve thirty-one. Technically, Monday morning.

She might have known. New cases always seemed to come on Mondays. She should have turned off the damn phone.

"Sorry to call so late, solntse, but it’s important," Uncle Sergei’s gravelly voice said in the earpiece.

Cal rolled back under the covers to get away from the chill autumn fog of the City by the Bay. Most every evening it crept in on little cat feet, looking over harbor and houses on silent haunches before moving on, to quote Carl Sandburg. She liked to leave her window open just a crack for the fresh air, but it raised goosebumps on her skin as she waited for Sergei to continue.

Snowflake’s own little cat feet protested, pushing against Cal’s leg through the blanket. The Russian White mrowed, and Cal let him slip under into the warmth. What’s going on, Sergei?

You sound angry. You not up this hour?

I’m on the wagon, remember? That means no poker. Just sleep.

"Ah, prosti. But you know Jenna, my waitress?"

Of course. Cal remembered the statuesque girl, early twenties, with ink, piercings, and muscles. She dressed in a style somewhere between Goth and Biker Chick. Sassy and competent. Heavy makeup. Very attractive, to a certain type of person.

She is dead.

Shit. Cal rubbed her temples, feeling a tension headache spring to life. She didn’t mind staying up late, but being jerked out of sleep was one of her least favorite sensations. The older she got, the worse it felt. How’d it happen?

They say her boyfriend kill her. He call police. Confessed.

So, case closed. What do you need me for?

He claim self-defense. He says she attack him with knife and he had to shoot her.

Yeah?

Eight times. With forty-five caliber hollowpoints.

The back of Cal’s neck itched as the hair stood up. The commonest forty-five automatic, the Model 1911, usually held eight rounds—seven in the magazine and one in the chamber. A cannon like that could blow a fist-sized hole in a human being with each expanding lead bullet. Against a girl with a knife? Two, maybe three shots would be overkill. Unless there was more to the story, which Sergei clearly thought there was.

Cal rubbed her eyes. When did this happen?

Nine o’clock tonight. I just find out.

Last night, you mean, dammit. Did the boyfriend have any injuries?

Yes… There was a note of doubt in Sergei’s voice.

So, maybe he overreacted to being stabbed.

Wounds were superficial only.

Still, when the adrenaline kicks in… Maybe he was drunk or high?

Maybe. Cal, I need you. Jenna, she was good girl. She deserve the truth.

Cal sighed. She knew she would end up saying yes. SFPD Homicide might have a stick up its collective ass, but they’re not incompetent. I’m sure they’re already grilling him to find out the truth, because his self-defense claim stinks to high heaven already. What do you think I can do?

"You come talk to me at the bar. I don’t need police in my business, ponimayesh?"

Cal owed her dead father’s best friend far too much to turn down his request, no matter how inconvenient. Okay, Uncle Sergei. I’ll be right there. You have someone to watch my car?

"Da."

Ten minutes.

Snowflake mrowed again in complaint as Cal threw on her clothes and loaded up with the usual slate of gear. Moving in the circles she did, she had to be prepared. Jeans, blouse, blazer, licensed Glock on her hip, extra mags and other cop-type stuff on her belt. High-tech nylon boots favored by police and the military completed her outfit. They were perfect for holding an extra cell phone and lockblade and kept her holdout’s ankle holster from slipping.

Sorry, boy, you’ll have to sleep alone tonight. Or Snowflake might deign to sneak downstairs to Starlight’s room if he could bring himself to join her two Pekingese on the bed.

Speak of the devil, there her mother stood as Cal tiptoed down the stairs. Oh. Hi, Mom.

Starlight, Cal’s mother corrected automatically. She hugged her macramé shawl around herself, looking exactly like the aging hippie Yoko Ono clone she was. Worry etched her face. Worry for Cal and for herself. "I heard the phone and then you clomping around up there. Do you have to go?"

Starlight’s usual carefree attitude toward security had undergone a radical shift since she’d been kidnapped a few months back. Someone once said a conservative is just a liberal who’s been mugged, and Starlight certainly fit that bill. Cal used to have to lock all the doors herself. Now, her mother did it, checking several times a day. And she kept her cell phone in her pocket. At fifty-five years of age, Starlight had finally joined the ranks of adults.

This new common sense was a good thing. Still, Cal couldn’t shake the feeling that an era had ended, one that had begun in the Haight-Ashbury Summer of Love and still lingered in dwindling pockets of San Francisco. That golden innocence had faded over the decades, never to return.

Cal hugged her mother, feeling her too-thin body beneath the wrap. Vegan cuisine and yoga had preserved her girlish figure, but feeling Starlight’s bones beneath her insufficient flesh worried Cal. It was Sergei. One of his waitresses has been killed. The boyfriend confessed but things aren’t adding up so he wants me to look into it.

Starlight’s face softened into a smile. Sergei…

You should see him sometime.

Sergei had been one of Starlight’s many lovers way back when, and Cal wasn’t sure the relationship ended with her parents’ wedding. But Cal’s father was long gone, in the flesh at least, and maybe seeing an old flame would pull her mother out of her funk.

That would be nice. Could you ask him to come by?

Why don’t you visit him? Cal asked. It would be good for you to get out of the house.

Starlight’s brow creased. Maybe.

Her reluctance only increased Cal’s anxiety. She kissed her mother’s forehead. Okay. I gotta go. Eat something with fat and protein, will you? You’re wasting away.

Starlight didn’t reply. She gripped Cal’s arm a moment too long.

As Cal exited the front door, she heard the bolt slide behind her. It grated like the death of innocence.

The short, chill walk to her office’s private parking lot to pick up Molly, her rally-tuned Subaru Impreza, got Cal’s blood pumping. The rumble and whine of the turbocharged six shot adrenaline into Cal’s veins, as it always did. Better than coffee, though Cal wouldn’t have turned down a cup of joe right now.

---

Seven minutes of foggy driving later, Cal pulled up in front of Vyazma, Sergei’s dive bar and underground card room. One of his men opened the door and nodded as she headed for the stairs leading downward. He would keep an eye on Molly and fend off any of the scum who drifted through the Tenderloin looking for an easy score.

Inside, it was business as usual, which meant a lightly trafficked bar and grill area in front and a half-full private card room in back. Cal yearned for the padded tables with their cool green felt, the rattle of the chips, and the crisp cards beneath her fingertips. The eternal hope that when she turned up their edges for a peek, she’d see a pair of kings or aces. The breathless rush of expectation when she did.

But Cal steeled herself against the siren song and waved at Sergei, who came out from behind the bar to kiss both of her cheeks, Russian style. Speak in my office. He motioned toward it.

Cal led the way. How’s Rostislav?

Working part time. He’s too tough to stay down long.

Glad to hear it.

The big man had taken bullets for Cal less than a month ago. She’d visited him in the hospital and his face lit up every time he saw her. It made no sense to Cal. She was the cause of his pain, so why would seeing her make him happy?

Uncle Sergei said men love women because they represent life, beauty, warmth, and the future. It sounded logical, even poetic. But when Cal tried to apply it to herself, it was like a piece from the wrong puzzle. She wasn’t the type who kept the home fires burning. She was out on the streets pistol-whipping back the night. She was tough, scarred, and more than a little rough around the edges. Prickly, Thomas would say.

Sergei waved Cal to a leather upholstered chair in his neat office cubbyhole. He sat on a short filing cabinet and fished out a bottle of vodka and two water glasses, pouring a dash into hers and four fingers into his. "Za vas." He upended his glass and gulped.

Cal tossed back hers with a grimace. Straight liquor wasn’t her preference, but with old-school Russians, there was no other way. She set the glass down. So, tell me about Jenna.

Sergei stared past Cal. Jenna Duncan. Like I said, good girl. Had son, four years old. Steady boyfriend named Randy, the one they say killed her. She show up on time and work hard. I was thinking maybe she would become assistant manager.

Cal lifted her eyebrows in surprise. You trusted her that much?

"She was like you, solntse…tough, smart, good heart. I wish you knew her better."

Cal looked away in the face of emotion she couldn’t share. Maybe it’s better I didn’t. I can be more objective.

Sergei leaned forward and grabbed her arm. "I do not want objective, Cal. I want angry. I want the mudak who did this. I want to make him pay!"

Cal frowned and patted his hand, then gently disengaged his claw-like fingers. You said the boyfriend confessed.

Boyfriend is not the killer. Jenna was happy with Randy. She talk nice about him. No troubles. Confession is too convenient. It make no sense. Cops, they are happy to close the case. Not me. Sergei picked up a thick envelope lying in the middle of his desk and held it out. "Here is money. I am now your client. Da?"

Cal took it and looked inside. Five thousand or so, in various denominations. She didn’t bother trying to refuse the payment. She knew he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Besides, she would have expenses. Anyone who thought a private investigation could be run on the cheap had another think coming.

"Da. I’ll take the case."

Some of the lines in Sergei’s face smoothed and his shoulders relaxed. He nodded. You need more, you ask. And when you find who did it, you come here to me right away. He punctuated his words by thumping a thick finger on the top of his desk for emphasis.

Cal cocked her head at him. So you can make him disappear?

Sergei grunted and folded his arms across his chest. Best you not know these things.

Right now, you’re a loaded gun looking for a target. Let’s make sure it’s the right target first. Cal could just see Sergei doing something stupid in a fit of mistaken vengeance. She couldn’t stop him from settling scores, but at least she would try to temper his response to something short of bloodbath.

SFPD liked to think they were in control, but the truth was, they merely patrolled the surface of the city’s dark, ugly waters. The denizens of the deep were the ones who really ran the streets. The best that law enforcement could do was net the worst of the offenders to keep the predation suppressed.

Most of the time, this arrangement functioned. There hadn’t been a war among the crime factions in years. Maybe this was because the old mob was centered in Emeryville, across the bay near Oakland, and they had their hands full with the black and Latino street gangs, the bikers, and the Aryan Brotherhood.

That left the city proper to the Chinese and the Russians, the Ukrainian and Armenian gangsters, plus, Cal heard, a small but extraordinarily effective Jewish-Israeli organization. Her mind wandered to one of her contacts, the neo-Nazi boss called Luger. No wonder he was so careful.

Cal?

She woke from her musing and blinked at Sergei, who was eyeing her with a frown. Sorry, just thinking. You have Jenna’s address?

Of course. He handed Cal a piece of paper filled with his laborious block printing. Everything I know is here.

Thanks. I’ll get right on it.

Please. Sergei stood. He breathed vodka fumes into Cal’s face and kissed her cheeks once more. I’ll be waiting.

I’ll do my best, but these things have a timing all their own.

"Okay, okay. Paka-paka."

Bye-bye to you too.

Chapter 3

Cal’s next stop was Pinecrest Diner, an iconic 24-hour joint on the edge of the Tenderloin near Union Square. Bill, the owner, nodded at her as she took a seat at the counter and ordered coffee and a breakfast sandwich to go. The location allowed her to keep her car under observation through the large plate-glass windows.

The restaurant’s beige walls belied its history, founded in 1969 by the very same now-elderly Greek man who greeted her. It was a place to eat and raucously argue politics and religion, though the clientele that early in the morning remained decidedly subdued.

There’d been a rather well-known murder committed here in 1997, when a short-order cook shot and killed a waitress, reportedly after a long night of losing at the gambling tables and an argument over poached eggs. Cal hadn’t been assigned to Homicide then.

A rustle behind her made Cal turn, but she saw no one she recognized. She’d half-expected—half-hoped?—Thomas to be standing there. But the mysterious hitman—sorry, contractor—had flushed himself out of her life like a turd in a toilet bowl.

Perversely, the disgusting metaphor improved her mood. Cal wasn’t feeling charitable toward him. She’d thought that after a week or two, he would at least drop her an anonymous email, but she’d heard nothing.

Bastard.

Arrogant, self-congratulatory, supercilious bastard.

To be fair, Cal had taken that cruise with Tanner Brody and Starlight. Had ever-watchful Thomas decided she’d moved on and acted accordingly? Yet he’d been the one to disappear, with no way for her to contact him, so what was cause and what was effect?

Despite some tantalizing trysts, Tanner and Cal hadn’t quite hooked up. On the cruise, they were booked in separate rooms. They hung out and talked and necked and shared some good times, but the presence of her mother and knowing that things weren’t settled with Thomas had prevented Cal from moving beyond that. They’d found themselves stuck in the early dating phase: pleasant, yet not going anywhere. They’d decided to leave it at we’ll see.

Cal mentally tried to shrug it off. She had time. If Tanner were truly interested, he’d wait.

Funny, claiming to be patient. Not her strong suit. So, it felt more like stalling.

Cal looked over Sergei’s sketchy information. Jenna Duncan, twenty-four. Son, Alan, four years old. Jenna’s address, home and cell phone numbers. Boyfriend: Randy Roubicek, a meat cutter at a plant over in the aptly named Butchertown, West City Processing. No address for him. She should have asked Sergei if he was live-in or casual.

When her order arrived, Cal tossed a ten on the counter, grabbed the go-box and saluted Bill with her coffee cup. He winked back, and for a moment she saw the face of another Bill she’d known all too briefly.

She swallowed hard and moved on.

---

Cal ate one-handed as she drove. The GPS voice took her south on 101 to the southwest edge of Butchertown, an industrial area bounded by the gentrifying Dogpatch to the north, suburban Bernal Heights to the west, Bayview to the south, and the Bay itself to the east.

The usual misty drizzle coated her hair as she stepped out of Molly and looked at the ugly three-story walkup of perhaps two dozen units. The one streetlight still functioning made her think the building’s crumbling stucco was beige, but that may have merely reflected the influence of the yellow sodium lamp.

An unmarked unit shared the street with her at the corner. A female uniform sat in the idling patrol car, filling out paperwork. She glanced up, and then went back to her brow-furrowed scribbling.

Cal slipped into the building and spotted a couple of civilians talking in worried tones. Residents, by their dress. What apartment? she asked in her best official voice. Let them think she was a cop.

The…

The crime scene. What apartment? Come on. Cal snapped her fingers.

Number 307, a long-haired twenty-something replied. Hey…did Randy really do it?

I can’t comment on an investigation. Sorry.

Two flights up, a door stood open, with a single desultory swatch of police tape across it to ward off the curious. The hallway was surprisingly spacious, providing a place for several bicycles and an assortment of extra furniture and junk.

Many of the residents probably worked in Butchertown at blue-collar industrial jobs. Some of them might be students. City College of San Fran was only a few blocks away. The building lacked that indefinable undertone of genuine corruption that came from entrenched crime or drugs. It smelled pleasantly of incense and dope, not smoked crystal and piss.

Cal peered into 307, then stepped under the tape and padded in. Bright lights made her squint at the unusual décor. Medieval weapons and shields adorned the walls. What looked like embroidered cloaks were piled on an overstuffed chair next to a matching sofa. Other objects in a similar style—goblets, tapestries, banners—could be seen displayed haphazardly. Many looked homemade. Cal doubted any of it was genuinely antique.

A rug in the center of the roomy living room was soaked in blood. Opposite the entrance, two big windows overlooked the street below.

To her right, Cal saw a hallway, also cluttered with strange gear—a battered wooden shield with some kind of heraldry on it, and wooden swords and axes covered with tape—duct, electrical, surgical—in shades of black, grey and dun.

Hey! Who the hell are you and what are you doing in here?

Cal turned to see a detective of Inspector grade, her shield flopping from her blazer pocket. Mid-thirties, Caucasian, a bit on the meaty side, with a bulldog brow and short, no-nonsense hair. Cal didn’t recognize her, which meant she’d joined Homicide since Cal’s departure. That might just work in Cal’s favor.

The woman held an evidence bag in her left hand, a bloody knife inside. It was a long, double-edged dagger. Not the kind of knife a person just happened to have on the table or kitchen counter, though it fit with the other objects nearby.

Cal Corwin, California Investigations. Cal showed her license. I’ve been retained by the victim’s employer to look into her death.

That’s our job, Ms. Corwin. This is a crime scene and you need to leave.

I get it, Inspector…

Macey.

I used to be on the job. SFPD Homicide; three years under Jay Allsop. How about a little professional courtesy? Maybe I could help you.

Macey pursed her lips. I’ve heard your name. You sued the department.

Yeah. I was set up to take a fall by my lieutenant. I proved it, and then I proved it was covered up, and they fired her, but refused to reinstate me.

That’s not the way I heard it.

"If you’re a good detective, I’m sure you can uncover the truth. If you actually want the truth."

Macey glared, but there was a hint of respect in her eyes. You can look around for a minute, but don’t touch anything.

It was as much as Cal could have hoped for. She walked around, taking slow, careful steps, noting photographs of Jenna and her boyfriend hanging on the wall. What’s with all this weaponry? Cal leaned closer to look at the blunt edge of a dark-bladed sword.

The two of them were into medieval reenactment. Society for Creative Anarchy or some such crap.

Antiquity. A small, lean, younger black man in a standard off-the-rack cop suit stepped out of a back bedroom and walked up the hall to lean on the corner. His eyes roved from his partner to Cal and back again. They specialize in medieval stuff.

Cal nodded to him. Cal Corwin, P.I.

Sonny Raymer. Real cop.

Real smartass, you mean. I spent eight years behind a badge, Sonny. You never know what cards life will deal you. Cal pointed at the evidence bag Macey held. That what the victim stabbed her boyfriend with?

Yes. Macey held it in front of her, looking at it. A dagger. This one’s sharp, not just a prop.

Most of these things don’t look like props. They seem to be usable. Cal stepped toward the rug. And this is where she fell after being shot.

Yep.

Eight hollowpoints to the body, and the boyfriend claims self-defense? He had superficial wounds?

You’re remarkably well-informed, said Macey, her eyes narrow and suspicious.

I have my sources. Cal studied the rug from several angles. Has CSU been here?

Macey shrugged. Waste of resources. We have a confession. There’s no dispute about what happened. Somebody above my pay grade will decide whether to charge him.

You have the gun?

We have it. Macey made no move to show it to Cal.

You take some pictures?

Sonny did. Got one of those new compact digitals.

Good. You might need them later. Especially if there’s no CSU workup. Cal hoped she could get a look at those pictures. To do so, she’d have to prove there was something to the case. So far, all she had to go on was too many rounds fired, but panic and the fight-or-flight response might cover that.

The blood made it hard to see, but it looked as if an object about the size of a fingertip had lodged in the rug’s shaggy fibers. Cal debated keeping what she saw to herself before her sense of fairness took over. Macey had let her stay and have a look around and Cal could use all the friends in the department she could get. Did you locate all the slugs?

We didn’t notice any, so we figure they’re all in the body. The ME will probably find them. Why?

Cal squatted and pointed to the center of the stain. Looks like one there, deformed and soaked in blood.

Macey squinted at it. Maybe.

"Interesting how it ended up there, under the body. If, you know, she was shot in self-defense while upright."

So it almost exited the vic’s torso, got lodged under the skin, and then when she hit the floor, the skin split and it fell out.

That farfetched idea didn’t play for Cal. Maybe. May I? She reached for the edge of the rug.

No, Macey snapped, and Cal froze. You’re a civilian. That would be tampering with evidence.

Cal withdrew her hand. You just said the case is closed. No CSU, no evidence, no case. So what’s the harm?

"The case is closed. But Macey couldn’t justify not documenting all of the evidence. Sonny can take a close-up, she said. We’ll put it in the report. The crime scene will stay closed for forty-eight. If someone higher up wants to authorize CSU, it’ll be here waiting."

Raymer moved forward, took out a camera, and snapped a couple of pictures.

So you think she took all eight before she fell? Cal asked. That seem likely?

I’ve seen weirder things, said Macey. And there’s nothing in the law that says someone has to be standing to be a threat. That’s for the brass and the courts to decide, not me.

You mind letting me see the shooter’s statement?

A uniform was first on the scene. She took it. It should be on my desk in the morning. Macey looked at her watch. Later in the morning, I mean. You can submit a freedom of information request, like anyone else. Give it thirty days, just to be sure.

Thirty days is too long. I just want to know what he claimed happened.

You already know. Macey gestured as if to herd Cal out the door. Let’s go, Ms. Corwin. It’s been a long night and we’re already on overtime.

Cal backed into the hallway and watched Macey lock the door with a key, presumably volunteered by the bizarrely cooperative Randy. Sonny slapped some more crime scene tape across the doorway.

Cal hurried downstairs with a sudden thought.

---

San Francisco General was only a mile away and Cal made it in ninety seconds flat by running at least one red light, but there was little traffic to worry about. The parking lot was well lit and mostly empty as she hopped out of Molly and hurried into the emergency room. A uniform sat in a chair, reading a magazine, presumably keeping tabs on Randy the shooter, though not very well. What did he care? The shooter confessed and called the police himself. It wasn’t like he was going to run.

Randy Roubicek, stab wounds? Cal said quietly to the receptionist, flashing her ID and PI shield.

The man waved at the windowed double doors into the treatment area. They’re stitching him up.

Cal slipped in without asking permission, waving her badge in case anyone objected.