by Tyler Colins
“That makes three.” He marched into the bedroom and slammed the door.
“Someone's desperately in need of a calming caffeine boost!” I shouted. “And ego deflation!” Jerk.
…Men.
* * *
Rey and I met at the agency at ten. Neither of us had received any messages or calls from Linda. She was either absorbed in pursuing leads or was disheartened because she was striking out. Xavier, who was expected to stop by at four to compare notes, hadn't been told that a trip to Carlos Rawena's place was on the morning agenda.
The residence was within walking distance. Dressed similarly in jeans, scoop-neck T-shirts, and white leather Keds, we carried tote bags with everything that might come in handy for the visit: camera, plastic bags, latex gloves, basic crime-lab tools, and Cousin Willy's B&E kit, which Rey was becoming way too adept at using. Willy, by the way, was Rey's cousin courtesy of her second marriage to Fabio, a “community theater thespian aspiring to be a bona-fide actor”. She'd recently heard that the young man was learning a new craft—behind bars.
“Another hot and humid one, huh?”
I agreed.
“Let's stop for ice-cream on the way back.”
“If we aren't arrested for trespassing beforehand,” I joked.
She offered a raspberry. “How's Lover Boy's face this morning?”
I swallowed a grin.
“You seeing him again today?”
I shook my head. “Richie J has dealer business in the evening.”
“That leaves the afternoon. You'd think he'd want to spend time with his 'girl'.”
“I'm one of many,” I said indifferently, then shared what he'd revealed about Richie J's “women” and the morning exchange.
“Really? You think Morty-Boy would be willing to help find stuff on Cholla?”
“He seemed to know some things, and with his expertise—”
“And killer instinct and connections,” she added wryly.
“With all three, he'd be able to uncover information we never could.”
She tilted her head one way and then the other. “It's worth a shot. You're not flying back to Chicago, though, are you?”
“I left a message at the club.”
“Will Mr. Pretend Drug Dealer keep clear?”
“He doesn't know Morty's name.”
“Let's hope he never learns it.” Rey's Clara-Bow lips drew into a tight line.
“There's no way he can.”
She pointed ahead. “There's our dead gallery owner's place.” She scanned the narrow dusty-pink place. “It's so small and understated. What would you call it—a condo or a townhouse?”
“A con-house.”
Rey chuckled and fished out the B&E kit. “Here's to finding something of value.”
With a playful slap to my back, she ambled to the paint-peeled front door.
Within sixty seconds, it was open and we were inside. The place was dim and probably no more than 650 square-feet in total, top to bottom. Furnishings seemed more for functionality than fashion. There was a black sectional sofa, faux-leather recliner, a 32” LED TV, coffee table with a dark faux-marble top, and two bookcases crammed with documents, odds and ends, and plastic containers, but no books. A retro credenza with two dead croton plants sat in a far corner. Art consisted of two dozen black-framed photographs of Carlos at various galas and functions. While he appeared happy in most, a couple revealed sadness remote gazes.
Rey motioned the stairs. “Do you want the downstairs or the upstairs?”
“Downstairs.” I glanced around a place that held no warmth or personality. “Speaking of searching, I have the banker's box back at the condo. We should wade through it again.”
“Agreed. Let's have Xavier meet us back home instead of the office. We can all go through it.” She gestured the stairs. “Catch ya later, alligator.”
“Hey Alli—wear latex gloves.”
After slipping on a pair of purple ones, I began rooting through the living room. Shelves and drawers didn't reveal anything of note.
The kitchen disclosed little save for a love of gourmet mustards and marmalades (there were six jars of each), and cheese (eight types). Boxes and canisters contained what they advertised, while cutlery was real silver and dinnerware lovely Vera Wang. Interesting. Gifts perhaps? Mementos of better times? I had to wonder why, as Rey had previously stated, James-Henri hadn't allowed his long-time on-again, off-again lover to stay with him.
Many cartons in the cupboards were still sealed. It appeared Carlos didn't often eat at home or wasn't much of a cook. Or maybe he was simply happy with cheese and marmalade.
Poking my head under the sink, I rifled around. Nada. Nor was anything out of the norm in a tall narrow shelving unit. I scanned glass jars of granola, beans, nuts and rice. What the heck. Grabbing a big bowl, I dumped them one by one and found nothing … until I poured black lentils. The tip of a house or apartment key protruded from the lens-shaped seeds. An extra? Or did it unlock other digs? Whose? Into my jeans pocket it went.
Back in the living room, I found myself drawn to the photos, idly wondering who the photographer was, because they certainly weren't selfies. On a whim, I pulled the professional pics down one by one and inspected them. The second to last one held another key—literally. In a corner, under the backing, was one belonging to a safety-deposit box.
I was about to call Rey when she barreled down the stairs, waving a Blackberry. “I found this taped to the back of an undie drawer in the bedroom.”
I gave a thumb's up and held up the key.
“We lucked in,” she grinned.
“That remains to be seen,” I said with a wry smile. “Firstly, we have to locate the box this key fits. Secondly, we have to see if there's anything notable to be found on that device.”
“Don't be a party pooper.”
“Then let me be one.”
Rey and I exchanged annoyed glances upon hearing Ald's deep voice. Slowly, we rotated like rotisserie chickens on a spit.
The detective stood leaning into the doorframe, arms crossed, expression grim. “You two are so-o lucky it was me nosy neighbor Mrs. Willoughby called.”
“Actually, Hives, it's you that's lucky. We found something your folks in blue didn't,” Rey smirked, extending the Blackberry. (I'd half expected her to stick out her tongue and sing “na-nana-naa-nah!” in a child's voice.)
With a smug smile, I held up my find.
Glowering, he extended both hands. “I'll take those.”
Rey muttered under her breath and stomped forward. I sighed and did the same.
Ald's gaze swept from me to Rey and back again. “I'm going to give you two perpetually trespassing snoops an option as to where I reprimand you and threaten your future P.I. livelihoods: in my office or at a swanky restaurant for lunch, your treat?”
“Pick the place,” I said casually. “Bear in mind we're not dressed very 'upscale'.”
“Those jeans you're both wearing probably cost half a week's salary. They'll welcome you with open arms and check holders.” Sneering, he surveyed the room. “I take it you went through every nook and cranny?”
“Pretty much,” Rey replied nonchalantly.
He eyed her coolly and his gaze wasn't much warmer when he turned to me. The thick notched scar running along his right temple was pulsing, which meant he was so not happy. “Where's your drug-dealer boyfriend?”
“I have no idea.”
“Meeting with his own ilk?”
“I have no idea,” I repeated crisply.
He cursed under his breath.
“The jerk-off's probably doing a deal,” Rey said flatly.
Ald stepped so close, they were but an inch apart. “You seem to dislike him, too. I'll give you credit for having some sense. But do answer me this Fonne-Werde: do you like anyone?”
“I like my coworkers. A lot in fact.” She smiled darkly. “Who I don't care for: smart-alecky detectives and cocksure criminals. And drug-dealing j
ackasses.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Seated in the lanai before three piles assembled from Cliff's box, Xavier nearly spewed forth iced tea as he roared with laughter and wiped tears. “I've got to admit, if I were Ald Ives, I'd have thrown the book at you, but I'm so glad he didn't. Man, he sure has his hands full with you guys.”
“We're merely doing our job,” Rey sniffed. “He's the handful.”
I gulped back a chuckle.
“Do you think Gail will locate a lock—or should I say safety deposit box?—for that key you almost took from Carlos' place?” he asked, stroking Bonzo when the Checkered Giant rabbit bound onto his lap.
“She's damn smart and really good at what she does,” Rey responded confidently. “She's got access to databases and people we don't; she'll find something.”
“Too bad she lucked out finding Lolita's address,” I said quietly.
“The former queenpin's has to be using yet another name.”
Nodding, I crossed my arms, leaned back, and gazed at a dark sky promising to deliver one helluva storm.
“I can hear those cogs whirl,” Xavier joked.
“Something's been nagging at me—like a teeny pebble in a shoe you can't seem to be rid of.”
“What's that?”
“The expensive watch Bizz Waxx was wearing when we found him. It was hardly something a starving artist would or could own.”
“We touched on that during the drive back from the studio,” Rey nodded. “The thousand-dollar question is how did he get it? As a present? From art sales?”
“Maybe it was stolen?” Xavier put forward.
“Given reviews and articles, and art-world natter, he was building a decent reputation and garnering a solid following. Maybe he wasn't such a starving artist,” I said.
“The studio sure looked like it belonged to be one, but it may have been strictly for show,” Rey submitted.
“To portray a certain image and maintain a particular persona,” Xavier added.
I motioned for Xavier's laptop. Doubting there'd be any addresses to find save that of the studio, I typed in Bizz Waxx regardless. I was right and tried Theodore Grubb. Nada.
Rey shifted and almost sat on my lap. “Try variations like G-r-u-b or Theodore Waxx, or Teddy Bizz, or—”
“Marie-Louise Grubb,” we shouted simultaneously.
… Nothing. We frowned and shrugged, then began playing with name variations again. When those didn't provide anything, we considered the artist himself—possible likes, looks, anything and everything.
Fifteen minutes later, we stared at a Kalele Kai address and name: Art B.W. Guerilla.
Stepping behind the three-seat sofa, Xavier peered over our shoulders and squeezed both our shoulders. “Good going.”
“Do you think it's worth checking out?” Rey asked, encouraged.
With a slap to her leg, I hopped to bare feet. “Let's see if our mystery key opens the door to Guerilla's place.”
* * *
“Thank God for ace acting talents. You left the concierge with stars in those forlorn hound-dog eyes and optimism in that middle-aged, cholesterol-laden heart,” Xavier declared gaily as the three of us stepped into a large marble-tile foyer leading to Bizz Waxx's three-bedroom condo. He flipped on a switch and six acrylic bubble-tube wall sconces sheathed the place with a cheery sunset glow. “I may have to have you accompany me now and again.”
She waved off the compliment and surveyed the 1,300 sq-ft residence with owl-round eyes.
Xavier appeared equally awed. “Pretty swish.”
“It that means swank, it sure is,” Rey stated.
“Who'd have thought?” I strolled to the west wall where three-dozen, black-framed photos of various sizes hung. All displayed Bizz Waxx's art, save for one, which showed the artist standing by a canvas with a bamboo goat-hair paintbrush. The Movado watch was visible, as was a thick, knotted gold chain suspended from a long scrawny neck. He seemed both cross and melancholy.
Standing in the middle of the condo, on an area rug of bright geometric designs, my cousin gesticulated dramatically. “This dude's got pretty awesome taste.”
“He doesn't strike me as someone into leather sectionals and stone-top coffee tables,” I declared.
“Or Italian-design entertainment centers.” Xavier indicated a large black unit of exceptional craftsmanship.
Rey's heavily penciled eyebrows curved like the Gateway Arch. “Was grubby Theodore Grubb, a.k.a. Bizz Waxx, a phoney? Was the grunge and all that for show?”
The three of us jumped as thunder reverberated like the double bass drumming of a thrash metal band. Lightning bolts lashed a pitchy sky and even louder drumming followed.
“Let's start searching,” Rey suggested.
“For what?” Xavier asked with a dry smile. “More keys? Drugs? Documents listing illicit doings or confessions?”
Rey and I looked from him to each other.
I shrugged. “Maybe there's something linking him to Lolita 'Ex-Queenpin' Renoir, something that's not kosher.”
Xavier smiled drolly. “I'll start with closets.”
“I'm going to see if I can discover what sort of relationship Mizz Lolita and Bizz Waxx had.” Rey rolled up the sleeves of a striped jersey T. “I'm not sure it was just manager and client.”
“From the looks of this immaculate place, we'll be lucky if we find lint and dust,” Xavier said dryly.
Rey sniffed. “Where there's a will, there's always a way. I'm off to the master bedroom.”
“Let's be very careful to keep everything in its place,” he warned.
With a pensive brow, Rey peered around. “Do you think the cops have been here?”
“They probably don't know about this place,” I replied.
“Goes to show who's got the brains.”
Xavier and I exchanged amused glances and the three of us moved into motion.
* * *
While Xavier focused on closets, cupboards and drawers, Rey took bedrooms, and I the office and bathrooms. The third album from Impossible Gentlemen (our adjuster's choice) played in the background. The good taste in furnishings extended to music; two hundred CDs, primarily jazz and blues, were located at the base of the costly entertainment unit.
Heavy rain had begun to strike the metal railing and tile flooring of the balcony like miniscule glass balls while thunder rumbled in the distance like 10-pin bowling balls toppling pins. Trees and shrubs engaged in lyrical dancing.
Brushes and bowls, towels, jars and containers in a small guest bathroom demonstrated a penchant for royal blue and Tuscan-sun yellow. A small mountain of tiny floral soaps took me back to family get-togethers. My mother and aunts had shared a mutual love of “baby” soaps, and had always packed (or pilfered) several. I'd liked the rose-shaped and scented ones. Sighting one, I held it to my nose and was transported to the Poconos in 1999. Into a jean pocket it went.
A large bathroom down the hallway held a sleek, modern freestanding tub. A cabinet was replete with both male and female personal products, confirming that Bizz Waxx didn't reside alone. Nothing, however, suggested the “couple” shared an intimate relationship. While he was a fan of Cole's spicy-woodsy “Black”, she preferred Laurent's sweet “Black Opium”. Interesting. Obviously, Bizz Waxx never applied the fragrance when playing “impoverished suffering artist”.
The only prescription on a cabinet shelf was for levothyroxine, a thyroid medication. The name on the small bottle, which came from a nearby pharmacy, was Lolita Renoir.
I peered into the hallway just as Xavier jumped from a large walk-in closet. Waving a red-leather Kate Spade wallet, he grinned from ear to ear like a choir boy having sung solo at Sunday mass. “I found a leather knapsack hanging under a trench coat. It contains 100 dollars, a couple of credit cards, and business cards—specifically, Lolita's, James-Henri's and Cholla's, and two banks.”
“Awesome. Maybe that safety-deposit key Hives took is for one of them,” Rey said excitedly
. “By the way, Bizz Waxx and Lolita weren't lovers. I'd bet dollars to donuts on that.”
“It certainly appears that way,” I agreed.
“They could simply have been good friends,” Xavier said simply. “Or sharing the rent.”
“Are you two done?” Rey asked.
“I still have the office,” I replied.
“I haven't touched the kitchen yet,” Xavier advised.
“I've got a few drawers left in one of the bedrooms, but so far, there's nothing out of the ordinary. Everything's clean and neat.” Rey frowned. “Maybe too clean and neat.”
“Lolita may have suffered from OCD,” Xavier said simply.
“And instilled that in Bizz Waxx,” I added. “This place is an antithesis to the studio.”
Xavier looked around puzzled. “Do I hear Sammy Davis?”
Rey smiled flatly. “Where's the 'Candy Man'?”
With a grin, I strolled to the living room, where I'd left my bag. “Hey stranger,” I greeted Linda. “You have exciting news, I hope?”
“Sorry about not calling sooner. I've been on the go pretty much since I arrived. Actually, haven't had much time to take a breather. I can't wait to get back”
“We miss you,” I said gaily.
“Awww.” She giggled. “I'll be back tomorrow, but I thought you might want to know what I've learned sooner than later.”
I stepped to the balcony doors and gazed onto a dark, wet street. “I'm all ears.”
“After talking to a score of folks associated with Galerie Couteau, the L.A. gallery, I connected with Surca Biggs. She's a former gallery administrator. She didn't have anything good to say about James-Henri, but she didn't have anything bad to say, either. She found him a 'nonentity'.”
“Really? He seems to be fairly significant in the art world.”
“She said that for all the hype and show and swagger, he was 'borderline mediocrity'.”
I stepped into a sultry humid evening, and sat on one of four ultra-trendy black mesh chairs, free from the teeming wetness. It proved more comfortable than it looked.
“Just after Surca left the gallery for a museum, one of their up-and-coming photorealist artists O'D'd.”
“Anyone we know?”
