by A W Hartoin
“But looking at that stuff wasn’t?”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “She was selling pictures of herself doing things. I couldn’t believe it. Catherine seemed so conservative and then I see that.”
“Ever think they were deep fakes?” I asked just to poke the bear.
He leaned back against a pillar after checking once more for Kendra. “You know, I totally would’ve thought that, but I saw her on the deep fakes site. I could put your face on her body. That’s what it was there for so I knew it was real. They even used her name.”
I got cold. “What?”
“Not her full name, but you know who it is,” said Martin.
“Tell me exactly what it said.”
“I don’t really remember.”
“Try.”
He thought for a second and said, “Her name was Catherine, which is weird right off. The model names are more like Chastity or Electra.”
“What else?”
“Sometimes they have a little profile. I don’t know why. Maybe it helps sales. It said something like ‘Catherine’s a hot accountant from the Midwest. She’s got that MILF body you’ve been looking for.’”
“So people buy the photo and put somebody else’s head on it.”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s what you did with my head?”
“Not with Catherine’s body. No.” He looked back. “Oh God. There she is. I have to go.”
“Hold on. Where were you yesterday at about two o’clock?”
“We were touring The Stone House out in St. Charles for the wedding. You can check. I’ve got to go. She’s going to see you.”
“Was it easy to find Catherine on the porn sites?” I asked as I held his arm.
He stopped and thought. “No. Actually, it wasn’t. I never saw a picture of her anywhere before I went looking on purpose. There’s a lot of porn out there.”
“But you saw her on the deep fakes site?” I asked.
“Yeah. She’s in the top five of white, blond, and busty. You can’t miss her.”
I let go of his arm and he dashed away, calling out, “Kendra, sweetheart, I’m sorry. That took forever.”
I stood there, taking it in. Pictures. Porn. Deep fakes. Visibility. A lot of porn.
You can’t miss her. You can’t miss Catherine.
“It’s all about visibility,” I said.
The bartender came around the corner and said shyly, “Can I help you, Miss Watts?”
“Thanks. But I’ve already been helped quite a lot.”
Chapter Twenty
AN HOUR LATER, I drove the Isabella into her parking spot and considered my options. Mr. Cervantes would probably agree to feed the beasts again, and I could sleep in the mansion, or I could go home to my own bed and snuggle my favorite beast, Skanky.
Julia hadn’t left me a message in a while and I decided to take that as a good sign that she wasn’t skulking around my apartment, hoping to interview me. Chuck hadn’t called either and I assumed that wasn’t great. He was probably with Julia, helping her with the case and who knows what.
That was it. I wanted my truck. My bed and my cat. If that witch, Julia, had put out an APB on the truck, freaking fine. I’d deal with it. I got in my truck and breathed deep the smell of the leather cleaner Dad insisted on and felt like I was already home.
Parking in the back, just in case, I trotted into my building at a quarter to nine. I don’t want to sound like a geezer, but I was going straight to bed with a cup of tea, Skanky, and a book. I couldn’t wait.
As it turned out, I could. Mr. Cervantes caught me opening my door and called out, “Mercy, can I speak to you?”
So close.
“Of course,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
It wasn’t. I could tell by the way he smoothed the hairs down on his shiny scalp. “Your music was on again. I’m sorry to intrude, but I went in and unplugged that Alexa thing.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Cervantes. I thought it was unplugged. I’ll stick it in the closet or something.”
“That’s alright,” he said blushing a little. “I saw Sister Miriam at church today.”
Mr. Cervantes was a big fan of Aunt Miriam for reasons I couldn’t fathom.
“Oh, yeah?”
“She said you’re working on that horrible shooting and she’s helping.”
“I’m doing what I can,” I said. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.”
He moved in closer and I could smell his excellent red pork pozole on his clothes. Like Aaron he always smelled like food, but never hot dogs, for which I was grateful. “Is someone else on the case?”
“Well, there’s the cops, but I think they’re clueless so far.”
“Yes, there was this pushy woman here this afternoon.”
“Julia Jones?”
“That’s the one. She insisted on interviewing me.”
“You? What for?”
“She wanted to know your habits and your friends. I understood that she couldn’t find you and she wasn’t happy about that.”
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
Mr. Cervantes could be a little devilish when he chose to be and he chose to be then. “I told her that you go to church three times a week, host a knitting circle on Saturday nights, and are a volunteer seal trainer at the zoo.”
“Oh, my God. She didn’t buy that, did she?”
“She almost did,” he said with a grin. “I sold it well. I’ve had a lot of practice telling people you’re somewhere you’re not.”
I hugged him fiercely. “You’re the best. I’m going to tell Aunt Miriam all about it.”
“I hope she’s pleased.”
“No doubt about it.” I opened my door. “I’m so tired. I have to go to bed.”
“Mercy?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there anyone else on the case?” asked Mr. Cervantes. “Besides the cops.”
I closed the door a second before Skanky made his move and I heard him ram his head into the wood. He’s not a smart cat, but he knows he wants more kibble. “Like who?”
Mr. Cervantes described a man hanging around the building on and off for the last couple of days. He hadn’t thought much about it because I got all kinds hanging around and this guy didn’t have a camera. He didn’t try to get in the building either. But today, he was different and Mr. Cervantes considered calling my dad, even though he knew Dad wasn’t doing so great.
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just thought that maybe I should.”
“He must’ve done something that concerned you.”
He put his hands in the pockets of his woolly cardigan and said, “He was angry and pacing around. When a car would come down the street, he would duck around the corner.”
“You saw him do that?” I asked.
“Mrs. Abbott did and she called me. Mr. Sims and Mrs. Humbolt saw him, too. He has to be waiting for you. Nobody else in this building gets that kind of attention.”
One of the advantages of living in a building with a bunch of retirees is that they pay attention to everything. Sometimes the what-happened-today updates are bothersome, but not that day.
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“Just normal.”
“What’s normal?”
“Medium sized, thin.”
“White?”
“Yes.”
“Old? Young?”
“I didn’t get the best look, but he was twenty, maybe younger.”
That probably wasn’t accurate. The elderly tend to think people are younger than they are. Mrs. Sims thought I was seventeen when I moved in. I was twenty-three. “What about hair color?”
“Brown, I think, but he had a baseball cap on.” Mr. Cervantes scowled. “It wasn’t a Cardinals cap.”
“It sounds like my new stalker, Jimmy Elbert. Was this guy around this afternoon?”
“No. Yesterday and this morning. I didn’t see him after
noon, but I wasn’t really looking either.”
I patted his shoulder. “Jimmy was trailing me this afternoon. He was probably angry that he couldn’t find me. I spent the night at The Girls.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” he said. “But are you sure you don’t want to call the police?”
Julia would love that.
“Uncle Morty vetted him. He’s harmless. It’s just a nerd crush.”
“If he tries to get in the building, I’m calling the police.”
“Sounds good, but I think it’s fine.”
We said goodnight and I went in to get the cold shoulder from Skanky. To make it up to the hairball, I gave him the coveted wet food that the vet said was bad for his teeth and he coiled around my ankles and marked my toes with his cheeks while I made tea.
I fed Li Shou, who as far as I could tell hadn’t moved in twenty-four hours. His food was gone, but I wouldn’t put it past my cat to eat bird food.
Then I took a scorching shower in another failed attempt to get the stink off me and put on the flannel pjs that Chuck thought were ugly and for an old man. I was cuddled up and reading at nine-thirty when my phone started buzzing. I tried to ignore it. I was so happy. Skanky was purring and kneading on my lap. The Alexa was safely in a drawer with no electricity available.
Instead of answering, I muted the phone and continued reading about the Count in the Metropol hotel in Moscow. I had just drifted off when someone knocked on my door.
“You have got to be kidding,” I said.
If Jimmy got in the building, I’d punch him in the face. But it wasn’t. It was Mr. Cervantes, now wearing a woolly robe that looked like a giant version of his cardigan. “Your mother wanted me to check that you’re okay.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll bake you something. Snickerdoodles?”
He scuffed his slipper into the carpet and said shyly, “Can you get me an invitation to the opening?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Aaron’s bakery. There’s a big party. They’re blocking off the street and everything.”
“I had no idea. Consider it done.”
Mr. Cervantes left with a smile and I went to face the music with Mom. Since the stroke, she never called anyone. Talking on the phone was harder than talking in person and she avoided it.
Mom answered before the phone even rang. That’s a bad sign if there ever was one. “We can’t find her.”
I yawned and curled up with Skanky. “Who?”
“Nikki.”
“Oh, well, she’s probably out doing whatever she does.”
“On a Sunday night?”
“People can go out on a Sunday night,” I said.
“Not normal grown up people with jobs.” Mom was slurring and I could hear Aunt Tenne in the background telling her to sit down and rest.
“Mom, it’s fine. She’s out with Uncle Morty. There could be a birthday going on or something.”
“She has to work tomorrow.”
I turned off my light. “Maybe she’s off.”
“She’s off on Fridays.”
“I don’t know, Mom. What do you want me to do?”
“Something’s wrong. I know it.”
“Call the cousins.”
“I did. Go knock on Mrs. Papadakis’s door,” said Mom.
I pulled the covers over my head. “Forget it. I’m in bed.”
“Mercy! This is serious.”
“Where’s Dad? What did he say?”
“Oh, your father. He asked me to take care of it. Can you believe it?”
Yes, I can.
“Really? That’s great. So what does he say about Nikki?”
“Nothing, he’s asleep. He was so tired after going out, he ate and went to bed. I’m handling it. Now go over to Mrs. Papadakis and find out where Nikki is.”
“So I’m handling it.”
“Mercy.”
“Fine.”
“Call me right back.”
“I will.”
“Don’t make me come over there.”
“Heaven forbid.”
Mom hung up and I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a robe to stumble across the hall. I banged on Mrs. Papadakis’s door and nobody answered. I banged again. Nothing, but Mr. Cervantes came out. “Mercy, what are you doing?”
“Mom told me to.”
“Why? It’s late.”
“I know. She can’t get ahold of Nikki or Uncle Morty.”
“They’re probably out having a late dinner,” he said.
“I totally agree, but Mom’s going to make me roam the streets if I don’t get an answer here.” I knocked again to no avail.
“They’re gone. They left this afternoon with suitcases. I heard Mrs. Papadakis tell Mrs. Abbott something about the airport. You should just go to bed.”
I did after texting Mom. The news about the Papdakises and the airport chilled her out and I went to sleep, exhausted, after muting my phone and unplugging my landline.
You can’t unplug people. How I wish I could. My doorbell started ringing at six o’clock in the morning and it did not stop. Then there was pounding. A lot of pounding. I finally rolled out of bed and stumbled my way to the door, flinging it open totally expecting to find Aaron or Fats or at the very worst Dad on a tear. But it wasn’t any of those people, my people, it was two cops. Cops at the crack of dawn is never a good thing.
It’s worse when they don’t say anything. They just stood there, looking portly and uncomfortable. I didn’t know them personally. Maybe I’d seen them around, but all cops look alike at six a.m..
“Well?” I asked and Skanky darted out the door. “Crap on a cracker!”
“I got him, Mercy.” Mr. Cervantes burrowed between the uniforms with Skanky in his arms and a mournful expression on his face. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Oh my God. What?” I clutched at my pajama top. Mom! Uncle Morty! Nikki!
“You didn’t tell her?” he asked the uniforms.
“We…well…Miss Watts,” said the more rotund one. “Are you the owner of a 1954 Chevy truck?”
“What is it? Tell me what it is!”
“Are you the owner of a 1954 Chevy truck?” asked the cop again.
“No. Shut up.” I dragged Mr. Cervantes in the apartment and slammed the door. “What happened? Is it my mom?”
“No. I’m sure she’s fine,” he said. “How about you sit down?”
The cops started knocking again. “They said you were the owner of a 1954—”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to come out there and kick you in the penis!” I looked at Mr. Cervantes.
“Your truck was vandalized,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but it’s bad.”
I sagged onto a bar stool. “Oh, thank God. I thought it was Mom or Uncle Morty or I don’t know what. Thank God. Wait. Did you say my truck was vandalized?”
Mr. Cervantes held Skanky to his chest like a shield. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was going out for my morning walk and I saw it. I called the police. Would you rather I didn’t?”
“My truck?”
“Yes.”
“The mint condition 1958 truck my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday?” I asked.
“Yes.”
More knocking.
“My dad’s going to have a stroke.”
“I think so.”
The cops started really pounding on the door and I marched over, whipping it open. “Okay.”
“Do you own a 1954—”
“No, it’s 1958,” I said.
“They said it was 1954.”
“That’s not important. How bad is it?” I asked.
They looked at each other and then at Mr. Cervantes.
“That bad,” I said. “Was it torched?”
“No, not that bad.”
I took a breath and went over to flip on the Rocket. A slow latte seemed to be in order. “Did they slit the tires or something? My insurance is going to hate me.”
“Yes,” said the thinner co
p.
“Is it the tires or the ‘or something’ that you’re agreeing to?” I asked.
The three men looked everywhere in the room, except at me. Li Shou, motionless on his perch, was of particular interest.
“What?” I asked.
“You’ll have to fill out a report and this will be sent to the detective squad.”
“So we’re definitely talking felony damage?”
After a moment, the portly one said, “Yeah. So how’s your dad? I’m a big fan. He’s been out for a while, but I bet he could—”
I stopped listening. Felony damage. That wasn’t necessarily horrible. Over 750 dollars in damage was bad, but okay. I could deal with it. The truck would be fine. Dad wouldn’t have to know, unless…
“How far over the threshold is it?” I asked.
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Cervantes.
“How far over the felony threshold?”
They wouldn’t look at me again.
“It’s over,” said the thinner cop. “You have insurance, right?”
Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!
I ran out of the apartment, shoeless and wearing pajamas. The men chased me, but didn’t come close to catching up. I was driven by rising panic.
Please. Please. Don’t be too bad. Please.
It was too bad. I burst out the back door and stopped short in the little rear parking lot. There were two squad cars on either side of my beautiful cherry red mint condition 1958 Chevy truck with original every damn thing that was destroyed in its parking space. I don’t know if I started crying before or after the cursing, but it was the ugly cry and there might’ve been rending of garments. Every window was shattered. No, not just shattered. Decimated. The vent window braces in the side windows had been torn out. The head lamps and blinkers smashed. The tires slashed and the rims looked like they’d been attacked with the sharp end of a crow bar. The beautiful curve of my formerly pristine hood was now dented and gouged into a boulder-like shape and they’d tried to pry my shiny chrome bumper off with pretty good success. It lay half off and someone had obviously stomped on it. There were dents in the side panels from kicking. Deep scratches ran the length of the body and my driver’s side mirror and door handle were missing. My beautiful truck had been brutalized. There was no other way to put it.
I stood there, crying, trying to think what to do and failing.
