Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Barry stepped outside. It was a clear night so you could see from Santa Monica to the downtown L.A. skyline. And thanks to an onshore breeze, you could even smell a touch of the ocean.

  Roy leaned over the balcony. “Hey, we’re right above the lobby. And you’ve got a great view up Avenue of the Stars. I know, let’s watch for Kincaid’s car. He drives a light blue Taurus. Come on over here.” Winslow hesitated. “What?” Roy asked. “You worried I’ll push you off the balcony?”

  “It is a long way down.”

  “Hey, if I wanted you dead I would have shot you by now.

  Right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So don’t worry. I have no intention of killing you. You’ve got my word on that. Now come on, get over here.”

  Not liking it, but knowing he didn’t have a choice, Winslow joined Roy at the rail.

  They waited.

  Free Fall

  Once a castle stood here, battlements reaching into the California sky. Next to a London train station. And a French farmhouse. And an African village.

  Twentieth Century Fox’s back lot was home to a thousand movie sets and a million dreams. Bad times forced the studio to sell most of its back lot in the sixties, and now it’s home to office buildings, hotels, shopping centers and condominiums.

  I couldn’t drive into Century City without remembering the sword fights, barroom brawls, pratfalls and ankle-raised kisses that were Hollywood. Not without wishing I could turn back the clock.

  Winslow’s building was thirty-eight stories of expensive glass and steel. On a clear day I’m sure you could see from the ocean to the downtown skyline. From my one-bedroom unit you could see a Taco Bell and Phil’s Office Furniture.

  I had pulled into the circular drive, rolled down my window, and was hoping to talk the doorman into letting me park my car in front when I heard it.

  The scream. Shocked. Desperate. Final.

  I saw a blur out of the corner of my eye, followed by a pulpy thud. The body landed only a few feet from my car. I leaped out and rushed to the broken, bloody mess. The jumper landed face down. But I knew who it was. I recognized the snakeskin cowboy boots and luau shirt.

  The doorman, a young redheaded kid, muttered “Jesus fucking Christ,” and threw up in a bed of roses. A moment later the security guard—early twenties, officious, cop wannabe—came running out to see what happened. He didn’t puke, but he turned ghost white and leaned against a tree for support.

  I scanned the building; saw nothing suspicious on any of the balconies. Not that I expected to. The only way to know if it was suicide or murder would be to get into that condo.

  I slipped past the still reeling doorman and security guard and into the lobby. There’s no directory in these high-class buildings, but a list of the occupants could usually be found on the security desk. I found it beneath a well-thumbed Hustler magazine. Winslow was in 2808.

  I pressed the up button and waited. There were three elevators. Above each elevator was an indicator telling you what floor it was on. Elevator one was on nine, going up. Elevator two was stopped on thirty-one. Elevator three was on six, headed down.

  As I waited I saw Elevator two start to move. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-eight …

  It was stopped on twenty-eight. Was someone getting on? Someone from Winslow’s apartment? It started moving again. Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five …

  DING. Elevator three arrived. The door slid open. It was empty. Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two …

  Winslow’s high dive could have been a simple suicide. Especially if he realized I was on to him and he was afraid of going to jail. Or it could have been a murder, in which case, time was of the essence.

  Someone could still be in Winslow’s apartment. I should get on the waiting elevator and get my ass up there.

  Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen …

  Besides, the cops could show up any second. If I had any chance to check out the condo before the boys in blue slapped up the yellow police tape, it was now or never.

  Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen …

  Or someone could be on Elevator two. The one who pushed Winslow out that window.

  Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen …

  The one who kidnapped Christine’s bones, stole my car and owed me big time.

  Twelve, eleven, ten …

  I let the door to Elevator two close.

  Nine, eight, seven …

  I pulled my Glock out its holster, took up a position beside the elevator.

  Six, five, four …

  I never shot anyone on an elevator before, but there was a first time for everything.

  Three, two, one ...

  The door opened. I spun into the doorway, gun ready. It was empty.

  I hate when that happens. All that wasted adrenaline. All those extra heartbeats. I punched the button for twenty-eight and began the ride up.

  Why had it stopped at twenty-eight? Had someone gotten on at thirty-one and off at twenty-eight? Had they called the elevator at twenty-eight and changed their minds? Had it really stopped at twenty-eight at all? Maybe I just thought it had stopped because I was so focused on Floor twenty-eight.

  DING. The door opened. I stepped into the corridor. It was empty. I hurried to 2808, tried the door. Locked. The lock was a Schlage—a simple pin tumbler type—and I picked it in about twenty seconds. Pulling my gun again, I stepped into the dead man’s condo and listened.

  I heard the ticking of a clock. But no footfalls. No clothes rustling. No voices. Nothing suspicious. I closed the door and stepped into a large living room.

  There was a leather couch that looked comfortable and two Art Deco chairs that didn’t. In the center of the coffee table was a sculpture of a naked woman spread-eagled over a martini glass. Two of my favorite things, I’ll admit. But this thing was way too in your face for me.

  A bookcase covered the far wall. A cursory glance revealed everything from Molière to the latest Lee Child. And multiple copies of Winslow’s three books.

  The centerpiece of the room, though, was a truly spectacular view. I could see from the ocean to Orange County. The sliding glass door was open. I stepped out on the patio and looked down to see Winslow’s splayed body directly below. This was his launching pad. I looked around and saw nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle. In the distance I heard the whine of an approaching police car. I didn’t have much time.

  I did a quick search of the dining room and kitchen. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. But if Winslow had killed himself, he might have left a suicide note—or so I hoped. Or Christine’s bones. Or the two million bucks.

  Winslow must’ve had a great cleaning lady or was totally anal. Maybe both. The place was spotless. I followed a hallway past very cool movie posters of some of my favorite mystery classics: The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man, Double Indemnity. And then I

  heard it. A THUNK. Like something being knocked over. The sound came from an open doorway ahead. Then another noise, a CREAK. Someone was in there.

  Maybe someone with a gun, like me. I decided to go in low. I took a deep breath to steady myself then I dove into the room, rolled, came up Glock first and found myself face to face with a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes. Set in a gray face. A cat’s face. Sitting on a desk in the middle of the room. But he didn’t sit for long. All four of his feet started spinning, his claws skating over the desk’s polished mahogany; then he was airborne, flying over my head and out the door.

  Feeling foolish, I rose to my feet and surveyed the room. The desk was flanked by two filing cabinets, and the walls were hung with more movie posters. Christine Cole posters: Deadly Ransom. Femme Fatale. Never Again. Blue Moon.

  There was a computer on the desk. It was on. Words glowed on the monitor, begging to be read.

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  Not much of a suicide note from a man who made his living writing. If he had written it. Anyone could have typed in those words.

&nb
sp; I wanted to search the desk and filing cabinets, but first I wanted to make sure no one else was in the condo. I left the office and followed the hallway to Winslow’s bedroom.

  This guy must’ve been a real lounge lizard. He had a mirrored ceiling, king-sized bed and emperor-sized TV. A bureau sat next to the big screen. On it was an alarm clock, nothing more.

  Across from the bureau was another bookcase holding a vast collection of DVDs. It looked like

  Winslow also owned copies of all his shows. There were a ton of Payback tapes and two other DVDs, Dead Run and Shadow Chaser, which I assumed were pilots or Movies of the Week he wrote.

  Like so many Hollywood types, he had a wall lined with eight-by-tens of him and every famous person he could round up.

  I hit pay dirt in the master bath. A huge marble tub dominated the room, and the tub was filled. Not with water, but bones. The bones were arranged to form a skeleton. There was a necklace around the neck, a bracelet around a wrist and a diamond ring on a finger. Nice to finally meet you, Christine.

  Okay. Bones, suicide note ... If I could find the money we’d have a pretty strong case for suicide. But before I had the chance to look farther, I heard the sound of the front door opening and a voice saying, “No, he lived alone.”

  The doorman or security guard. Shit.

  A second voice, tired and male, said, “He have any visitors tonight?” A cop’s question. That was actually good news. The first cop to arrive is only supposed to secure the scene and then tape the door until the detectives arrive.

  I stepped back into the bedroom as the doorman or security guard answered, “Not that I saw. But I only came on duty half an hour ago. You want, I’ll call Ned. He had the security desk before me. Maybe he saw someone.” Okay, it was the security guard.

  I slipped into the walk-in closet, silently slid the door shut as the cop said, “Just give me his number. One of the detectives will call him.”

  Great! It was a uniform. He and the doorman or security guard should be out of here in no time.

  The security guard’s voice faded as he said, “Mr. Winslow sure didn’t seem like the kind of dude who’d off himself.” I couldn’t hear what the cop answered. They must’ve gone out on the patio. So I waited in the dark, surrounded by a dead man’s clothes, and considered my situation.

  I knew that hiding in the closet was pretty stupid. I should have walked up to the cop and explained who I was—a licensed private investigator—and that I was here because Winslow might have been blackmailing my client. But I had broken in and, technically, that’s against the law. If the cop wanted to give me a hard time I’d end up on the wrong end of a Miranda warning. So hiding in the closet made sense. Sort of.

  “If I owned a crib like this I wouldn’t be jumping out of no windows.” The security guard’s voice. Close. Very close.

  “That’s some TV.” The cop’s voice. Through a crack in the door I could see them enter the bedroom.

  “Check out the bed,” the security guard said. “Mink bedspread. This guy had all the moves.”

  Mink bedspread? I hadn’t noticed that. I didn’t even know they made them.

  “Don’t touch anything,” the cop said.

  “I won’t.” The cop pushed open the bathroom door. “Holy shit,” he said. He’d found the bones.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” the security guard muttered; then I heard an unmistakable gagging sound.

  “God damn it,” the cop bellowed. “You puked on my shoes.

  Get out of here. Go wait in the hall!” I saw the security guard run into the hall then heard his retreating footsteps and the slamming of a door.

  “Fucking asshole,” the cop hissed under his breath. I heard him turn on the faucet, probably to wet a towel and wipe off his shoes.

  Then I heard another sound. Breathing. Very close. Too close. That’s when I realized I wasn’t the only one hiding in the closet.

  Someone was behind me. Taking rapid, nervous breaths. Had to have been there the entire time I’d been in the bedroom. I looked behind me and saw two glowing eyes.

  Yellow eyes.

  Yeah, our friend the cat. He must’ve dashed to the dark, cramped safety of the closet after our little altercation in the office. He was crouched on a shelf, between a pair of black Bally loafers and blue Sperry Topsiders.

  I’m sure he hated the idea that I had invaded his hiding place, but as long as I wasn’t looking at him, he concluded I didn’t know he was here. And he could live with that. But now our eyes had danced the dance. The jig was up and when it comes to the genetic fight or flight crossroads, cats only have one way to go.

  With a guttural cry he threw himself against the closet door. It sprung open and the cat was gone in a blur of fur.

  The cop exploded out of the bathroom, a wet towel in one hand and his automatic in the other. He swept the room, looking for the source of the sound, and found me standing behind a cashmere jacket. “Freeze, fuckhead.”

  My thought exactly.

  You Have The Right

  To Remain Stupid

  “You are one dumb son of a bitch.”

  “I must be to have married you.”

  “Insult me all you want, Gideon. I’m sending your ass to jail.”

  “I won’t be able to pay any alimony if I’m in jail.”

  “You don’t pay me alimony now.”

  “I’ve been thinking about starting.”

  “Start thinking about how to take a shower without bending over. First degree murder carries a mandatory life term.”

  Having an ex-wife is bad enough. Having an ex-wife that’s a cop totally sucks.

  I sat in Winslow’s living room, my hands cuffed behind me. Once the uniformed cop had pulled me out of the closet he’d snapped the handcuffs two clicks past painful, pinching my skin and cutting off my circulation. “Hey” I’d said, “I’m not the one who puked on your shoes.”

  “Shut up, shit heel.” He searched me, found my Glock, my picks, and my PI license. I tried to explain what I was doing in Winslow’s closet but he didn’t want to hear it. He just dragged me to the living room, threw me into one of the Art Deco chairs and told me to shut up until the detectives got there.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when my ex-wife and her partner, a tall geek who looked like Ichabod Crane, walked through the door. I mean, it had been one of those days. I’d been shot at, had my car and two million dollars stolen, watched Winslow recycle himself on the sidewalk and been caught hiding in a closet at the scene of a crime. Sure, bring on my ex-wife. Why the hell not?

  “You going to tell me why you threw him off the balcony now,” Stacy asked, “or will I have to beat it out of you downtown?”

  “Let’s beat it out of him here,” the geek said.

  “Shut up, Ichabod,” I said.

  “My name’s Piccolo.”

  I waggled my ass at him. “Pick this.”

  Stacy shook her head at me like a frustrated seventh grade teacher. “Grow up, Gideon.”

  The first time I saw Stacy she was breaking a man’s kneecap with her nightstick. He was an armed robber, fleeing a Ralph’s grocery store. Stacy intercepted him in the parking lot as he tried to get on his motorcycle. She had the move down perfectly—a sweeping arc finishing with a punishing snap of the wrist.

  She looked great. Tall—a tad over five nine—with lustrous brown hair tied in an unruly bun. She had high cheekbones, a full, sensual mouth, and brown eyes that bore holes in whatever they looked at. And what a body. An LAPD uniform never looked so good.

  I had introduced myself as I got out of my black and white with what I thought was a hip, clever line. “Do you look as good naked as it looks like you’ll look naked?”

  “Put a sock in it, Romeo, and read him his rights.” It was love at first insult.

  Back in Winslow’s condo I’d said, “Tell me something, Stacy. How do you suppose I threw him off the balcony when I was standing in the driveway, next to the doorman, when he landed?�
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  Stacy turned to the doorman. “That true?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Shit,” Piccolo said.

  Stacy turned those hard brown eyes on me. “Then why the hell were you hiding in the closet?”

  “Looking for one of my contacts?”

  “You don’t wear glasses.”

  “Looking for one of Winslow’s contacts?”

  “He won’t be needing them anymore.”

  “Hiding from the cops?”

  “I think we’re getting warm.”

  Stacy and I made love the night we met. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to each other. She was living with a second-string forward for the L.A. Kings Hockey team. I was dating a public defender with a thing for cops and banana-flavored love oil. But it was Stacy’s face in my mind’s eye that night and I tracked her down the next day.

  “Look,” I said as she stood on the firing range, pumping a clip of hollow points into a neat circle on the paper target, “I sort of stuck my foot in my mouth yesterday. I’d like another chance.”

  “Another chance at what?”

  “An opening line. I want to try something charming, maybe a little quirky. Something irresistible enough for you to agree to have dinner with me.”

  Almost against her will, she smiled. “Go for it.”

  “When I look into your eyes I believe anything is possible.”

  She laughed. “Charming, but not irresistible.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, suddenly serious, “but it’s true.” I did mean it. I didn’t realize how much until I actually said the words out loud.

  Stacy heard the honesty in my voice and I could see her shift gears, reassessing me. “Promise you won’t break my heart?”

  “I promise.”

  We had Chinese.

  Back in Winslow’s condo Stacy said, “You lying sack of shit.”

  “It’s the truth. I was just trying to find Christine Cole’s bones.” I had shown Stacy and Piccolo the bones in the bathroom and the computer suicide message. We now stood in Winslow’s office, surrounded by Christine Cole posters. My hands were still cuffed behind my back as I filled them in on Christine’s kidnapping, the ransom demand, and the switching of the bones.