Intimate Relations: A Finn O'Brien Crime Thriller

by Rebecca Forster

  "He'll be appreciating that." Finn pushed back his chair. "I'm back to The Brewery. Not that I don't trust Officers Hunter and Douglas's canvass. It's just that they didn't seem all that invested in their work."

  "And I be waitin' on da delivery, then I be goin' back to da bed. Good luck findin' out who did dat mean girl."

  Geoffrey gathered up an armload of dishes. He called out once more as the detectives were going through the door.

  "You be forgettin' the old missus, O'Brien. She good as dead to you, O'Brien. Dat be de ting makin' you happy."

  Finn gave him a wave. His heart was fine, but it would take a lot to convince Geoffrey that he had been comfortable with his divorce for a good long while. Still, Bev was on his mind: her anger, her transformation, her hatred of the victim. Everyone in that place was suspect, and Bev could be no exception.

  Finn wished Cori luck and turned left, going for his car that was a block down. Cori's was in front of Mick's. She got in, and watched her partner in her rearview mirror. Satisfied Finn was walking tall and happy, Cori put on her seat belt. She adjusted her mirror, gave her lips another shellacking, and put on her sunglasses. As she gave her teased hair a little pick up and thought about what Geoffrey had said about the mean girl.

  He meant the girl on the slab, but Bev had outed herself as a mean girl too. Though Cori didn't let on in front of Finn, this hard-edged turn in Bev was no mystery to Cori. There was a nagging thought that the ex missus Finn O'Brien might be mean enough to bash a woman's face in. She had, after all, left a bloody trail when she ripped Finn's heart out. The next logical step for Bev if she was threatened might be to take out the competition for real.

  Cori dropped her gloss into her purse and pulled into traffic knowing that there was a silver lining. The blow Bev had dealt Finn wasn't fatal. He had recovered nicely unlike the woman in the morgue.

  Now that was a blow.

  9

  "Detective Anderson, it's been way too long. I think last time you were here Dr. Bronson had the pleasure. Or was it Doctor Kalihi? No matter. I'm the lucky one today. Come in. Come in."

  Paul Craig, Los Angeles' coroner, gave Cori's hand a shake as he drew her through the door. His smile was as bright as ever, but his eyes were red-rimmed. Not that Cori would have expected anything less. In the early hours of the morning, Paul had agreed to Finn's request for an immediate autopsy. The identity of their victim was the only thing her partner could think about, and Paul was willing to help.

  "Don't you make a girl feel like a queen, doc," Cori said.

  "And don't you let anyone hear you say that. I don't fancy being brought up on charges of some sort or another. That's why I prefer the dead. I can say anything I want, and mum's the word."

  He waved Cori into his office. It was a homey space with books on the desk, in cubbyholes, and on shelves. Framed caricatures of doctors and corpses, news clippings about Paul's cases, and family pictures hung on the walls. His desk was piled high with work, but there was an order to it. Cori took a chair. Paul sat in his own, put his hands flat on his desk, and grinned.

  "So how are you liking it in East L.A.? A little different than working with Captain Fowler, I imagine. Captain Smith is a good woman, don't get me wrong. Good cop. My mother was like her. She played things close to the vest. Guess that's why I married the woman I did. I like a little chatter now and again."

  Cori tried not to laugh. She had no doubt that he provided most of the talk in his house.

  "It's different, I'll grant you that. She's got Finn and me running in ten different directions. Assaults, burglaries, homicides, you name it."

  "These budget cuts are eating everyone alive." Paul commiserated. "I can't remember the last time things were this bad. Harbor UCLA has a forty percent increase in gunshot wounds and our stacks are full here. We can house four hundred and fifty bodies, and we're at four-seventy-five. Piled on top of each other. Such a pity."

  Paul shook his head at the sad state of affairs, and Cori knew this wasn't an affectation. He believed death demanded dignity. Scum of the earth who took a life or the corpse of a life taken, Paul gave each one his due.

  "I'm sorry to be making extra work for you, doc," Cori said.

  "We'll get to everyone eventually. I didn't mind letting your lady cut in line. Since you were going to be here anyway, it seemed to me that this would be rather efficient use of my time."

  He talked as he rifled through the files on his desk. When he found the one he was looking for he passed it over the desk.

  "We'll get this out of the way first," he said. "Seems your victim was pumped full of insulin."

  "No surprise there. He was diabetic." Cori opened the file and looked at the fact sheets. "And he was old. Old people get their medications mixed up all the time. Maybe he got the dosage wrong."

  "Three down and then take a look at number eight." Paul waggled a finger toward the paperwork. Cori followed directions, and whistled when she saw what he was referring to.

  "Well, look at you," she said. "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes."

  "Took me a while to find it, I admit." Paul sat back, beaming. "I checked between the fingers and toes, scalp, behind the ears. I was ready to call it an accidental overdose, and then I found a prick at the groin. Lots of flaps and folds in someone that age, but I got it. He was injected twice."

  "This is good. Now I'm hoping they can lift some prints off the bottle. I doubt it, though. The syringe only had the victim's fingerprints. Whoever did this was probably smart enough to wear gloves when handling the vial." She put the file down and gave it a pat. "But this is all good stuff. I was beginning to doubt my own gut."

  "Never do that. Best barometer ever. Now, what say we take a look at your young lady. This is definitely a record for me. But with the wife gone I couldn't sleep, so happy to come down in the dead of night and get a jump on things. Not that a murder can have a good outcome, but if I help you along in grabbing whoever did this one I'll be a happy man."

  He got up and ushered Cori into the hall, stopping to push aside a gurney upon which a naked man rested. He was very young, very thin, and very dead. His head was turned so that Cori had a good view of the bullet holes in his body. Mortal wounds could seem so insignificant. Nothing more than little red dots on his temple, neck, and chest.

  "That's the boy from the slow chase on the freeway two days ago. I was just about to take a look when I got Finn's call about your girl."

  "I thought it was a stolen car call," Cori said.

  "As far as I know it was, but he came out with guns ablazin'." Paul paused, his hands clasped in front of him, his head inclined as he considered the body. "They look so different when they're cleaned up, don't they? When we got him he was wearing jeans two sizes too big, a jacket with a death's head decal, and a couple of T-shirts. I stripped him down and look what we got: a skinny kid with a teddy bear tattoo on his hip. Maybe some girl told him it would be the cutest thing and it would turn her on, so he got inked. Or maybe he's got a kid somewhere, and that's how he remembered the baby. Nobody will remember him, and that's the pity."

  "What a waste." Cori noted the tattoo. Her eyes flicked back to the mosquito bite dots where the bullets had entered his body. It would be a different story when Paul started poking around inside. He would find a mess: a brain imploded, heart with a hole, lungs punctured.

  "Indeed," Paul answered and then again. "Indeed."

  He patted the man's head as he was known to do when he paused too long beside one of the dead.

  "So, we're off."

  The spring was back in the ME's step. He led the way to one of the glass-fronted exam rooms. The stark white room was cold and adorned only with the tools of Paul's trade. On the long metal table was the naked body of the faceless woman.

  Finn took his jacket off, slung it over his arm, and made notes in his book. He had spoken to an angry middle-aged man whose paintings reflected his attitude. It was no wonder he sold few, nor was it a surprise that he didn't w
ant to talk to Finn. The detective spoke to a teenager whose parents were out of town and who was late for the school bus. He had a nice chat with a lady who ran a cooking school out of her unit. She had seen nothing, was unaware of who the Cucas were, and crossed herself when Finn told her about the murder. Then there was this last interview, unit 5B. Serina. Mutilated baby dolls and plastic window coverings were her thing.

  Finn ran the back of his hand over his nose, trying to clear the dust away. The artist, Serina, worked with a laser that cut fancy designs into huge sheets of colored plastic. Those sheets in turn were hinged and used to cover windows big and small.

  Like indoor shutters.

  The machine churned while they talked. It had kicked up microscopic particles of plastic, irritating every inch of Finn. He was thankful he had no hair on his head in which it could embed itself. Serina's side business —her real passion— was creating nightmare baby dolls. The price of the dolls was extraordinarily low she told Finn. She assured him business was brisk, her art could only go up in price, so whatever he bought would be an investment. He passed on the sales pitch. She gave up trying to change his mind and told Finn she didn't know the Cucas well. She had also not seen anything weird the night before.

  Finn spoke to Serina at 11:45 a.m. At 12:15 p.m., he talked to the gentleman whose business it was to turn cannabis into edibles. Finn found the pineapple shaped cookies very appealing, but he declined a sample. He assured the man that he could not imbibe on duty. When it was established that Finn was as chill as he would ever be, they talked about the murder.

  "I slept good last night, so I didn't even know what went down 'till you showed up. I had me a hit of Banana Master, and then decided to test Blackwater. If you ever can't sleep, I'm telling you that's the key. It takes an old hand to handle both of them. I'd recommend Banana Master if you're looking to leave it all behind. You'll sleep like the dead."

  Finn responded with a 'good to know', and steered him back to business. The edible artist took off running. The Cucas, he told Finn, weren't unfriendly but neither were they friendly. They used to open their place for The Artist's Walk, but now it was appointment only for the Cucas. This was understandable given that Enver's art was R rated. They got kids coming to The Walk after all. Finn inquired after The Walk. Twice a year studio doors were thrown open to the general public. People roamed in and out as they pleased. It was like a festival, the man said. Thousands came, and most artists made big bucks during the event.

  Question: Is your studio open? Did children enter your establishment?

  Answer: Trying to trip me up on the kid thing? Giggle. No can do, brother. giggle-giggle. No kids in here unless accompanied by an adult. No samples. Snort.

  Question: Is there security at this event? Is there security in the compound?

  Answer: Yeah, at The Walk. I've seen 'em. Otherwise we kind of do our own law. Shame is where it's at. You do something bad, and we all shame you, man.

  Question: Then why the fence and barbed wire?

  Answer: It ain't the compound, it's what's outside. We aren't stupid.

  Question: Do you have to make reservations to come to The Walk?

  Answer: What?

  Question: Repeated

  Answer: No. No. Come. Look. Walk around. Buy stuff.

  Finn let that information sit in his brain: public access, thousands of people roaming around the place in one weekend. Limited security. That meant someone could have come in with the purpose of scoping out a specific unit. This made no sense in context of what went down the night before. The Walk had been a month earlier, and the Cucas’ place wasn't open. Still, a person with training, someone who knew what they were doing, could find a way into the Cucas’ building. The man went back to molding —and sampling— his wares. He would forget the detective had even been there. Before he left, Finn had one more question.

  "Did Enver Cuca always close off his studio during the festival?" Finn asked.

  "Only the last two times. August and October. I'm pretty sure Enver's appointment only now, so he doesn't need The Walk."

  Finn thanked him, stepped back into the California sunshine, and took a minute to look around. The Brewery was a small city, seemingly filled with mostly happy and bright citizens. People went about their work with a passion. Then again, why not? Art was fantasy and fantasy was fun until it turned in to a nightmare. What struck Finn as odd about the people he spoke with was the lack of curiosity about the murder. No, that wasn't it. It was the lack of horror or sorrow. So far, the news of what happened was taken in stride. Perhaps it was because they didn't know the artist well and the victim not at all. Or maybe these people lived on a fringe where everything was art, even death.

  Taking a deep breath, Finn swung his head toward the gated entrance. He looked the other way toward the interior of the compound, and that's when he saw the unmistakable green of grass. It was a jarring sight in this sea of concrete. He made his way around the building to a small park that separated two of the living areas. In the center of the park was a man-made mountain of chicken wire baskets, doors, sheets of plywood, paintings, clothing hanging off any number of structures, a child's tricycle, and a toilet.

  "Taking or leaving?"

  Finn swung his head. Standing beside him was a mere mite of a woman. Her face was wizened by wrinkles and crevices, but there was a sparkle in her eyes and a whimsy in her blue-tipped short hair that spoke of a young spirit.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, love the accent. Very subtle, but so nice," she said. "Are you visiting Gunther? He's the only Irish we got around here."

  Finn shook his head.

  "No, and I'm afraid it's been a while since I was in my home village. Hard to lose the accent when you get off the boat already a young man."

  "Don't try. Very sexy." She looked back at the pile of stuff, and put her fists to her tiny hips. "You haven't got anything to leave, so I suppose you're taking. Can I help you look?"

  "I was doing neither," Finn said. "I was contemplating whether this is art or not?"

  "You can't tell?" When she saw Finn flush, she put a hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it. Half of all art is crap, but don't tell the people who make it. You never want to hurt an artist's feelings. They crumble, poor things."

  She gave a nod toward the mountain.

  "This is our shopping mall. If someone moves out of their place, or doesn't want something, or they don't like one of their paintings it all ends up here. Free to take something, free to leave something."

  "Recycling at its finest," Finn said.

  "Pretty much." She put out her hand. "My name is Mitzie. Not many of the folks around here make enough to buy new things. Even if they did, it's a lot more fun to shop this way. Want to see what I got?"

  "Lead the way," Finn said.

  Mitzie took him to her loft, a fine unit with a window of its own. The furniture was new. The place was spotlessly clean, and something wonderful was cooking in the oven. Finn looked upward toward an open loft.

  "My loom is up there. I make some good pin money doing fabric art. I enjoy the heck out of myself, but I'm not dependent on it. Want coffee?"

  "I won't turn it down."

  "Excellent." She talked as she took down the cups and poured the brew. "I'm a little unique around here. I've got money, so I don't have to hustle. I'm also Grandma Moses. I don't find that a particularly attractive handle, but a lot of these kids don't have family. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to think I serve a purpose."

  "Do tell."

  Finn took the steaming mug, and sat on the sofa. Mitzie crossed her legs, sank onto a large floor pillow, and wrapped both her tiny hands around her mug.

  "My husband died two years ago. He was a big time lawyer. Good guy. Indulged my artsy-fartsy ways for forty years. When he was gone, the big house, the charity lunches..." She pulled up her shoulder. "I don't know. It wasn't the same anymore, so I came here. I didn't really leave it all behind, though. I brought Frank with me. S
ometimes I can hear him telling me that I'm doing beautiful work. He was that kind of guy."

  "Sure, a good man is hard to find. Having one for forty-years is lovely."

  "It was." Mitzie fell silent for a moment, but her reflection didn't last long. "So, that's what I picked up in the heap."

  She pointed to a painting of a nude woman with a screw through her stomach. It filled the wall on which it hung.

  "And what is it that spoke to you exactly?" Finn asked. Mitzie rewarded him with a full throated laugh.

  "I needed something big for that wall, and that was the only thing available. I'd love to know which of my neighbors painted it."

  Finn smiled, grateful that they were not going to be in for a discussion of women's rights, art, or philosophy.

  "So, have you found out anything about what happened last night?" Mitzie said.

  "Missus?"

  "Oh, come on, this is a small place. By now everyone knows you're a cop, and we all know about the murder. Very exciting."

  "You wouldn't know it from those I've spoken with. They seem to take it all in stride," Finn said.

  "That's their way. If they aren't the one dead, then a murder is only a matter of interest and not concern," she said. "I, on the other hand, love nothing more than a good mystery. Are there any beans you can spill?"

  "I'm afraid not," Finn set his mug aside and rested his arms on his knees. "We've just begun to look into the matter. Do you know the artist in the tall building. The one—"

  "Who makes the sex dolls." Mitzie finished for him. "Of course I know the Cucas. Enver does beautiful work, but the credit should go to Emi. She's the one who builds them. Their structure is so delicate, so realistic. Enver's art wouldn't be half as impressive without the foundation."

  "Then you know them well?"

  "I know Emi better than Enver, and that isn't saying much. They're very old country. If I had to guess, I'd say I was a little over enthusiastic for them," Mitzie said. "I also think they were a little embarrassed by the turn their work has taken. It was hard to tell with them. Then again, maybe they just got too busy. They were already making good money, but six months ago they got a huge commission. Emi told me they signed a nondisclosure."