“Thank you.” He leads them into his office.
“Looks kind of staged,” Mills tells him. “You know, like you stage a house.”
The man laughs and exposes a mouthful of Beverly Hills teeth. “Very observant, Detective. We think our office should reflect the perfection of the homes and estates we sell. You said you have photos?”
“Yes,” Mills says, withdrawing them from his bag. He hands the photos to Josh Drake.
“And you think we would recognize them, why?”
“Because these men were in the area shortly before their deaths,” Mills replies.
“Can’t say I recognize any of them,” the man says. “If you want me to scan them in, I can show them to Warren when he gets back.”
“Warren?” Mills asks.
“My husband. The Cohn of Cohn and Drake.”
“Gotcha,” Mills says. “You have mostly upscale clientele?”
“Mostly,” he says with too much pride.
“Is it possible that one of these men could have been your husband’s client without you knowing?” Mills asks.
“Possible, but unlikely. We tag team mostly.”
“Go on and scan the photos,” Powell says. “It can’t hurt to have your husband look.”
It takes Drake less than five minutes, the small talk about real estate notwithstanding, to scan the photos and hand them back to Mills. “I’ll let you know if Warren recognizes any of them,” he says. “But honestly, the only crime we’ve seen around here is when someone stole all our cardboard boxes out back. Not exactly something you call the cops for.” He mock winces. Then he laughs.
“Someone stole your boxes?” Powell asks.
“Not the end of the world, Detective. No need to write up a report!” Another laugh, so satisfied with his own wit. “We bought a new refrigerator for the break room—we call it a café—and we stuck the box out back with a few others to recycle. And then the next morning, all gone!” His eyes are wide and theatrical.
“Could it be that the recycler came to get them?” Mills inquires.
“No. It was a Monday. Recycling doesn’t come ’til Thursdays. But, whatever, we just hope someone put them to good use, or had the good sense to recycle them for us! End of caper!”
Mills smiles politely. “Yes. End of caper, indeed.”
“I’ve been pushing Warren to put surveillance video out in the alley in case someone tries to steal our cars,” the man says. “I thought the great cardboard heist would convince him, but it didn’t. Nice to meet you both.” He extends a hand. Both Mills and Powell shake it.
Out on the sidewalk, Mills ruminates. He feels his lower teeth grazing the uppers. He turns to Powell and says, “Our killer stole the cardboard to make those graveyard signs. I’m almost sure of it.”
“Good call,” she says.
He laughs.
“I have no idea why I’m laughing,” he tells her.
“All we have to do is have Mr. Drake or his husband identify the cardboard we took in as evidence and, bingo, a lead,” Powell says.
Mills is still laughing. “This is so stupid to me. A fucking refrigerator box? I mean, it’s stupid, but it’s a break, but it’s stupid. I just don’t know why.”
“We’ll take what we can get,” Powell says. “At least we know why your psychic sent us into that office.”
“So, now you believe in Gus Parker?”
She smirks. “If we get a positive ID on the refrigerator carton, then yes.”
Now she’s laughing, too.
“Did I hear my name?”
They turn and see Gus approaching.
“Anything interesting?” the psychic asks.
Mills starts to laugh again but wills himself to stop. “Yeah,” he says. “We might have found the source of those signs left at the graves.”
“You think the realtors were in on it?” Gus asks.
“No, no. But we think the killer might have used some of their refuse to make his grave markers.”
Gus tells them that he’s identified a few more homes. One on East Mangrove and two on East Iris.
The person who answers the door on East Mangrove says his name is Bernard Williamson. “I swear I didn’t do it, Officers,” he says with a big laugh. What is it with everyone trying to be a fucking comic today? Mills ignores him. Bernard Williamson is Mills’s height. He’s dressed in silk pajamas. His eyes float lazily behind shockingly green contact lenses.
“It looks like we might have disturbed your sleep,” Mills says and then gives a brief explanation for their visit. “We have photos of the victims. Would you mind looking?”
He studies the photos and smiles. “I know that one for sure,” he says, pointing to the face of Barry Schultz. “He used to come by the club all the time.”
“What club?” Powell asks.
“Style 11,” he replies. “I perform drag there on weekends, and the doctor, I don’t remember his name, he’d come by and try to sell us all on cosmetic procedures.”
“You’re kidding,” Powell says.
“I am not kidding,” the man insists. “A few of the girls got Botox, nose jobs, and some other surgery to, you know, soften their faces. He did great work. I can tell you that. But not for me.”
“What do you do for a day job?”
“I’m an accountant,” the man says. “In fact, I have to slip into some business clothes. I have a client due here any minute.”
“Sure,” Mills says. “But before we leave you, can you remember ever seeing the doctor behave oddly or suspiciously?”
Bernard lets out peals of laughter. “Oh, honey, everyone in that club behaves oddly! But I can’t say I ever saw him do anything suspicious, though I do think he once got punched out in the parking lot for grabbing Feline Dion’s ass. Feline’s boyfriend mistook it for a sexual advance, but it wasn’t. The doctor just wanted to show her how she’d look with a plumper behind.”
“How long ago was that?” Mills asks, keeping a straight face.
“Maybe a year and a half, two years ago,” he says. “I can’t believe he’s one of the victims. That’s tragic!”
“Yes, quite,” Mills says. “Any chance he was involved with one of the performers at the club?”
“Involved?” Bernard asks, an eyebrow arched. “You mean romantically? Sexually?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I never heard anything, but mostly I mind my own business.”
“Are you sure it’s the same doctor who came by the club?” Mills asks.
“Yes.”
“And the doctor never came to this house?”
Bernard Williamson clasps his hands to his heart. “Goodness! Does this make me a witness? Will I have to take the stand?”
“No. And no,” Powell tells him. “Just answer the question. Did the doctor ever come to this house?”
“He did not,” he says with an indignant flourish. “I don’t intend to go under the knife as long as my natural beauty holds out. What’s your excuse?”
Mills taps Powell on the arm, indicating they should begin their retreat. He thanks the man, then hands him his card. “If you think of anything else, please call.”
“Will do,” he says with a wink. “And if the two of you ever stop by Style 11 for a show, you ask for Gigi Poodleskirt.”
“Who’s that?” Mills asks.
“Me.”
They meet up with Gus on the street, and Mills pats him on the back. “I wouldn’t call it a lead, brother,” he says, “but you continue to connect the dots. Nice job. There’s a connection here to Barry Schultz.”
Gus stares at him intently and says, “I think it’s a coincidence, not a connection.”
“Well it bears some further exploration on our end,” Mills insists.
Gus says they need to go south of Thomas again. Powell sighs loudly and impatiently. But Mills says, “That’s why we’re out here. If he gets a vibe, we follow that vibe.”
They get in their cars
and backtrack. Gus indicates East Iris, to the west of Sixteenth. He tells Mills to park a few houses in. Out on the street, Gus points to a house—its exterior is illustrated with cartoon images of children at play, bunnies, lollipops, and happy faces. Mills regards the place dubiously. “It’s a daycare center,” he says, reading the words scrawled across two of the windows.
“In this hood?” Powell asks.
“Poor people have babies, too,” Mills says.
A woman answers the door. Her name is Lee Leighton. She spells it for them. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”
Mills explains why they’re in the neighborhood. The woman, a late-fortyish brunette, says she’s heard about the murders on the news. “Really scary,” she says, “but why would you be looking around here?” She’s wearing linen pants and a simple cotton blouse mostly covered by a light, but oversized, zippered sweatshirt. “Weren’t these men all rich and successful? This isn’t exactly that kind of neighborhood.”
“We believe they visited this area shortly before they died,” Mills explains.
Her eyes widen, and she puffs out a breath. She says something, but, again, the heavy traffic on Sixteenth makes it hard to hear. Mills, frustrated, says, “Can you repeat that?”
“I said it’s upsetting. Crime is closing in.”
“It can feel like that sometimes,” Mills concedes.
“I’ve been doing home daycare for a long time, and I worry about every child who comes through my door,” she says. “I confess I’m a big worrier. Now more than ever. The world is changing.”
“Isn’t this place awfully quiet for a daycare center?” Powell asks.
The woman smiles. “Oh, they’re out back playing in the yard with a couple of my assistants. Would you like to take a peek?”
“No, that’s okay,” Mills replies. He brandishes the photos. “You recognize any of these men?”
She stares at each one of the faces with great sorrow in her eyes. “How awful,” she says. “For their families. But, no, no, I don’t recognize them. I saw their pictures on the news, but they’re not familiar to me.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mills says.
Again, a truck rumbles by on Sixteenth. The woman smiles and nods, then retreats into her house.
“A lot of empathy,” Mills tells Gus when they regroup. “But a misfire.”
“My misfire?” Gus asks.
“Just a misfire.”
Gus points to the final house. It’s a few doors down. They knock, but no one comes to the door. “You want me to keep wandering?” Gus asks.
“No I think that’s enough for one morning,” Mills says. “We have a few things to follow up on, most notably the cardboard.”
“Can I keep these photos of the victims?” Gus asks.
“Sure. Go crazy.”
As they walk back to retrieve their cars, Mills opens Myers’s email.
Alex,
Looks like the company shut down 25 yrs ago. But you’ll see a familiar name. PDF attached.
MM.
The attachment downloads in about six seconds. “I think I need reading glasses,” he tells the others. Powell laughs. Mills leans against his car and holds the phone far enough away so he can decipher the small print.
“Why don’t you just fire up the tablet?” Powell asks.
“I told you, no juice.”
He doesn’t need a tablet to see that Go Go Mexico dissolved twenty-five years ago, coinciding with the disappearance of that college student. Nor does he need a tablet to see that the company had been in business for eleven years before its demise, or that its owner and president was Lester Gaffing. . . . Its owner and president was Lester Gaffing? Who the fuck? Gaffing! The next line reveals exactly what Mills expects it to reveal:
Joseph Gaffing Sr. Vice President / Treasurer
There’s a dawning all over his face. He can feel it.
“What?” Powell begs.
He describes the information in the secretary of state’s report.
“No shit,” Powell says. “Gaffing.”
“We gotta go,” he tells them. He pulls up Gaffing’s address, then shares it with Powell. “Meet me there.”
“What about him?” she asks, pointing to Gus.
“Right. I forgot. I’ll swing by Goldberg’s first and drop him back at his car.”
“I can Uber,” Gus says.
“Fuck Uber. Let’s go.”
As soon as Gus is discharged at the diner, a round of thank-yous and you’re welcomes in the vault, Mills peels out for Glendale, nearly swiping a City of Phoenix garbage truck as he exits the parking lot. While exceeding every posted speed limit, he dials Preston and asks him to find out who at the FBI investigated the Kimberly Harrington case.
29
Joe Gaffing’s appearance at the front door is, once again, preceded by the yipping and barking of a dog inside. The man swings the door open and says, “Back so soon?”
“Who’s Lester Gaffing?” Mills asks.
The man seems to deflate, even hisses like a balloon losing air. “My brother,” he says.
“So the two of you ran Go Go Mexico? You served as vice president?”
“You’ve been doing your homework,” the man says.
“This is my colleague, Jan Powell,” Mills tells him. “May we come in and have a chat?”
Joe Gaffing shakes his head slowly, then shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. I got nothing to hide.”
“Yet you chose not to tell me about Go Go Mexico,” Mills says.
“You didn’t ask.”
He leads them to the same back porch where he first spoke with Mills, passing on the way new (or old) piles of laundry, the teetering mountain of dishes in the sink, and a redistribution of food containers and boxes on the kitchen counters. They sit on the porch. Ashtrays brimming with half-smoked cigarettes surround them. Powell coughs incessantly. When you add the stale smoke to the wind tunnel of dog piss, you have the makings of an upper respiratory catastrophe.
“I’m so sorry about the loss of your son,” Powell says, calming her cough.
Gaffing nods, smiling. “Thank you.”
The moment is genuine, peaceful, and it also provides a lull before the detectives launch into their questions.
“So, you took over Go Go Mexico and changed the name to Vacation Express and Student Escapes shortly after the disappearance of Kimberly Harrington?” Mills asks him.
“For business reasons.”
“Like you did again fifteen years ago after that girl died in the boating accident,” Mills says.
“For business reasons.”
“What happened to your brother after he sold you the business?” Mills asks.
“Moved to California, took a job doing sales for a cruise line,” Gaffing replies. He narrows his eyes, then turns his palms up. “And this has what to do with my son’s murder?”
“Not sure,” Mills says tentatively, knowing that a small dose of uncertainty on his part projects something human. “But Kimberly Harrington was on one of your tours when she disappeared.”
“That’s no secret,” the man tells them. “It was our darkest day. We cooperated with the investigation as best as we could.” He says the word “investigation” as if it’s in air quotes.
“You sound like you didn’t have much faith in the investigators,” Powell says.
Gaffing eyes her. She’s probably his daughter’s age. Something registers on his face, then almost as quickly disappears. “The Mexican authorities were not the most sophisticated at the time. And, frankly, not that interested at first. I’ve said all along they lost precious time.”
The source of the animal urine jumps up on its owner’s lap, licks its owner’s face, and turns to Mills with a what-the-fuck-you-looking-at expression. The man pats the dog’s head.
“Maybe so, Mr. Gaffing, but the FBI was on the case, as well,” Mills says.
“We were pretty much out of the picture by then. Though they did question us, of course,” Gaffi
ng replies. “Mind if I smoke?”
Reflexively, falsely, Mills says, “Detective Powell has asthma. So, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
The man nods, but his hands tremble.
“Were you there at the time?” Powell asks. “When the girl disappeared?”
“Different members of my team took turns going back and forth to Cancun during the spring break season,” he says. “We had staff on the ground to manage logistics, complaints, any activities we sponsored.”
“Were you or your son in Cancun when Kimberly Harrington went missing?” she persists.
“We both were,” Gaffing replies. “It was awful. Joey was young and immature, and he didn’t know how to handle it.”
“How old was he?” Mills asks.
“Early twenties. We sent him home. He was getting in the way more than anything.”
“Like how?” Powell asks.
“You know, acting like he was smarter than the police, like an amateur sleuth, like somehow he was going to find the girl and become a hero.”
The man lowers his head into his hands. He begins to quietly sob and sniffle. Mills catches Powell rolling her eyes as if the man’s misery is worthy of ridicule. Her dismissive reaction reminds him how new she is to Homicide, perhaps immature for the work. She’s tough, and that’s great. She’s thorough. Also, great. But Mills has seen many like her, people who recoil from humanity not because they’re jaded but because they’re hiding from pain. He’ll lecture her later. Maybe.
Joe Gaffing reaches for a tissue from the box beside him. It’s not a new box. “I still don’t see how any of this has any connection to what happened to my boy, Detectives.”
“It might not have any connection, sir,” Mills says. “But when this little bit of history came to our attention, we thought we would investigate further.”
The man sits up, puffing out his chest. “It wasn’t like we chaperoned the trip. We never made any promises to provide supervision. We just made all the arrangements. We hosted a few activities, you know, beach stuff, dances, a few parties, but we didn’t set curfews. Nobody had to sign in or out. These were adults.”
Powell leans forward and says, “I’m sure you provided a complete list of people on that trip to authorities. . . .”
Dig Your Grave Page 29
