by Lou Harper
I cracked my eyes open and grumbled, “You could stay.”
“Not a good idea.”
I thought it was an excellent idea, but my recent experiences had taught me that arguing with cops was pointless. So I pushed myself up and saw him out.
“See you later,” he said and melted into the night.
I dreamt of Nick that night and woke up with a stiffy. Not till after I’d taken care of it did I realize I’d forgotten to set the alarm and had to put my ass into gear to get to work on time. I skipped breakfast, speed-showered and yanked on whatever clothes were handiest—a pair of jeans from the bedroom floor and a random shirt from the top of the basket of clean laundry. I really should’ve put those away already.
At the store, we had one of those crazy days where everything goes wrong, people call in sick, customers throw hissy fits, and you’re run ragged. My lunch consisted of power bars and a salad, and I didn’t get another breather till close to the end of my shift. It was only me and Olly in the break room when I pulled my phone out to check my mail. As I did so, a piece of paper fell on the table between us. I had no clue what it was first but broke out in sweat realizing I’d worn the same jeans when I last saw Riley, and torn pieces of the smutty picture were still in the back pocket.
Olly snatched up the loose piece before I could stop him. “Hey, what are you doing ripping up pictures of Clay Carson?” he asked.
I saw with relief it was the most innocent part—the stranger’s head. Then Olly’s words sank in. “What?”
I must’ve looked as dazed as I felt, because Olly started talking slow. “What do you mean what? I’d recognize Carson anywhere.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“Sure as RuPaul’s wig is blond. It’s an old one, though—from around the time he was on The Trouble with Larry. Do you remember that show?”
All I could recall was canned laughter and an overly cute child actor. “Vaguely. How old were you then, ten?”
“Eleven. I had such a crush on Carson. I cried like a baby when the show got cancelled. After only one season! Travesty. Where did you get this photo?”
“I found it in an old book I bought at a yard sale.” The lie poured from my lips like honey. I felt pretty certain Olly was wrong this time, and I was most definitely not going to tell him about the rest of the photo. I’d sure remember blowing Clay Carson. Well, I probably would. Possibly. Unless…
Olly turned the picture over. “You found it torn like this? How strange. I wish I knew the story to it.”
Not a chance, I thought, but said only, “The world is full of unsolved mysteries.” A sudden inspiration struck me. “You delivered to Carson’s house before, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Give me the address.”
Okay, so I didn’t think it through. I didn’t even have a plan beyond getting into Clay Carson’s house, and then…not sure what. I’d improvise. Before setting off, I grabbed a couple of FTP paper bags and filled them with random stuff, which I paid for. I picked things that were cheap and bulky.
The house sat up in the hills, a few miles from the store, but in a whole different neighborhood. In LA, the higher in the hills you lived, the better you’d done for yourself. Carson’s house sat only halfway up—he wasn’t a big movie star yet. The not so humble abode still must’ve cost more than I’d make in my whole life.
“Delivery from Fred’s Trade Post,” I spoke into the intercom, and the gate buzzed open.
I parked in front of the two-story Spanish-style building of gleaming white walls and tile roof. It was pretty as a picture. Well-kept palm trees of the short and chubby variety surrounded it, and I had no doubt there was a swimming pool in the back. A Hispanic woman in her forties, holding a feather duster, opened the door. Some stereotypes were simply true. In this town, maids and gardeners were Hispanic, just as manicurists were Vietnamese. It was just the way it was.
I lifted my bags. “Hi! I brought the groceries.”
“Take them to the kitchen.” She waved the duster toward the depths of the house.
I obediently headed that way but veered off my path the moment I got out of her sight. The inside of the house consisted of lots of dark wood, heavy furniture and ornate cast-iron chandeliers. Too oppressive for my taste, but I wasn’t there to grade the interior decorator. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I thought if I managed to meet Clay Carson face-to-face, it might jog my memory. I might be able to remember if I’d met him before or not. Or ask him if he remembered me. And if not, he got free groceries. No biggie.
Instead of Carson, I ran into a strange little man in a gray suit with a maroon bow tie. Strands of straw-colored hair clung to his skull, fighting a losing battle against male-pattern baldness. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the tinted glasses, but his lips had a downward curve.
However, his voice was soft and without hostility when he spoke. “Can I help you?”
“Uhm, yes, I think I missed the kitchen,” I replied, playing the dumb delivery boy. I gave the bags a heave for emphasis. “This is a big place.”
His slack features arranged themselves into an expression of joviality. “It’s all relative. Come on, I’ll show you to the ship’s galley. We wouldn’t want you to get completely lost, would we?”
I followed him back through the house, into the kitchen that wasn’t quite as big as the Titanic’s, but pretty damn big. About the size of my kitchen and bedroom put together, and much better furnished. My phone vibrated in my back pocket, but I ignored it. I had it on mute out of habit. I couldn’t exactly answer calls while working.
“You’re not the usual boy,” Bow-tie said, turning around. It had been a while since anyone had called me a boy, but that belittling term fit with his conservative attire, and I was in no position to object.
“He called in sick,” I fibbed.
“Oh, how unfortunate. I hope he gets better soon.”
I plunked the bags on the granite countertop, next to the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. “Well, that’s that, then. Thanks for the help.”
“Hang on for a minute.” He took out his wallet and pulled a green bill out of it.
“That’s not necessary.”
“But I insist.” He took my hand and thrust the twenty into my palm but didn’t let go. “Have you seen Lethal Assignment yet?” he asked, somewhat abruptly.
“Yeah! It was fantastic!” I piled on the enthusiasm, realizing this could be my chance to get a glimpse at Carson. “I’m a huge fan of Mr. Carson and would die to get his autograph.”
He chuckled and let my hand go. “You seem like a nice boy, and I’d love to help you out. Sadly, Clay is out and won’t be back till nightfall. I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
My disappointment was half real, half fake. “Too bad. I really need to go, or my boss will have my head. Nice to meet you, Mister…”
“Call me Warren. I trust you can find the front door from here,” he said with a hint of a smirk. “Or Maria could help,” he added as the maid entered.
“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Bye!”
I shot a straight line for the door, but before getting into my car, I took a farewell look at the house and noticed a figure quickly moving away from an upstairs window. Hm.
Chapter Six
I could’ve driven back downhill and to the freeway, but I chose the scenic route. I knew I could take Mulholland Drive most of the way. I rolled down the window, hoping that the rush of wind would freshen up my mood. Too bad some asshole was tailgating me in a dark SUV. After a few minutes of it, irrational anxiety started to kick in. I told myself it meant nothing. It was just a jerk in a hurry, and this whole country was full of dark SUVs. Paranoia didn’t give a crap about logic and told me that through the pounding of my heart.
I knew this road well. I knew the ravines were on alternating sides—to my left now, but not far up, they’d be on my right. Where another car could run me off the road. When I saw the lookout spot coming u
p on the left, I acted without thinking. I made a sharp left and pulled in. One other car sat there already, and I parked next to it. The SUV revved its engine and sped off.
I sat in the car for minutes, till my heart calmed and my hands stopped trembling. Finally, I got out and enjoyed the view, till the occupants of the other car—a young couple too obviously in love—got back from their stroll. We smiled at each other and said brief greetings. I left when they did, following their car from a respectful distance, but not too far. Fortunately, they drove the opposite direction I originally headed, and we soon reached Coldwater Canyon Road. I continued north, into the safe, ravine-free land of the San Fernando Valley, keeping my eyes peeled for black SUVs. There were plenty, but none stuck out.
I wanted to change clothes and crash out on the couch so bad it hurt, but I checked in on Mrs. G first. Unlike me, she was in a chipper mood. I could see her sitting in her chair by the door, knitting something unseasonable and tittering to herself. About six months ago, when she’d told me she loved reading but her eyes got tired too easily, I’d given her my old iPod. I hadn’t been using anyway, but first I’d loaded it up with a bunch of public-domain audiobooks. She’d treated the gadget with suspicion at first but warmed up to it once I showed her how to use it.
When she noticed me, she first pulled the iPod out of her pocket to pause it and then tugged the earbuds loose. “That Bertie needs somebody to look after him. He reminds me of you.” Well, apparently, she was still on a P.G. Wodehouse kick.
“That would be nice, Mrs. Gallagher, but I’m afraid I can’t afford a manservant.”
Her rheumy eyes twinkled. “Is that what young people are calling it these days?”
“Behave now, Mrs. G.” I patted the red FTP canvas bag hanging from my shoulder. “I brought you a few things.”
She pushed herself up. “I’m too old to behave. Stand still for a moment.”
I did, and she held her knitting up to my chest. She hemmed and said, “Come on in, then.”
I helped her put away the eggs and milk, and opened the box of ginger cookies for her. We chatted about the weather for a few minutes; then I went upstairs.
As I unloaded wallet and phone, my fingers bumped into bits of paper. With sudden anger, I dug all the photo pieces out of my back pocket and chucked them into the toilet. Next I found the original photo, ripped it tiny pieces and threw them in there too. I flushed and watched them get sucked into oblivion. Good riddance.
I’d barely changed into comfy shorts and a T-shirt when a storm cloud in the shape of Nick showed up at my doorstep, announcing his arrival with loud banging.
“Don’t have to kick the door down,” I grumbled.
He swept me aside and into the living room. “What the hell were you doing at Clay Carson’s house?”
“Delivering groceries. How did you know I was there?”
“I called Olly when I couldn’t get hold of you, and he told me where you went. Seriously, what is wrong with you?”
Olly, that ratfink. Unfortunately, a long day and rattled nerves had left me prickly. I crossed my arms. “I don’t know, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me. And since when do you have Olly’s number?”
“Since I asked him for it. Why shouldn’t I be friends with your friends?”
“I haven’t even met any of your friends!”
“You met Gary.”
“Who’s Gary?”
“Detective Lipkin.”
“Ha! He knows me only as a murder suspect. Hardly the same. You keep tabs on me because you don’t trust me, admit it!”
“Why should I? You charge around like a loon. Sometimes I wonder if you have any common sense at all. And you keep blindsiding me with your secrets. Olly was babbling something about you having a photo of Carson.”
“Ah, that. I didn’t want to bother you with it. Riley sent me a second picture—similar to the first one, but with an extra person and a blowjob added. I might have ripped it up a little, and Olly saw one bit. No big deal.”
“You didn’t—” He pressed his lips together, but his jaw muscles kept working. He took a deep breath and evened his voice. “Is it Carson in the picture?”
“Olly swears to it, but I’m not convinced. He’s liable to see Carson’s face on a piece of burned toast. I thought if I just got a glimpse of Carson, maybe I’d remember. Actors look different in real life than on the screen. I once sat in a restaurant next table to what’s-her-name from that cop show, and she looked so much plainer. And I didn’t tell you about the photo because I knew you’d get all huffed up about it. As you are now.”
“Jem, I swear…” Another moment of heavy silence stretched between us. “I’m huffed up, as you put it, because you can’t follow the simplest directions. I explicitly told you not to get involved in the investigation.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not involved. This has nothing to do with Riley’s murder.”
I feared Nick’s eyes might pop out of their sockets, the way he glared at me. “Nothing to do…? What do you keep in your skull? Spare cheese? Your scheming ex-boyfriend possibly has a photo that could destroy Clay Carson’s career, and then he’s murdered. Don’t you think there might be a connection?”
I hadn’t, but now it seemed so obvious. “Oh. I didn’t think of it that way.” The wave of embarrassment washed away my earlier annoyance with Nick treating me like an idiot. I was an idiot. “Do you think Riley was blackmailing Carson? But—” It didn’t add up. “Why would he send me the pictures?”
Frustration radiated from his every pore. “I wish I knew. I’m getting the notion your ex was even more screwy than you are.”
“Hey!” I yelped, because his comment hurt. Truth does.
Nick cared not at all about my sore feelings. “So, did you see Carson?”
“Nope, only the maid and some bow-tie-wearing weirdo.”
“Okay. Just give me the damn pictures.”
“Umm.”
“What now?”
“I can’t. I don’t have them anymore.”
“Who does?”
“Nobody. I flushed them down the toilet.”
The sound of Nick smacking himself on the forehead was loud enough to make me jump. “You’re a menace. I have half a mind to book you for obstructing justice and criminal stupidity, but I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.” He put on his most intimidating cop face I’d seen so far and poked his right index finger in the middle of my chest. “You. Stay. Put. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything. Don’t talk to anyone. If you get a bright idea, ignore it. I have to go. We’d better not see each other till this case is over. You have my number. Call me only if it’s an emergency. No. Call 9-1-1 if it’s an emergency. Call me only if it’s something very important but not quite an emergency. Keep your nose out of trouble.” He put extra stress on those last words, and then he turned and let himself out.
I rushed after him. “Nick!”
If he heard my voice or the pleading in it, he didn’t let me know. From the door, I saw him walk away without as much as a wave good-bye. I rubbed my stinging eyes. Fine. This will pass. But I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t erase the image of Nick’s annoyed and disappointed expression. I’d screwed up with him again. I was a serial screwer-upper. The sun went down while I agonized over every word that had passed between us. I felt depressed and tired to the bone. I went to bed early but couldn’t sleep, because my brain refused to power down. After tossing and turning for an hour, I marched to the bathroom and took a prescription sleeping pill. It was the last one in the bottle. Well, that had to be for the best. I didn’t want to get addicted to that stuff. I put the empty bottle down on the counter and went back to bed. Tomorrow would be another day and all that crap.
The next one was a dull, dull day. So was the one after, and the one after that. I didn’t see or hear from Nick the whole week, and it made me surly and twitchy—not a good thing when you man the register in a store for a couple of hours a day.
It was already the most taxing part of the job—some customers thought that working behind the register meant you were some kind of loser and got snooty about it. And you could do nothing but give them fake smiles and snicker inwardly about their food choices. Roger, our boss, must’ve noticed something too, because he rearranged my schedule so I spent the peak hours stocking dairy, which was fine with me. Unfortunately, it also gave me time to keep wondering if I’d ever see Nick again.
I was short-tempered enough to snap at Olly when I spotted him furiously texting behind a stack of boxes. “Are you reporting to your bosses, Mata Hari?”
He looked at me with confusion. “Who?”
“She was a famous spy.”
He pinked. “Are you still upset about me talking to Nick? You know I can’t lie. And how was I supposed to know it was a big deal?”
I grumbled something about silence being golden, but his eyes were already back on the phone screen. “You don’t seriously think I keep tabs on you for Nick?” he asked.
“Nah, of course not.” Well, except in my darkest moments, but Olly was really a terrible liar. He would’ve made a hopeless spy. I watched with awe as both his thumbs flew over the keys. I typed with my index finger and slowly.
Ultimately, he huffed and stowed the phone away. “One of my roommates’ rent check bounced again. He makes plenty enough on tips but spends it all on stupid stuff. Seriously, who needs fifteen pairs of designer jeans? Some people are so irresponsible. It’s a total waste on him too—he can’t coordinate to save his life. Dylan has less fashion sense than you.”
“Hey, I have fashion sense. I just don’t waste it on work.”
He gave me a once-over. “I don’t know how you hooked someone like Nick looking like a straight guy. What’s with him anyway? Has he come in at all this week?”
“We’re on a break,” I explained and tried to sound nonchalant about it.
“Well, that explains why you’re such a grump. Don’t worry, hon, he’ll be back. You have a nice bod under those rags, and he knows it. I gotta go set up for the demo—pita chips and hummus.” He patted my arm and scampered away.
