Samantha raised her head and arched her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Maybe he gives private lessons. Like piano lessons or something.”
It was a casual comment, but just as Roger said it, Samantha jumped from the chair, right out of her shoes, and into his arms. She squeezed him hard and kissed him square on his lips. It was the first time she had ever kissed him.
“Roger, I love you, I love you!”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a genius.” She scooped up her shoes and ran off, leaving Roger without a clue.
Before he could recover, Roger’s senior coworker emerged from the forensics lab and joined him in the lobby. Calvin Maxwell was shorter and chubbier than Roger, but he was also bespectacled and equally nerd-like. He wore an identical white lab coat, and had apparently witnessed Samantha’s reaction the moment before. He asked, “What the hell did you say to her?”
“Something about piano lessons,” was Roger’s listless reply.
As they watched Samantha round the corner, Calvin muttered, “Tell her I took piano lessons, will ya?”
* * * *
When Samantha reached for the doorknob to her office, she heard a gruff and familiar voice. “Hey, Sammy, wait a minute.”
It was Captain Silvio Gutto. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the middle-aged department head was waddling up the hall. A five o’clock shadow seemed permanently fixed on his face, and the afternoon hours, as always, resulted in a blue tie loosened from his neck. He too held a stack of papers, and he was still reading them as he neared. “Here’s a fax of the L.A. Coroner’s report you wanted,” he said. “It seems your hunch was wrong.”
Samantha frowned. “Why?”
“Because according to your old buddy, Harpreet Singh, Stiles died of natural causes. Some kind of cardiovascular somethin’ or other.”
Samantha tensed her mouth. “No, that can’t be right.” She snatched the pages from her boss and ransacked them as he watched, scratching the salt and pepper hair on top of his head. She knew Harpreet Singh very well since he was the San Francisco County Coroner during her first eight years on the force. This past year he took the higher paying job down in L.A.
Samantha started to formulate a plan to pay him a visit. She knew he would appreciate seeing his old San Franciscan friend again. “Sil, I need to see Dr. Singh as soon as possible. Can I fly down there tomorrow?”
“Can’t you just call him on the phone?”
“No, Sil, no phone. This is something I have to do in person.”
“Go on, then, Sammy.” He was the only one who called her that. “You know what you’re doing.”
Samantha knew he meant what he said. She also knew that word from the top made it clear to allow her the space she needed to pursue her investigations. Captain Gutto was a man who followed orders—and Samantha was well aware that when those orders involved her, he didn’t ask questions.
* * * *
It was a sunny afternoon, and duties in the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office were lighter than usual. Dr. Harpreet Singh was typing the final entry of his most recent report. Always diligent, he was proud of the way he ran his department and, being an immigrant from India, was pleased with the status and position he had attained.
Harpreet’s fingers tapped an unbroken rhythm onto his keyboard until a woman’s footsteps drew his gaze from the computer screen. Looking up, he witnessed a heavenly visitation centered in his doorframe. It was Detective Jones, the blond angel sent by the gods to remind the men of earth why they bothered toiling in the pits of hell every day.
Harpreet was first to speak. “Detective Jones, it’s so nice to see you. What brings you to my humble workplace?” At this point, he didn’t care what it was, only that it would occur more often.
“Hi, there, Harpreet,” Samantha cooed in a voice Harpreet immediately noticed was sexier than usual. Her long hair fell loose about her shoulders, appearing fluffier and atypically disheveled. She wore her usual tight skirt, but it seemed a little tighter today. Hot pink in color, the matching top was also extra taut, especially around her bust. The upper two buttons were undone, revealing cleavage, and it was something Harpreet was also quick to notice. Her full breasts, propped upward, appeared likely to burst through her blouse with but the slightest prod.
Trying to keep his eyes above her neckline, Harpreet managed to sputter, “Yes, well, what can I do for you today?”
“Oh, I’m just here in L.A. for a bit,” she crooned, “and then I thought of you.” She pointed at Harpreet with an index finger atop a bent wrist. “So I said to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what my good friend Harpreet is doing right now?’ Well, hhhmm, you don’t look too busy. Are you?”
“No, no, not at all,” Harpreet quickly answered. Although a married man, he dared believe his lucky day had come.
Samantha stepped into his office, and with every switch of hips her bosom notably jiggled. Harpreet cared not at all when she sat on his desk next to his mouse. It was when she leaned over in front of him, that’s when he almost choked. He made a concerted effort to maintain control. He failed miserably, however, in the effort to keep his eyes off her breasts.
Samantha fiddled with his tie. “What are you typing, Harpreet?”
“Typing?” He had forgotten already.
Samantha turned her head, as if to read the death certificate on his computer screen. “Oh, I see it’s your official report on the Stiles case.” She swung her gaze back to him. “Now Harpreet, I saw this report, and I just didn’t believe you could have missed what really killed this man.”
Harpreet’s heart skipped a beat. “You already knew what killed him?”
Samantha smiled. “Of course. When your report listed cardio-vascular disease, I just knew you must have made a mistake.” Her sparkling blue eyes seemed to pierce his soul. “I also know there’s someone out there who’s made your bank account much larger than the measly checks you cash from here. Much larger. Isn’t that right, Harpreet?”
As Samantha combed her nails through his hair, Harpreet hoped it was only his bank account she noticed was larger. With a gulp, he asked, “How did you find out?” Then he scrunched his eyes shut to lessen the pain.
Samantha played once again with his tie and pulled it tight. “Never mind how I found out. What I want you to tell me is exactly what you found out. I know you’re good. You are good, aren’t you, Harpreet? My good, little naughty, naughty Harpreet.” Each time she said naughty, she dabbed her finger on the tip of his nose.
Realizing this wasn’t his lucky day at all, Harpreet babbled, “Yes, yes, I mean, no, I mean, yes, I am good. Please, Miss Jones, what do you want me to do?” His eyes remained closed, but Harpreet was sincere. He put himself at the mercy of the goddess he adored.
“I want you to prove to me how good you are and tell me what your real findings were. If they match what I already know to be true, then I will let you keep your little secret as long as you use your extra bonus in the bank to take your family to Disneyland this summer.”
Harpreet opened his eyes. “Disneyland?”
“Disneyland. And one more thing. Whenever you fix your reports from now on, be sure to tell me. And I’ll be sure to keep it secret. Okay?”
Harpreet nodded. “Okay.”
Shortly thereafter, Samantha departed from the office, at which point Harpreet swiveled his chair back to his monitor. Only then did he remember what he had been typing. It was the fatality report of one Fritz Johanson. Harpreet, confused, scratched his cheek.
* * * *
Samantha exited the county building satisfied her coroner friend revealed the true cause of Benjamin Stiles’ death. Her top buttoned up and her hair in a ponytail, she stopped for a moment to readjust the bra beneath her blouse and then continued on her way. Her gait was quick and determined. She was thinking about Trent Smith.
Chapter Three
Romp at the Flip Flop Club
Looming skyscrapers seemed to frown up
on Trent, as he mingled with hundreds of pedestrians crowding the streets of midtown Manhattan. Blazing neon lights transformed the night into an eerie haze of commercialized color, and once again he rambled over the same busy boulevards he had roamed the two previous evenings. Unfazed by the glowing superstructures, he thought instead of the reason for his first time visit to New York City.
The name in his head was Jeremiah Flint, the famous movie star who also happened to be in town. Flint was here to accept an award for his latest motion picture despite his controversial past. Charged with the murder of his wife and her young daughter, a jury found him innocent due to insufficient evidence. Since then, it became apparent that his fans had simply dismissed that dark episode of yesteryear and replaced it in their collective memories with his scripted heroics chronicled on celluloid.
Trent’s destination was the Flip Flop Club. For the in crowd, it was the in thing. With the skill of a ninja, he slipped ahead of long lines and once again lounged in an obscure booth, pretending to be part of the scene. Although the setting was dark, colorful lights spotted every surface, deflected off a disco ball suspended from the ceiling.
Pulsing beats pounded his eardrums, but they weren’t sounds Trent could appreciate. This Rap, or Hip Hop phenomenon, was not music to him. It was nothing more than a beat with bad poetry. And it was very bad poetry. He gave it no mind. Once Jeremiah Flint made an entrance, nothing else would matter. Enough celebrities already attended to his chagrin, and after three nights of the same, he had his fill of upper-class arrogance. To him, they were like spoiled children. Privileged and selfish, he detested them all.
It was interesting to Trent, however, that when the biggest stars arrived, tuxedoed greeters ushered them into a hallway across from the front lobby. No one else dared enter except the women in their company who, most likely, were high-priced call girls. Even bodyguards were denied admittance, and that was Trent’s most significant observation, but he gleaned one other thing. At midnight, a collection of stunningly beautiful young women would arrive and enter into that same corridor. Trent surmised a privileged gathering took place in some private room, and when Flint finally showed, no doubt he’d be welcomed, also. Trent knew he would have to get in there, but two bouncers guarded the hallway’s entrance, one on either side.
At the other end of the disco, several employees worked the bar and the adjoining lounge, but at its midpoint another corridor accessed the floor. Trent kept a keen eye on the single sentry glued to its corner. Perhaps this was an alternate route, and he decided it was time to find out.
After weaving across the swarming dance floor, Trent stationed himself on the vacant side of the opening. Eventually, a group of boisterous ladies engaged the idle bouncer, and during the diversion, Trent slipped inside.
The passage loomed dark and narrow, and halfway down, several doors aligned the wall. Just as Trent moved past them, one swung open, expelling a rush of club personnel. Trent peeked over his shoulder, assured nobody saw him, but turning his head forward again proved the shock of his life. He nearly planted his face into the chest of a massive body that seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was a human roadblock spanning the width of the hallway. Looking up, Trent distinguished Polynesian features glaring down at him. A Samoan, he concluded of the hulking presence. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, the man’s attire revealed him not to be a bouncer, but someone’s bodyguard.
The man snarled, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I was looking for the restroom.”
“Well, it’s not down here,” the monstrous figure bellowed. “Go use the one on the main floor.”
The demeaning tone irritated Trent, but he turned around and retraced his steps, all the while noting the Samoan behemoth close on his heels. Once back on the dance floor, however, Trent discovered the event for which he waited was taking place in pompous pageantry. Jeremiah Flint had just made his grand entrance. Scores of people crowded around him, even while his buffering entourage scythed a path through the shimmering field of flesh.
Dressed in a silk suit of golden teal, the actor exuded obvious loathing for the cheering fans. His arrogance was on display for all to see, yet the swooning women and idolizing men were blind to it. Trent witnessed it personally, and he was more determined than ever to administer the justice that eluded this killer for so many years.
When he approached as near as he could without being manhandled, Trent studied his prey. Flint was as advertised—a solid six feet, three inches, and two hundred, forty pounds of steroid inflated muscle. Underneath his unbuttoned jacket, he wore an open white shirt. His bronzed skin was smooth and shiny, as though polished for the night’s occasion. A blond rode one arm, a redhead the other, and when they reached the guarded hallway, ushers enthusiastically admitted the shameless threesome.
Returning to his booth, Trent decided to wait it out, not wanting to attract further attention than he had already by bumping into the king-sized bodyguard. But waiting was never easy for Trent. Tonight he would finish his business on the East Coast, and now the minutes moved more slowly than on the nights when the actor never showed.
Still, the hours passed, and closing time finally arrived. The DJ stopped the music and bid his farewell. Club workers scurried to and fro, as did customers preparing to leave. Trent avoided the bouncers who hawked up stragglers by finding a niche here, a cranny there, or dark curtains to hide behind.
Most of the staff had vacated the floor, and Trent made up his mind to get into that back room. Though the many groupies had long since departed, the stars and their ‘dates’ never resurfaced. Apparently, their celebrity status exempted them from any kind of curfew, evidenced further by the bouncers who remained posted in front. But when the one at the disco’s midpoint departed, Trent wasted no time. Again, he sleuthed the alternate tunnel, this time with a quicker pace until he reached a T-shaped intersection. He turned toward his objective, and at the end of the hall, another lobby contained a door to the restricted room.
Just as Trent approached, the door swung outward, spewing throbbing beats of techno music along with a man in a ruffled white tuxedo. It was Robert Westwood, the filmmaker known for his hardcore living in a bygone era. Trent recognized the aging actor because his movies had appeared in Japan over the years, and clearly his drunken ways hadn’t changed. Reeking of alcohol, he could barely walk. Trent let him pass, and before the door sealed, he darted inside, where he experienced an instant shift of his five senses.
First, the louder music assaulted his ears. Next, the smell of high-grade marijuana invaded his nose, and Trent could even taste the sickly sweet aroma as it gagged down his throat. The setting was dark and heavy for low lights and a hovering cloud of wall-to-wall smoke that clung to his skin.
While his senses adjusted to the alien atmosphere, Trent took in his surroundings as best as he could. The room was relatively small, about half the size of the main floor. Round tables lined the room, each adorned with a red tablecloth and a single red candle. Both sidewalls and the back remained dark, but the front featured a stage illuminated by multihued spotlights from above. Upon the stage, a diverse troupe of dazzling young women danced to the pulsing sounds provided by a DJ who doubled as a master of ceremonies.
It was a captivating sight, Trent admitted to himself, because not one of the dancing women wore a stitch of clothing. Except for make-up, jewelry, and a pair of high-heels, each was as bare as the day she was born. Fortunately, the audience was focused either on the dancers or on the drugs at their tables, so no one yet noticed him standing beguiled.
As Trent edged the sidewall toward the rear, he observed the room’s occupancy to be about half its maximum, and the attendees, to a man, seated up in front. Almost every one of them seemed familiar, but Trent wasn’t there to play who’s who of Celebrity Row. He scanned the room for the man he planned to kill and spotted him at the table nearest to the stage. The ladies with whom he arrived, disrobed at this point, were engaged in lewd acts with the star. Tre
nt noticed a lack of discretion at several of the tables, each participant not caring in the least if someone might be watching.
Disgusted by the brazen debauchery, Trent took the furthest seat and kicked his feet onto the tabletop. He leaned his chair against the wall and crossed his arms to endure the indecent festivities.
Over the course of the night, Trent learned the dancers were known as the ‘Global Girls’ and alternated as waitresses to accommodate their customers. In waitress mode they donned a G-string matched with an equally skimpy brassiere. Two doors with horizontal windows sandwiched the stage at floor level. After a lady vanished behind one, she reappeared through the other, carrying a full platter of illicit delights. It seemed they offered all varieties of alcoholic beverages and every kind of recreational drug on the house. The patrons complied with generous tips, however, as the waitressing stints ended with rows of cash tucked into and around the straps of the girls’ skimpy outfits, or piled atop their circular serving trays.
Trent noted the performers included sultry white women, stunning black women, and alluring Asian ladies representing the Orient. The exotic cast also included pert Polynesians and spicy Senoritas. Although billed as the Global Girls, Trent figured they were probably—each and every one of them—born and raised in New York City.
Despite their uninhibited state of undress, the men were not allowed to grope the girls or request sexual favors. The attendees performed their carnal acts only on the women with whom they arrived. Trent was amused that the establishment provided drugs, alcohol, and bawdy entertainment, but it was a ‘bring your own prostitute’ deal.
Hours passed, and as the party progressed, Trent remained apart and undiscovered. Eventually, however, one of the black dancers, taking her turn as a waitress, noticed him sitting alone in the back and with his feet still on the table. At first, she hesitated, but then she approached him.
Killer of Killers Page 3
