by Dan Ames
Total Sarcasm
A Mary Cooper Mystery Trilogy
Dan Ames
Contents
Total Sarcasm
Copyright
Foreword
Death by Sarcasm
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Murder With Sarcastic Intent
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-one
22. Twenty-two
23. Twenty-three
24. Twenty-four
25. Twenty-five
26. Twenty-six
27. Twenty-seven
28. Twenty-eight
29. Twenty-nine
30. Thirty
31. Thirty-one
32. Thirty-two
33. Thirty-three
34. Thirty-four
35. Thirty-five
36. Thirty-six
37. Untitled
38. Thirty-eight
39. Thirty-nine
40. Forty
41. Forty-one
42. Forty-two
43. Forty-three
44. Forty-four
45. Forty-five
46. Forty-six
Gross Sarcastic Homicide
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
About the Author
Total Sarcasm
by
Dan Ames
TOTAL SARCASM is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
Copyright ©2015 by Dan Ames
All rights reserved.
Foreword
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Death by Sarcasm
by
Dan Ames
Sarcasm is the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Sarcasm is the language of the devil.
-Thomas Carlyle
There’s a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore looking like an idiot.
-Steven Wright
Chapter One
Instead of the local rats, a team of crime scene technicians scurried around the grimy alley, popping flashbulbs and taking notes. Occasionally, blue and red lights flashed on the cinderblock walls, courtesy of the black-and-whites blocking each end of the alley.
Mary Cooper stood next to her uncle’s body. The large pool of blood – to her it looked like a Snow Angel from Hell - had already thickened, turning darker as if its purity had been contaminated by the lingering sins of the alley’s sordid past. And even though the club was just a few blocks from the Pacific, the air held a thick pall of L.A.’s favorite aromatherapy scents: rotting garbage, human piss, and death.
Mary had said nothing upon her arrival. Now, several minutes later, the uniforms were starting to sneak glances at her, wondering how long she planne
d to maintain her silent vigil. They unconsciously positioned themselves closer to her, just in case her grief and rage exploded and they needed to restrain her in order to protect the sanctity of the crime scene.
In the alley behind some two-bit comedy bar called the Leg Pull, Brent Cooper had been shot in the head. A large, deep cut had been made across his belly. The knife, a long, bone handled stiletto was then thrust into the body; its perfect verticality looked like an exclamation point to Mary. And the knife held in place a note.
The words on the paper were in thick block letters, probably from a Magic Marker.
Bust a gut.
Mary tore her eyes away from her uncle and glanced up at the officer now standing directly in front of her, watching her. His eyes seemed to implore her to express her emotions, but in a calm, measured way. She could guess what he was thinking. That maybe she would tell him a cute little story about how her uncle used to swing her in the air and threaten to withhold ice cream if she screamed. Or maybe she would tell him how her uncle used to insist on reading ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas every year in front of a crackling fireplace near the twinkling tree. But Mary offered no tidbits. For one thing, Mary had no such stories. Nobody would ever confuse their family with the Cleavers. And while there was definitely grief, and an abundance of rage, she had used the time observing her dead uncle to unclench her fists. To slow her racing heartbeat, and to gather her thoughts. She pushed aside her own feelings and coolly observed the crime scene. Took in the facts of the murder. But at some point, she knew she had to say something to the uniforms.
So then, at last, she turned to them and spoke.
“Are you sure he’s not just asleep?”
Chapter Two
Detective Jacob Cornell emerged from a dark section of the alley and nodded to the uniform guarding the crime scene. Cornell was a big man, with a considerable physique, and a handsome-ish face. Not the kind that would land him on the cover of GQ, but certainly could find him a place in a Walmart flyer modeling $7.99 flannel shirts. Now, he wore a sportcoat that camouflaged his powerful upper body, and khakis that hid the ankle gun Mary knew he always wore.
“Jesus Christ, Mary, he’s your uncle…was your uncle,” he said, his voice a whisper. “I mean, I called you here because I thought you would want to know. I mean, I know it’s not my place, but, a little respect, a little decorum…” His voice trailed off.
Mary nodded in agreement, as if she was glad she’d been properly admonished.
“True, true,” she said. “That’s a very, very good point, Jake.” She paused. “It’s just that he was always such a heavy sleeper. It runs in the family.” She cut her eyes over at him, winked, and said, “You know that.”
Jacob Cornell closed his eyes and held them shut for a beat. And then when he opened them, he looked at her with a sideways glance. “This is not the time and it certainly isn’t the place,” he said, his voice soft.
Mary felt warmed by his indignity. A little pissed that he was judging her, but she was used to that by now. Nobody would ever liken her to an open book. But still, despite his many faults, an overly developed sensitivity chief among them, Mary didn’t mind knowing someone like Jake. So good. So nice. So friggin’ cute.
“I’m not sure why you’re focusing on me, instead of my dead uncle lying over there in repose,” Mary said. “But since you’re questioning me, I ought to remind you that he was a comedian, Jake,” she said. “Believe me, if the roles were reversed, he’d be standing right here saying, ‘What’s the big deal? I’ve died hundreds of times at comedy clubs – but it was always on stage.’” She pantomimed a rim shot. “Boom ch,” she said.
One of the crime scene technicians looked up from his notepad at Mary. She caught his gaze and held it until he looked back down. Jake pulled out a notepad and tried to hide the guilty look on his face.
“Come on,” she said to him. They walked to the end of the alley and Mary looked west, toward the ocean. She couldn’t see anything. Just a vast darkness. She turned and caught her reflection in the store window. Did she look like a woman who’d just identified the corpse of a family member? She studied herself, saw a lean woman with a strong face wearing an expression that was open to interpretation. Just the way Mary liked it.
Jake broke into her thoughts. “A waitress on her smoke break found him,” he said, still speaking softly. “She ran back in and…”
“Was he already dead?”
Jake hesitated, then said, “She thinks he may have been…twitching a little.”
Mary nodded. Her hands involuntarily formed themselves into fists. She forced them back open, willed them to relax.
“So she runs in, calls 911, then finds the manager and they go out together,” Jake continued. “By then, he’s definitely dead.”
“Had they seen him inside? Before?”
“We’re talking to everyone now,” he said. “A few people thought they saw him at the bar, having a drink. A couple others thought he might have done a couple minutes on stage. But no one knows if he left with someone or by himself.”
“Who was on stage when he was there? Who was performing?”
Jake looked at her, his face blank. “Umm...I’ll have someone check on that.”
“Might be worth looking into,” Mary said. “Maybe he came specifically for the show. He’d been around comedy clubs for a long time. Maybe he knew the headliner–”
“Oh, shit,” Jake said, his breath going out of him with a rush. The pen froze above his notepad. He looked directly behind Mary, over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” a voice said. Mary felt the chill of recognition and her stomach turned sour. She turned and came face to face with Jacob Cornell’s superior. Mary should have known the woman would show up.
“Sergeant Davies,” Mary said, her voice calmer and more in control than she would have thought possible. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
Arianna Davies was tall, thin, and pale. Her black hair was cut short. Mary knew that her nickname around the squad room was The Shark. Davies had a well-earned reputation as an apex predator. Now, Mary’s comment hadn’t even caused her to dilate a pupil. Mary noticed, however, that Detective Cornell looked like he wished he could liquefy himself and slide down the storm drain. It was the exact same expression he’d had on when Mary let herself into his apartment only to find The Shark literally eating him alive.
“Ah, I see that at least the Cooper wit still lives on,” Davies said.
Mary felt a spark of anger flash inside her, but she held her face still.
“And speaking of unwanted interruptions,” the Shark said to Jake. “I assume you were interviewing Ms. Cooper.” The way Davies raised her voice at the end made the statement both a question and an indictment.
“Actually, we were just finishing up–” Jake said.
“Good.” Davies turned to Mary and spoke in a flat monotone. “You have our deepest sympathies. We will keep you up to date with the progress of the investigation. You will not do any investigating of your own. If you are observed anywhere near this case, you will be arrested and your private investigator’s license revoked. Is that understood?”
Mary seemed to absorb Davies’ speech with thoughtful concentration. Then she turned to Jake and gestured with her thumb back toward Davies.
“I thought these new robots were equipped with better voice modulators,” she said.
Chapter Three
Mary wound up at a dive bar on Ocean Boulevard that had been there since the Rat Pack was big.
Three strong drinks later, Mary looked at herself again in the bar mirror, remembering the young cop standing across from her, her dead uncle between them. The cop had looked at her, expecting her to choke out through great sobs a heart-touching story about the old man. Goddamnit, she didn’t have any stories. Uncle Brent had been a first-class smart-ass, just like everyone else in the family. He’d made her laugh a couple times, though. Like the
time he’d told their church lady neighbor that he’d been up in Hollywood, making porn movies. Uncle Brent claimed to be making five movies a day, ten bucks a shot. He’d said his stage name was Dickie Ramms.
Mary had been in high school around that time, and she had nearly pissed her pants. Now, she suddenly started at her reflection. Mary was shocked to see a smile on her face, and even more stunned to see moisture around her eyes. It was leaking out onto her cheek. She brushed it away with the back of her hand.
“Quiver,” she said, replaying the family tradition when someone was about to cry. “Come on, quiver,” she said to her reflection.
And that Davies? Come on. What in the world was Jake thinking? She was all wrong for him. Christ, if he wanted a sheet of plywood he should have just gone to Home Depot. Maybe he had some kind of weird fetish for women resembling corpses. Necrophilia Lite. Uh, God, she thought. She felt nauseated over the thought of a corpse. Her uncle. Fuck. What a shitty way to go. The anger came back, and she welcomed it. It was much better than the self-pity she was on the verge of diving into.
The bartender walked over and noticed her expression.
“Everything okay?” he asked. Mary thought she saw a touch of actual caring, along with a healthy dose of good old-fashioned curiosity.
Mary wiped her nose. “No, everything’s not okay. I just lost my uncle.”
The bartender started to offer his condolences, but Mary cut him off.
“But,” she said. “I haven’t looked under the fridge yet.”
The bartender paused, then walked away, shaking his head. Mary shrugged her shoulders. There were people who got her. And there were people who didn’t.
She’d long since given up trying to figure out who was who.
Chapter Four
Hey Brent, what are those photographers shooting? Your last head shot? Damn. Felt good to see that bastard julienned in the alley. It’d felt even better to stick the knife in him, to see the shock on his face.
