by Dan Ames
It hurt to open her eyes, to sit up in bed, to realize how much she’d had to drink the night before. But most of all, it was agonizing to remember the nightmares: horny old men coming at her from all directions.
The capper, the image that had finally jolted her wide awake at five o’clock in the morning: Richard Nixon. Standing on the steps into the Presidential helicopter. His arms held wide, his fingers forming two giant peace signs.
And he was buck naked.
Mary sat on the edge of her bed. She didn’t want to stand up, but she didn’t want to lie back down.
And she wasn’t going to lie to herself. The Shark’s departing shot at her had hit home: ‘…a lonely old maid…’
It wasn’t that she was lonely. Some days? Sure. Once in a while. But it was more the fear that she would become lonely when it was too late to do anything about it. That did trouble her.
The doorbell rang, forcing her to make the decision to stand up.
She walked slowly to the door, her head feeling like an Alaskan buttercup squash.
“Hey,” Chris McAllister said when she opened the door after first looking through the peephole.
“Hey,” Mary said, her voice flat and tired.
“Um, I was going to walk up to Peet’s Coffee – did you want me to grab you a cup or anything?”
Jesus, this guy was unbelievable. And blessed with perfect timing.
“Yes,” Mary said. “The biggest, strongest coffee they have, please. Here, let me grab my purse.”
Chris smiled. “No, no, it’s on me. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Okay, thanks,” Mary said.
She closed the door and made her way to the bathroom. She popped three Tylenol then stood under a blazing hot shower for as long as she could stand it.
By the time she was dressed in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, Chris was back with her coffee.
They sat together at the kitchen table, both slightly angled toward Mary’s view of the Pacific.
“I like this side of the building better,” he said.
“The view could be worse,” Mary said.
“I wasn’t just talking about the view,” he said. And smiled at her.
“Ordinarily, I love morning innuendo,” Mary said. “But this coffee is the only thing separating me from rigor mortis.”
“Rough night?” he said.
“Rough day. Rough night.”
He nodded and sipped his coffee. “I hear you’re a private investigator,” he said. He smiled, his eyes conveying the excitement he felt of talking to a real-live p.i.
“I’m afraid I am,” Mary said. “I got my license through correspondence school. I had a double major: private investigation and seamstressing.”
“What’s your current case? Or can’t you tell me?”
“Umm, it’s…”
“I was kidding, you don’t have to tell me…”
“No, it’s just, it involves family, and someone was hurt, and I’m trying to find the person who did it.”
“Oh, wow, I didn’t mean to pry. Are you…close to catching him?”
“It sure doesn’t feel like it,” Mary said, rubbing her head. “Sorry, I don’t have a lot of anecdotes…”
“Hey, that’s okay, maybe next time we…” he paused, embarrassed about what to say. “…have dinner, you can tell me some stories.”
“I don’t have good stories. Good neighbors. But not good stories.”
He actually blushed a little bit.
“You know what happened between us, the other day…” she said.
“Did something happen?” he said with a small smile.
“Yeah, well–”
“Okay, Mary, I understand,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I know what happened isn’t common for you. And it sure as hell isn’t common for me.”
Mary set her coffee down and looked at him.
He got her sense of humor. He was handsome. He seemed to be nice.
Uh-oh, she thought.
I’m in trouble.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Later that afternoon, she was outlining the progress of the case and still thinking about Chris McAllister when Jake called.
“Let’s get some sushi,” he said.
“Let’s not.”
“Oh, come on. You love raw fish and seaweed.”
“Stop with the sweet talk.”
“Sushi King sound good?”
The Sushi King was a cheap sushi place on Wilshire she and Jake used to go to on a regular basis. Not the best place in L.A. for sushi, but not the worst, either.
“Is salmonella all I’ll get out of this deal?” Mary said.
“What, now you need a special reason to see me?”
“Actually, I just need a reason to see you.”
“Why this sudden shift in Jake policy?”
“Because it strikes me as odd,” Mary said. “I haven’t gotten a lunch or dinner invitation from you in quite some time. I believe one of the reasons you fell so desperately in love with me was my curiosity. And as you can see, it still functions quite powerfully. So I’m wondering, why the offer now? Are you looking for a little quid pro quo?”
“Your cynicism saddens me, Mary.”
“Your sadness makes me cynical, Jake.”
“Are you done now?” Jake said.
“No.”
“There will be something besides food you’ll appreciate. And no, I don’t mean me.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
If she’d been at the Hump, her favorite sushi place in L.A., she would have ordered the sashimi, and had it while watching Tom Cruise take off in his P-51 Mustang from the little Santa Monica airport, just off of where the Hump was located.
But this was the Sushi King.
So she ordered a spider roll and an Asahi Dry.
Jake’s order took a full three minutes for him to complete.
“You know, the ocean’s fish resources are scheduled to be depleted by 2050. You’re not helping,” Mary said.
“You’re supposed to have fish three times a week – I have it once but eat three times as much,” he said.
“Very efficient,” Mary said. “So why the luxurious offer to this swanky place?”
“I just wanted to check out your body again close up,” he said.
“Very sensitive, Jake,” Mary said. “A woman barely survives an assault and you immediately start leering at her. I hope you’re not the department’s grief counselor.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “I’m surprised any of those old bastards survived. I can’t believe you only shot one. You must be getting old.”
“It’s sort of hard to be menacing when you’re buck naked. Except for your girlfriend, Davies.”
The waitress brought Mary’s beer and Jake’s sake.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jake said, after the waitress had left.
“So what it is it you wanted to tell me?” Mary said. She didn’t want to get into this again. Maybe it was Chris McAllister, or maybe it was something that needed to be talked about seriously, and she wasn’t ready for it. Not just yet.
“I’m dying of curiosity,” Mary said. She stuffed a piece of spider roll into her mouth and studied the poster on the wall describing all the different kinds of sushi.
“We have a confession in the murder of your uncle,” Jake said.
He glanced up at Mary, a curious expression on his face.
She looked down from the poster at him.
“Was it some loony homeless guy who wandered in to the station from Ocean Avenue and gave a confession for a free meal and a warm bed?” Mary said.
Jake shook his head again.
“Mark Reihm,” he said.
Mary remembered him immediately – he had been one of the crew at Aunt Alice’s house whom she’d questioned. He’d been the one with the acne scars and the buzz cut.
“So, what, his guilty conscience drove him to confess?” she said.
“Actually, it drove him to suicide. He confessed in a note.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “He’s dead and he confessed in a note? And you believe it?”
Jake shrugged. “We’re checking it out.”
Mary started to tell him not to bother, that whoever was behind these killings wasn’t the kind to be plagued by a guilty conscience. But she stopped herself. She sort of liked the idea of Jake and the Shark running around, following up silly leads that would go nowhere. That would give her time to find out the real killer.
“Wow, that’s great,” Mary said. “Maybe they’ll put you on the cover of Police Weekly. Or, even better, Playgirl,” she said. “Detective Jacob Cornell. He fights crime! He protects society! He talks on the phone naked!”
“Oh, I bet you could picture me naked,” Jake said. He smiled a sly smile at her.
She could picture him naked and on top of her gazing down into her eyes. Actually he looked incredibly hot right now, with that stupid little grin on his face. Like a boy peeking through a peephole at the girly show.
“If I want an image of you naked, I’ll order the river eel,” she said, pointing with her chin toward the sushi bar.
He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not apologizing yet again for what happened. You dumped me. I got shit faced and made a mistake. Get over it. In fact, I think you’re already over it, but you’re pretending not to be so you don't have to admit to yourself just how much you still love me.”
She made a face at him, smeared a big dab of wasabi on her salmon and popped it into her mouth. The wasabi’s heat made her eyes water and her face flush. Which is what she’d hoped for, because she knew she was blushing. Jake was right, but she didn’t want to admit it. Mary felt embarrassed and a little ashamed of herself, which had probably been Jake’s intention.
He watched her with that stupid grin on his face. It was getting wider.
He glanced up at the waitress and got her attention. “More sake, please,” he said. “Lots more.”
Chapter Sixty
Mary snapped her eyes open, saw her bedroom wall, and realized she’d been having a nightmare. A nightmare where a bunch of old men hyped up on Viagra had their way with her over and over again.
“And I thought I’d seen it all,” she said, as she swung out of bed.
She showered and drove to Aunt Alice’s house. The owner of the house was parked on the couch, watching Animal Planet.
“What do you know about Mark Reihm?” Mary asked.
“Limp-dicked wussy,” Alice said, without taking her eyes from the television.
“Nice,” Mary said. “Very colorful.”
“Thank you.”
“So could he kill someone?”
“With his breath, yes.”
Mary took a deep breath. Dealing with a Cooper was never an easy proposition.
“Mark Reihm couldn’t kill anyone,” Alice said. “The man was a useless pile of flesh with bad breath and the occasional good punch line.”
“Your memories are so heartfelt,” Mary said.
“He was a wimp,” Alice said. “Sorry, but it’s true. He didn’t have the balls to kill anyone. His nuts were probably like mini brussel sprouts. They should make those, you know, like those mini corn cobs in Asian stir-fry…”
Mary took yet another deep breath. “You’re absolutely sure,” she said. “Well, I don’t plan to pursue it, and hope I’ll gain a lot of ground on the cops. If I’m wrong, I’ll blame you.”
“He didn’t do it,” Alice said. “I’m positive. I know psychopaths are always the guys who the neighbors thought were nice, but quiet. But I knew this Reihm guy pretty well. Maybe fooled around with him a little bit.”
Mary raised her eyebrow.
Alice’s face took on a slightly naughty expression. “Well,” she said. “His last name was Reihm.”
“Too much information,” Mary said.
“Oh, yeah, who’d you have sex with?”
“What?” Mary said.
“I can tell. You don’t seem so manly. I figured you must’ve gotten laid. About time. Was it Braggs?”
Mary headed for the door.
“It was Milton Berle,” Mary said.
“He’s dead!” Alice called out.
Just before the door closed, Mary got in the last word.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Chapter Sixty-One
The next day, Mary was arrested outside her office by a pair of young patrolmen.
“Exactly what are the charges?” she said when they placed her in the back of the squad car headed for downtown.
The young cop in the passenger seat answered her. “You’re under arrest for sexual battery.”
She pondered that for a moment.
“Sexual battery?” Mary said. “That’s what runs my vibrator.”
The cops ignored her and before she knew it, she was in a holding cell by herself.
She paced the small room. The metal bed frame attached to the wall. The stainless steel toilet. This was the second time in a matter of days she’d found herself in jail. This wasn’t a good thing. Not the kind of career trajectory she’d envisioned.
“I thought you told us you were a chubby chaser,” a voice said behind her. “Now you’re into old guys, too?”
Mary turned and saw Sergeant Davies leaning casually against the door to her cell. Jake was behind her.
“I prefer the phrase fully ripened,” Mary said. “Old is too pejorative.”
“Come on, Mary, don’t you get tired of this?” Jake asked.
“No, as I recall, you had a penchant for getting tired,” Mary said. “Is that still true, Sergeant?”
Jake turned and walked away.
“Ronald Clarey,” the Shark said.
“Never heard of him,” Mary responded.
“Claims he met you at a senior citizens center and you portrayed yourself as a financial planner,” she said, reading from a sheet of paper in her hand. “Says he invited you to his apartment where he says you forced yourself on him. He has submitted his clothes as evidence.”
“You sent his Depends to the lab for DNA tests?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Davies said.
“This is bullshit,” Mary said. “He was probably one of the Nixons – one of the old guys who attacked me. They couldn’t kill me so now they’re trying to keep me in jail.”
“We’re looking at the two cases as unrelated, for now,” Davies said.
Mary was about to answer when she heard the voice of Visa.
“Well, well, well,” it said. Mary looked and saw over Davies’ shoulder the tanned countenance of Whitney Braggs and the bright orange curls of attorney Joan Hessburg.
“Ms. Cooper, you’re free to come with me.” The attorney handed Davies a piece of paper.
“If you continue to harass my client by throwing her in jail every chance you get, you may find yourself locked up before too long,” the attorney said. “Consider it a fair warning.”
Davies didn’t flinch.
“Go to hell, Curly,” she said.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Until this case is resolved, you have been granted temporary status as a registered sex offender,” Hessburg said to Mary once they’d gotten out of the jail building.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your…ah…offbeat proclivities?” Braggs said. “And more importantly how come I wasn’t one of your conquests?”
“I didn’t think you could handle it,” Mary said. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Hessburg had a small folder in her hands, and read from the sheet on top of it. “Ms. Cooper, according to this, you are to not go within 100 feet of nursing homes, physical therapy offices, and other centers of the elderly,” said Hessburg.
“You forgot bingo parlors,” Braggs said.
“I’m not hearing this,” Mary said.
“My office will be in contact with you regarding your court date,”
Hessburg said. “I’ll have an assistant gather the necessary information and paperwork so it should go smoothly. I believe this is a ridiculous charge designed to provide pressure to you in some manner. I’m confident it will be dropped quite quickly.”
“Did you say I couldn’t handle it?” Braggs said, his voice incredulous. “Let me tell you…”
Mary held up her hand.
“Lunch is moving from my stomach up toward my esophagus, Braggs,” Mary said. “I suggest you stop.”
He complied.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The names ran through Mary’s head like old news headlines of tragic stories. Ready Betty. Martin Gulinski. David Kenum. All eliminated, some of them quite literally, from the picture.
Only one name remained from the list she’d generated with the help of Brent’s old gang.
Marie Stevens. The old guys had said that she was buried at Forest Hills. And that Harvey Mitchell had paid for her burial. But Mitchell had said she was crazy and never mentioned where she was buried or if he had in fact paid for it.
The drive to Forest Hills didn’t take long, nor did finding the manager of the cemetery to the stars.
“I called a while back about a Marie Stevens,” Mary said to the manager, a highly effeminate older man wearing a conservative suit and sporting smokers’ teeth. “I recall you said there were two.”
“Yes, I recall that,” the man said, not offering anything more.
“Can you tell me where I can find their final resting places?”
Mr. Tidy whipped out a walking map of Forest Hills and a slim black pencil. He clicked on a desktop computer, typed in a few words, then circled two plots on opposite ends of the cemetery.
“This is where they are in repose,” he said. His eyebrows lifted on the word ‘repose.’
Mary took the map and walked to the farthest one first. It was a classic L.A. day – warm and sunny with a sense of foulness in the air.
She still couldn’t believe she’d been labeled a sexual predator – and that her prey was elderly men. She shook her head. What a low point in her life. And now here she was surrounded by dead people. Old men and dead people. That was the kind of company she’d been keeping lately.
