by Dan Ames
It only took a brief glance at the first headstone of Marie Stevens to cross one off the list. Born in 1909, died in 1961. Her husband had followed her three years later. No way. Brent’s gang was in its heyday at the time, and long after she was dead, when the real Marie Stevens was partying with them.
A two minute walk to the second Marie Stevens also created a black checkmark on Mary’s suspect list.
Born in 1966. Died in 2001.
Too bad, Mary thought. Young.
On the way back to her car, Mary thought about her next steps. She could swing by a V.F.W. Hall and pick out a couple 80-year-old hotties and screw their brains out.
Or she could go back to her office and ransack her Internet resources for this Marie Stevens. Being a sexual predator and all, her first instinct was to go for the old guys. But her sense of duty to Uncle Brent and Aunt Alice led her to the right, and just, decision. Go back to her office and find out what happened to Marie Stevens.
Then go to the V.F.W. and invite some old men to her place for an orgy.
Chapter Sixty-Four
As much as she hated it, she excelled at meeting the organizational demands of her private investigation firm. Scheduling, filing, accounts payable, expenses. They were all nicely filed and collated.
So it took her no time to assemble the stacks of research she’d done this far on Brent’s case.
Mary brewed some coffee and turned on her office stereo, putting Prince’s CD Musicology on to play. As the stuttering rhythms filled the office, she dove back into the history of Brent Cooper and his supporting cast of cuckoos.
What came to her after nearly an hour of intense reading was that it seemed like Brent and Harvey Mitchell were really the founding fathers of the dysfunctional group. Whitney Braggs played a significant role, as well, but not quite as expansive as the other two.
It was those two who had the big house in Malibu that essentially became party headquarters. They had the first paying gigs – as writers on some long defunct variety show. And it was those two who had progressed the farthest and the fastest in terms of success; with Mitchell obviously eclipsing all of them by a huge margin.
But despite her best efforts, she could find no further mention of Marie Stevens. Nor any pictures. Not any illuminating mentions of a Marie, or an attractive young brunette who had a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for booze and drugs.
By the time she hit the bottom of her material and found the top of her desk, it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Mary did some rapid calculations in her mind and decided that she had just enough time to try one last-ditch effort to find Marie Stevens.
She flew out of the office and into the Accord and fifteen minutes later she was at a run-down neighborhood in Venice.
The Southern California Comedy Museum looked less like a public space and more like a St. Vincent DePaul gone to seed. Mary had just read about its grand opening in the local paper. Well, it had actually been their non-grand opening, because it had been cancelled and postponed to an undetermined date.
She parked the Accord and went to the door. Inside, she could see two men standing next to a kiosk. One wore a tattered sport coat with filthy khakis, the other had on blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a tool belt.
Mary opened the door and stepped inside.
“We’re not open,” the guy in the mangy sport coat said.
Mary flashed her badge. He saw it, and turned to the guy in the tool belt.
“I’m not upgrading my service – just do it so I can turn on the lights without blowing a fuse, please.”
He walked over to Mary.
“What can I do for you, Officer?” the guy asked. Mary didn’t correct him.
“I need to do some research on a woman who lived here in L.A. back in the fifties and sixties,” she said. “Her name was Marie Stevens and she was tight with a group of guys. Brent Cooper was one of them, and Harvey Mitchell was another.”
“Look, man,” the guy said to her. “This ain’t a frickin’ research center. It’s a comedy museum. One without much electricity,” the guy raised his volume so the guy in the tool belt would hear. “And I still haven’t seen your badge.”
“Look, Brent Cooper was my uncle,” Mary offered. “He was murdered a week ago and I’m trying to help find his killer. Can you help me out here?”
Just then, the worker flipped a switch and the lights went on inside the room.
“That’s a sign from God, friend,” Mary said. “Ignore it at your own peril.”
The guy turned and walked toward a door in the back. “Well come on,” he said. “You might want to look through this stuff fast. The way things have been going, there’s probably an electrical fire starting somewhere. This place will be toast in a half hour.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
“You got a name, there, Dapper Don?” Mary said.
The guy let out a small smile. “Dapper. I like that.” He looked down at his tattered khakis and grungy sport coat. “Dressed for success,” he said. He held out his hand. “Carl Michaletz.”
“Mary Cooper.” They shook. Mary looked around the room. It was piled with boxes of all shapes, sizes, colors, and branding.
Michaletz pointed to a small group of boxes on the left side. “All of my stuff on the comedy writers and variety show writers from that period are here,” he said, leading her over to the section. “It’s hard to categorize a lot of people from back then, but I did my best.”
He pulled some boxes out and opened the lids to all of them.
“How did you wind up here?” Mary asked. She sat down cross-legged on the concrete floor and pulled up the nearest box. Michaletz pulled a floor lamp over nearer to them and sat down as well.
“I did a lot of coke and booze in the eighties while trying to become a comedian,” he said. “By the time I cleaned up and was sober, I realized I wasn’t very funny.”
“At least you’re honest with yourself,” Mary said. “That makes you the exception.”
She hauled a load of scrapbooks and handbills out of the box and set them on the ground, then began sorting through them.
“I wasn’t bad at business management, though, so I started managing some of the clubs,” Michaleltz continued. “One thing led to another and I got hired to run this place, at the behest of a very wealthy comedian who doesn’t want his name attached to this thing, in case it ends up being a huge embarrassment.”
“Very supportive,” Mary said.
There was a small pop and then a sizzling sound from the back room. Michaletz got up.
“Well, everything I have is here. If I have time, I’ll come back and help you look,” he said. “Marie Stevens, huh? Was that her real name?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
He left Mary to the boxes and she didn’t waste any time.
She thought she smelled smoke.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Most of the material consisted of lots and lots of head shots. Even more call sheets with names and phone numbers. It wasn’t until she hit the bottom of the second to last box that she found something.
It was a series of pictures of Harvey Mitchell. There were lots of them, mostly with other celebrities and a few of him on stage doing different types of things: stand-up, skits, acting.
It was when she got to the photos of Mitchell and Uncle Brent that she sat up and took notice.
Here was Uncle Brent and Harvey Mitchell standing by a swimming pool with drinks in their hands.
And there was another one with Brent and Mitchell leaning against a Porsche.
And finally, the photo that had Mary on her feet, cell phone in hand.
It showed Harvey Mitchell.
And a lithe, stunning brunette with a white dress and ruby lipstick.
Marie Stevens.
In the photo, they had their arms around each other and were mugging to the camera.
But what caught Mary’s eye wasn’t the image of Mari
e.
It was the look on Mitchell’s face.
She’d never really seen that look on her own face, but she’d seen it on others.
It was the look of someone deeply in love.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Mary took PCH to the little village of Malibu, then wound her way up past the estates of Courtney Cox, David Geffen, and others until she reached the hacienda style home of Harvey Mitchell. The ocean fell behind her, the slight haze of the hills seemed to dissipate the higher she went.
There was the requisite Porsche 911 in Mitchell’s circular driveway, along with a giant Lexus SUV. The landscaping was immaculate, the home a sprawling expanse of prized real estate. The rear of the house, Mary knew, would have a breathtaking view of the Pacific.
She rang the bell on the huge pine door and it swung open moments later. A chubby, cherubic face peered out at Mary. The woman was Hispanic and wore a dark skirt with a white blouse.
“Hi, I’m Mary Cooper,” Mary said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Mitchell.”
“Yes, please come in,” the woman said. “My name is Elena.”
Mary stepped inside and caught the scent of citrus, probably lemon, along with an overtone of coffee.
“Mr. Mitchell would like to see you in the garden room,” Elena said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“A Boilermaker would be perfect,” Mary said. Elena gave her a blank look. “I’m fine, I don’t need anything, thank you,” Mary said.
Elena nodded and led Mary through the formal living room, a short hallway laid with Spanish tile, and through a set of double French doors into the garden room.
Mitchell sat on a teak chair with a glass of lemonade. A pitcher of the same stuff sat at the center of the matching teak table, along with another glass.
Elena disappeared without a word, and Mitchell waved Mary to a chair to Mitchell’s left.
“Ms. Cooper,” Mitchell said, his voice low and even. He stood and shook her hand. “Good to see you again. I’m so glad you called for a follow-up interview.”
Mary nodded. “Quite the dump you have here,” she said. She sat down and ignored the glass of lemonade in front of her.
“Thank you,” Mitchell said. His voice the exact same low, level tone.
“Lousy neighborhood, too,” Mary said.
“As much as I enjoyed our first meeting,” Mitchell said. “I’m quite surprised you requested an encore. I found our last interview to be quite satisfying and shall we say, complete.”
“I felt the same way, Harv,” Mary said. “But you know, you’re quite the stud. Surely you’re used to women coming back asking for more.”
Mitchell took a sip of his lemonade.
“This is Hollywood, Ms. Cooper. Nothing is as it appears. Velvet curtains and smoky celluloid,” Mitchell said. He waved his hands in the air and wiggled his fingers.
“Actually, it’s all digital now,” Mary said. “No celluloid.”
Mitchell sat before her, calm and still.
“But you were quite the ladies man,” she said. “You have to admit that.”
“Ah, your Uncle Brent was the ladies man. I was a bumbling teenager compared to him.”
“Even in the eyes of Marie Stevens?”
Mitchell adopted a brief look of confusion, then as if a memory finally came to him, he nodded.
“Yeah, I remember her,” he said. “You asked me about her before, right?”
Mary nodded.
“No, she definitely wasn’t one of these phantom women enamored with my charms that you talk about,” Mitchell said. “She was just kooky. I think Brent warmed the sheets with her, though. Maybe Braggs did, too.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No. Mental defects aren’t a big turn-on for me.”
He stretched his legs and then stood. “Mind if we walk and talk?” he said. “My doctor says that I should stand whenever I can, as opposed to sitting. Better for my circulation,” he said.
“Modern medicine is overrated. Sit and have some bacon,” Mary said, picking up her glass and following Mitchell.
Another set of doors led to the backyard, which had a pool off to the left, a fireplace and pizza oven with a seating area to the right, and an impressive garden with paths, topiaries, and a prodigious flower garden.
They wound their way past a small cluster of orange trees and deeper into the garden.
“Marie Stevens,” Mary said.
“Boy, you just won’t let her go, will you?” he said. “What do you want from me? I had nothing to do with her.”
“I love the sound of truth. It has a very distinctive ring to it,” Mary said. “Problem is, I’m not hearing it right now. Because I talked to some of your old gang, and they claim you were pretty intimate with Marie. In fact, they said it was you who had arranged her internment at Forest Hills.”
“Forest Hills? I’ve never arranged internment for anyone. Let alone at Forest Hills. It’s nonsense.”
“Are you sure?” Mary said. She pulled out the photograph and showed it to Mitchell. “Celebrities lie,” Mary said. “But pictures usually don’t.”
He looked at it, no emotion on his face.
“Once I saw this,” Mary said. “It motivated me to do a little bit of checking.”
“You know how many women I’ve had my picture taken with?” Mitchell said. “You’re wasting your time.”
“I think you’re wasting my time,” Mary said. “I also think you’re full of shit. I think all of these murders have something to do with this woman and you know what it is. I think you’re hiding it. What, are you in trouble? What happened to Marie Stevens?”
Mitchell looked flushed now, and his easygoing manner had begun to evaporate. He turned and tossed the rest of his lemonade from his glass onto the lawn and then stepped away from Mary.
Now his eyes blazed and his smiled revealed gritted teeth. “You think you’re so smart. Your uncle was a total asshole, just like the rest of them. And just like you.”
The ice cubes in the grass twinkled, and Mary saw Mitchell’s eyes return to her, angling back from some point over her right shoulder.
“The guy wasn’t even funny,” Mitchell said. “Just mean.”
Mary was already moving when glass shattered behind her. Mary hit the ground and rolled, in time to see a body with a rifle tumble from the second story of Mitchell’s house.
She had the .45 in front of her and brought it into line with Mitchell when his head exploded into a red Jackson Pollack before her eyes. His body sagged, then crumpled into a heap. Mary crouched and ran, the .45 in her hand. Bullets tore up chunks of sod as she dove behind a low fieldstone wall. The ricochets stopped and Mary crawled around the end of the wall and peeked into the distance. She saw a thick stand of trees and then a straight drop-off, probably to another row of mansions below.
She raced across the lawn, zigzagging to the end of the garden. Mary weaved her way through the trees and shrubs until she reached the rear of the property. There was a fence, and beyond that, a drop off to a narrow road.
There was no one there.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Checking to make sure Mitchell was dead was not necessary. It’s hard to survive when your head is dismantled into several pieces and what’s left simply evaporates in a cloud of red.
Mary took a few deep breaths to calm herself and to think straight.
This pattern of people dying around her was going to have to stop soon. The police tend to notice when every time they’re called to a murder scene, the same person is there.
She had to leave.
But she needed information. Her instinct told her that Mitchell had lured her out back, and that he intended for her to be the target, not him. But there were two shooters, not one.
Mary raced toward where the gunman had fallen from the window. He was sprawled face down on Mitchell’s outdoor patio. A large pool full of blood covered a portion of the flagstone floor.
Mary grabbed the ma
n’s shoulder and turned him over.
She gasped. Her head swam and she staggered backward, nearly falling if it hadn’t been for the teak table.
The face, what was left of it, she recognized.
And then she began to curse herself. Her insides felt torn up and she wanted to cry. She wanted to bawl her eyes out and scream.
Of course it hadn’t been real.
Of course it had been a set up.
He hadn’t been real at all.
The dead man.
Her neighbor.
Chris McAllister.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Mary’s entire body shook. She felt as if her entire being was about to disintegrate. She had to get control. She had to get a grip.
Mary ran into the house and took a few deep, horribly jagged breaths. How would Mitchell have been in contact with McAllister? Not the home phone – too easily traced. Not the computer, too slow. It must have been via cell phone. McAllister probably would have used a disposable phone. Mitchell, so arrogant, probably had not.
Mary was on the move as she soon as she made up her mind. She raced back to Mitchell, avoided looking at what was left of his face, then patted him down. The cell phone was in the inside pocket of his sport coat.
She slipped it into her pocket and ran for the house.
The lemonade glass. Mary ran back to the table and used a napkin to wipe off any prints she may have left on her lemonade glass. She felt like spitting on McAllister’s dead body, but decided not to. DNA.
Elena. There was nothing Mary could do about her. She raced back inside and then stopped. Mary knew Mitchell was involved, especially because of the way he had turned on her in the last seconds of his life. He had lured her out to the garden, had planned for the shooter to kill her, but instead, he’d been shot.
