by Dan Ames
No message slips.
No appointment book.
Nothing.
Mary glanced up at the ceiling above the front door.
No sign of any security cameras. Which also meant there would be no record of her visit to this shithole.
Mary let herself out of the building. It didn’t matter if there wasn’t a single clue pointing to who had done the murders here.
She already knew.
36
Thirty-six
All she really had was the Tahoe. Mary had jotted down the license plate before she’d attacked the gas guzzler with her golf club, figuring it might come in handy.
Now was the time to put it to use.
Back at her office, she used a program on her computer that matched license plates with addresses, via a highly questionable link-feed installed by a former client.
While she waited for the program to do its work, she thought about the scene at ExtReam.
Gruesome. A lot of dead bodies piling up around the disappearance of Nina Ramirez.
And Derek Jarvis. The guy stunk, even though Mary couldn’t pin anything on him just yet.
Jarvis was either getting frustrated at a lack of information, or he’d gotten the necessary insights and was now cleaning up any loose ends.
On cue, the computer dinged with its completion of the assigned task.
The address came back: 200 North Spring Street. Los Angeles.
Mary looked at the address. Why did it seem so familiar? She stared at it: 200 North Spring Street. It gave her the impression of being something very official.
It took her a minute, but eventually it came.
City Hall.
She leaned back in her office chair.
City Hall.
A black Tahoe.
A guy like Derek Jarvis.
It all came together with one giant, resounding rush.
Mary rocked forward in her chair.
37
Thirty-seven
How often does a mayor actually stay in his office? Mary had no idea. Most of the time, she figured, the mayor avoided his office, just like everyone else.
Besides, she’d seen plenty of pictures of Los Angeles’s current mayor, Thomas Baxter. The images captured the man at golf tournaments, expensive restaurants, and other charity-focused events around the city.
Mary thought about what she knew regarding Mayor Baxter.
He’d been a B-movie actor in the 1980s, mostly playing supporting roles as a quiet, peace-loving bystander. He was a teacher in an HBO series set in a high school. Another time, Mary seemed to recall he was a delicatessen owner, being shaken down by the Mob.
It was the look Baxter had—steadfast, reliable, sort of good-looking but not too much so—that had helped pave the way for his political career.
He was in his second term as mayor.
And like any mayor, he probably had a very vigorous security staff that most likely drove black Chevy Tahoes and felt, on a certain level, above the law.
Mary pulled into a parking structure a block from City Hall and walked to the building.
It was a classic, southern-California day: beautiful blue sky, no breeze, the faint tinge of smog like a smoky flavor on a set of ribs.
Mary went through security, then made her way to the mayor’s office.
It came as no surprise that the mayor’s office wasn’t really an office. It felt more like a library.
There was an anteroom, done all in natural wood with a large table and several people, including at least one cop, sitting facing the door.
When Mary entered, the cop looked up.
“May I help you?” he said.
“Yes, I’m looking for a member of the mayor’s security detail,” she said. “I’m not sure what his name is, but I can give you a description.”
She described Derek Jarvis.
The cop looked at her, then glanced at the woman next to him.
“And what do you need to see him for?” he asked.
Bingo, Mary thought.
“I’m a firearms instructor he’s hired for his team. I came by because he forgot to sign a release that I absolutely have to submit today in order for the exercises to begin next week. He asked me to come by today for the signatures.”
The cop looked at her, looked over her ID, then buzzed her through the security checkpoint.
“Have a seat,” the cop said.
Mary glanced at the magazines on the table. Travel & Leisure. Cigar Aficionado. And Golf Digest. The trifecta of mayoral duties.
A door to the left of the entry way opened, and Derek Jarvis stopped when he saw Mary.
“Well, hello there,” Mary said. “Glad I was able to catch you at work.”
His face set into a mask before he was able to muster a slick little smile. He said something into a microphone on his lapel, and soon, two more security guards were behind Jarvis.
“I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else,” Jarvis said. “Let me escort you safely from the building.”
By now, the people surrounding the entry had joined the party.
“You’re not going to follow me around some more?” Mary said. “Demand information about Nina Ramirez?”
Mary placed a lot of volume behind the girl’s name.
“Let’s move,” Jarvis said. He came at Mary with his two goons.
“What? I don’t get to meet the mayor?” Mary said. “That sucks!”
She let the group push her back toward the door. Her work here was done. She’d established Jarvis’s real role in the case, and she’d delivered a message.
“If you ever come back here, you’ll be arrested,” Jarvis said.
“Oh, I’ll be back,” Mary said. “But when I do, I have a pretty good feeling I won’t be the one getting locked up.”
38
Thirty-eight
Mary knew from news reports that Mayor Baxter had chosen not to live in the official home of the mayor—Getty House in Hancock Park.
Like many other Los Angeles mayors, he had chosen to stay in his original home so that his children could attend the same schools.
Mayor Baxter lived in the Mt. Washington neighborhood, an upscale group of homes just north of the city.
Mary knew the address because she had once been invited to a cocktail reception at the home by a grateful client. Her client had been a successful movie producer whose gay lover had disappeared. Mary had found the wayward man in the Caribbean, simultaneously doing daily truckloads of cocaine along with several native island men.
As part of the deal, Mary had agreed to be the client’s beard for one night. Mary had suffered through it, although the champagne had been top-notch.
Now, she found her way to the house again. It was hard to miss. A giant Tudor built in the 1920s, it was the centerpiece of the street.
Mary knew this might be a bit tricky. She doubted the mayor would be there. In fact, she hoped that would be the case.
Mary parked and approached the house. There was a black, wrought iron fence running around the property. The main entrance was gated, with a small intercom next to it. Mary tugged on the gate’s door, just to make sure it was locked.
It wasn’t.
She debated for a moment, then pushed her way through. She walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Before she could ring the bell, she heard footsteps behind her.
“Freeze,” the voice said.
She did.
“Turn around.”
Mary did, and she faced a man in a black suit, but it wasn’t Derek Jarvis.
The door opened behind her, but she didn’t turn.
“I’m here to see the mayor,” Mary said. “I have an appointment.”
“No she doesn’t,” the voice behind her said.
This time, Mary glanced over her shoulder. It was the driver of the Tahoe, the one she’d hit with the seven iron.
“The cops are on their way,” he said. “We followed her from downtown.”
> The guy in front of Mary lifted his chin toward her. “Put up your hands,” he said.
“I’ve got a handgun in a shoulder holster,” Mary said. “I thought it matched my blouse perfectly.”
“Looks like we have an assassination attempt,” the guy behind her said, with a stupid grin.
They took her gun and looked at her private investigator’s license, then cuffed her and moved her to the front of the security gate.
Another Tahoe pulled up, along with an unmarked police car. From the Tahoe, Derek Jarvis exited.
From the squad car, out came someone else she recognized.
Lieutenant Arianna Davies.
“Well, this is going from bad to worse,” Mary said.
39
Thirty-nine
Jail was not Mary’s favorite place to be. In fact, it wasn’t even in the Top Ten.
They had thrown her into an interrogation room and let her sit for several hours. The least they could have done was ask some questions, but Mary had a feeling they knew it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Score one victory for her.
So now she was back in a holding cell, examining stains on the concrete floor, trying to guess which type of fluid had caused each of the marks.
One of the stains was shaped like the state of Idaho, and Mary had narrowed the probable fluid down to blood or Diet Coke when the frizzy hair of Joan Hessburg, attorney-at-law, appeared over the top of the door.
Mary could not have been happier.
Hessburg was a tall, severe woman with a pinched face and highly brusque manner, but she knew her stuff.
“Let’s go,” Hessburg said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary said.
They walked out past the holding pen. Davies was waiting.
“You are withholding information, Cooper,” Davies said.
“Prove it,” Attorney Hessburg said.
“Prove you’re not a robot while you’re at it,” Mary said. “And why don’t you take a look at Derek Jarvis instead of me?”
“Let’s go,” Hessburg said to Mary.
“Because you always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Cooper,” Davies said. “Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
“Don’t answer,” Hessburg barked at Mary. They left the building and walked outside. Hessburg turned to Mary.
“Call me if they come after you again,” she said.
“They will, and I will,” Mary said.
“You look tired,” Hessburg said.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Mary said. “It’s my sexy new look. Men are totally attracted to women who appear fatigued. Less resistance that way.”
Hessburg left, and Mary took a moment to feel the warm sun on her face. Did she look tired? Hell yes—getting arrested and sitting in jail isn’t exactly rejuvenating spa time.
“Cooper!” a man’s voice called out from the street.
Mary looked and saw a limo parked in the no-loading zone. The driver was standing by the front passenger door.
Mary walked down, sensing it was another Derek Jarvis ambush. The nerve, right in front of the fucking jail.
“Funny, I don’t remember calling a car,” Mary said. “Are you with the Playboy Mansion? Does Hef have my room ready?”
The driver ignored her.
The windows were all privacy glass so Mary couldn’t see inside the limo. But the rear window slid down.
Mary half expected to see a silenced pistol poke out and drill one right through her forehead.
But instead, Mary was surprised to see a woman’s face looking at her.
It was the wife of the mayor.
“I need your help,” she said.
40
Forty
Veronica Baxter was a beautiful woman. It being Los Angeles, Mary was fairly accustomed to seeing gorgeous men and women roaming the streets looking like someone had spilled several truckloads of department store mannequins all over the place.
But the mayor’s wife was something else.
She was definitely beautiful, but in addition to the sheer perfection of the woman’s face, there was a striking quality Mary couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Veronica Baxter had coal-black hair, black, smoky eyes, and perfect lips. The features were sharp, almost hatchet-like, and it was the severity, that type of cutting beauty, which added an element of danger to Veronica Baxter.
Mary was intrigued.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a limo like this?” Mary said. She raised her chin at the row of whiskey decanters and cognac snifters arrayed on the side of the interior space.
“Believe me, if I were a nice girl, and I’m not, I wouldn’t last two minutes around here,” she said with a sad, wistful smile.
“Yeah, you’ve lasted, what, four years?” Mary said, trying to remember exactly how long Baxter had been in office. She wanted to ask the mayor’s wife to pour her a stiff drink, but couldn’t figure out a tactful way to put it.
“Can you pour me a drink?” Mary said. “I just got out of jail.”
Fuck tactful.
The mayor’s wife sloshed some scotch into a thick glass and handed it to Mary.
“Six years in office, seventeen years in marriage,” Veronica Baxter said. Mary couldn’t tell which one disappointed Veronica more. “All without any help from Mary Cooper,” Mary said. “So what changed?” She took a sip of the liquor. Its warmth burned and soothed simultaneously.
Veronica Baxter sighed and drummed her beautifully manicured nails on the leather armrest between them.
“I hate to even say it because it’ll sound like such a cliché,” she finally said.
“That’s okay, I love clichés,” Mary said. “If it weren’t for clichés, what would everyone say at funerals or right after sex?”
The mayor’s wife took a deep breath. “Nothing changed. The affair just happened.”
“And who did Thomas sleep with?” Mary said.
Veronica Baxter shook her head of lovely hair.
“Oh, Thomas didn’t have the affair,” she said. “I did.”
41
Forty-one
“I’m not going to bore you with the details,” Veronica Baxter told Mary.
“First of all, I’m sure the details are from boring,” Mary said. “Second, I need a refill. And third, I have to ask: was it your landscaper?”
The mayor’s wife looked like she’d been slapped.
“How did you know?“ she said. She topped off Mary’s glass, her hands shaking a bit as they performed the task.
“I’m a detective, remember?” Mary said. “Besides, those guys love to whack more than just weeds, if you know what I’m saying.”
Veronica Baxter clasped her hands together in her lap, as if she was about to pray.
“It didn’t actually come together for me until now,” Mary said. “Now that I see your face, I immediately recognize Nina in you. And not Elyse Ramirez, or whatever her name was.” Mary sipped her scotch. “Did you hire her to pose as Nina’s mother?”
Veronica Baxter nodded.
“When she was taken, I didn’t know what to do. I went to Derek—he’s the head of my husband’s security detail—but I didn’t like his solutions,” the mayor’s wife said. “I just wanted to pay them and get Nina back.”
“Pay the blackmailers,” Mary said, putting two and two together.
Again, Veronica Baxter nodded.
“So while Derek Jarvis was going to take care of it in his own way, you decided to hire your own private investigator and try to solve the problem yourself,” Mary said.
“Yes, I don’t like or trust Jarvis. I regret going to him in the first place.”
“I’m guessing a lot of people once formerly alive and now dead wish you hadn’t gone to him either.”
Veronica Baxter’s face went three shades of white.
“You don’t know?” Mary said.
“I knew the woman I hired to hire you was murdered, but I didn’t know i
t was Derek,” she said. “I figured it might have been the kidnappers.”
“I don’t know for sure, either,” Mary said. “But I have some strong suspicions. And another question.”
Baxter’s shoulders sagged, and Mary thought the woman suddenly looked exhausted.
“Since I am a detective, I can’t help but do the math on this situation. Nina is seventeen, and you’ve been married for how long?”
“Seventeen years,” Baxter said. “Initially, mine and Tom’s relationship was . . . fluid.”
“I think fluid is what caused this problem in the first place,” Mary said. Okay, she hadn’t become that sensitive with clients.
“I made a mistake very early in our marriage,” the mayor’s wife said. “It’s one I obviously regret. And now have to set right.”
The limo pulled to a stop.
Mary glanced out the window and saw her car.
The driver got out and popped the trunk.
“I need to hire you to do something for me,” the mayor’s wife said. “I will triple your normal fee.”
Alarm bells went off in Mary’s head. No one paid triple for something that wasn’t totally fucked up and dangerous.
“I need you to deliver a suitcase containing quite a bit of cash. It is for the safe return of my daughter.”
Mary didn’t like it one bit.
Baxter handed Mary the suitcase, which had been next to her on the floor of the limo, and a piece of paper, which she pulled from her pocket.
“This is where they want the money delivered,” she said. “Be careful.”
The side door opened, and the driver stood, letting Mary know it was time to go.
Mary got out.
Baxter looked like she wanted to say something else, some type of “good luck” comment, but nothing came out. Instead, she just looked at Mary.
Mary shut the door.
The driver got back in the limo and took off.
