by Dan Ames
“Besides, wearing my clothes teaches you fashion flexibility,” she said. “It’s good for you. Breaks you out of your khakis-dress shirt-sportcoat rut.”
Jake poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table next to Mary. When his ass hit the chair, he grimaced.
“Was I too rough with you last night, big boy?” Mary said, a small smirk on her face.
“That’ll be the day.”
Mary loved it when Jake tried to be tough. The man was an overgrown kitten.
She stood, went to the sink, and rinsed out her cup, the one that read “Everglades State Park” on the side.
“I’m off to find out more about our big baby,” she said.
Jake furrowed his brow for a moment, and then got the reference.
“Oh,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to the address that my client gave me. It’s supposedly where Locher lived.”
“You’re not going to break in, are you?”
“What makes you think no one will be home?”
“The guy wasn’t married, was he?”
“No, but I’m not married, and I’ve got some freak in my home wearing a pink bathrobe and girl shorts.”
Jake sighed and drank from his coffee.
“Look, I’ve got to run; clearly you aren’t ready to start the day yet, Precious.”
“No, I have to shower.”
“Okay, remember to lock up, okay?” she said. Mary was already dressed and ready to go. She went back to the kitchen table and gave Jake a kiss.
“By the way, thanks for the information on my case last night,” she said. “Even if I had to spank it out of you.”
“Very funny.”
“Momma’s gotta go, baby,” she said.
“That sounds creepy, Mary.”
She shut the door.
Chapter Seven
Craig Locher’s address was an apartment building in a neighborhood on the bubble, as the newscasters liked to say. Not quite safe, not quite lethally dangerous.
Mary studied the building, a post Cold War structure that looked like it had been funkified in an attempt to attract the hip and cool.
She found a parking spot a block away, then walked back and rang the doorbell. Locher’s unit was on the first floor, facing the street.
Mary caught the flicker of light from the peephole as someone checked her out. Always a bad idea. Mary knew of a few cases where a bad guy had put his gun to the peephole and fired as soon as he sensed someone behind the door.
Finally, the door opened a crack behind a security chain. A woman’s face looked out.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“My name is Mary Cooper, I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Craig Locher. I’d like to talk to you if you have time.”
The door remained partially opened.
“I’m getting ready for work.”
“It will only be a minute or two.”
“Do you have some identification?”
Mary whipped out her private investigator license and photo, stored in a handmade leather flip-out wallet.
The door shut, the chain slid, and the door opened again.
Mary stepped inside where the scent of fresh perfume was strong. The woman who faced her was short, powerful-looking with a thick neck and a chiseled jawline and thick brown hair. Maybe a bodybuilder.
Mary stuck out her hand.
“Mary Cooper,” she said.
“Jenni Mulderink,” the woman responded. She gestured toward a sitting area that included a couch, two chairs, a coffee table, and a small flat-screen television sitting on a black lacquered table. “I hope you were serious about this only taking a minute or two, because that’s all I’ve got.”
The apartment was bigger than Mary expected. Beyond the sitting area was a dining area separated from the kitchen by a half-wall. Mary could make out gourmet-looking appliances, white cupboards, and a bank of windows that filled the kitchen with natural light.
“I’ll do my best to make this quick,” Mary said.
“Thank you, my job is more important than ever,” Jenni Mulderink said. “Now that Craig is…gone.”
She had dark eyes that looked like they’d seen plenty of good times and bad.
“First, how long had you been in a relationship with Mr. Locher?” Mary asked.
“Three years.”
“Had his behavior changed at all recently? Anything unusual?”
The woman shook her head, and her long brown hair swung with the motion.
“No,” she said.
“Do you have any theories on what happened to him?”
For the first time, the woman paused. Seemed to consider the question. “Let me answer this as quickly and thoroughly as I can. Craig was a brilliant, but troubled man. He had created and sold several companies, was acting as a consultant for his latest venture, an Internet marketing and ideation firm. Over the years, he’d been in and out of rehab several times. He traveled everywhere, kept an insane, unusual schedule. So what I’m trying to say is that he did not lead a normal life by most of our usual standards. He was a charismatic guy.”
Her lip quivered and she wiped away a tear.
“Was his death a surprise?” Mary asked.
“The fact that he died an unusual death is not as big a surprise for someone like me,” Mulderink said. “Someone who knew how unique his life was.”
“So you don’t know what happened?”
Again, the head shake. “No. He’d had a couple of busy days, late meetings, hadn’t come home a couple times that week, which, again, wasn’t unusual. He would crash at the office, a hotel, even a friend’s house if there was a party and he didn’t feel like driving. So I hadn’t seen him for several days. But like I said, I wasn’t worried. Turns out, I should have been.”
Mary caught the note of self-blame.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Mary said, without any clue if that was true or not.
Mulderink shrugged her shoulders and checked her watch, prompting Mary to be quick with the next question.
“I know that in the past he was in therapy,” Mary asked. “Did you know if that was still the case?”
“I think he was, but he preferred not to talk about it. He always liked to keep the mood light, and I always got the sense that talking about his mental health was a big downer to him, so he would just change the subject as fast as he could.”
It looked like she was going to say more, and then she stopped herself.
The next question was the tricky one, but Mary knew she had to ask.
“I know there were some unusual circumstances surrounding Mr. Locher’s death. Do you know of any peculiar habits he may or may not have had? Fetishes involving diapers or costumes, that kind of thing?”
The woman sighed. “No. Of course not. The police asked me the same thing and I told them the truth. He wasn’t into any of that. Trust me, I know.”
Mary decided to let the issue drop. “Do you think you could do me a favor and call me if you think of anything strange or unusual that happened recently? Something that took you by surprise?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I will, but I don’t think anything like that happened.” She paused again and then blurted out, “One time, in the car, we were driving and scanning the radio and there was a call-in show. It was a psychologist who was taking questions from the audience. Craig acted really weird, and I got the feeling that he knew the person – the doctor. But I can’t remember who it was.”
Outside in the hallway, a door opened and shut, a subdued voice began talking on a phone.
“Do you remember if the on-air psychologist was male or female?” Mary prodded.
Mulderink thought about it for a moment. “Male. Definitely a man.”
Mary was expecting that answer, but still glad that it wasn’t Dr. Blevins, her client. It meant Locher had sought treatment from someone new. Maybe because he had someth
ing else he wanted to talk about. Different issue, different therapist.
“What do you do for a living?” Mary said.
“I’m a product manager at a sports development center.”
She looked at Mary.
“I only agreed to talk to you because I haven’t heard anything from the police. Who hired you, by the way?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t divulge the name of my client,” Mary said. “But I can tell you that it is someone who knew Craig and cared about him, and who wants to make sure he gets justice.”
Jenni Mulderink nodded. “Everyone who knew Craig liked him,” she said. “He took the party with him, that’s for sure.” She smiled. “I’ll show you out now.”
“Okay,” Mary said. “But if you can think of anything, or remember the name of the doctor Craig was seeing, please, give me a call.”
Mary handed the woman her business card.
“I hope you find out who did it,” Mulderink said. “Craig was a good guy.”
She closed the door behind Mary, and Mary was pretty sure she heard the woman start to cry.
Chapter Eight
“I’ll have what she’s having, as long as it’s an ice cold beer,” Mary said, sliding onto the tall chair next to Alice. They were in the bar area of the Oasis Hotel in Santa Monica, a new, ultra-modern construction that featured only one attraction Mary cared for: a great view of the ocean.
Her aunt did not have a beer, instead, she had a chilled glass of chardonnay that caught the reflection from the water and cast a subtle glow to the older woman’s face.
“What are you on, number four or five?” Mary said. “Be careful, Jason might schedule an intervention for you.”
“That boy has had it,” Alice said. “We need to stage an intervention to stop him from staging interventions.”
The waiter brought Mary her beer, and she clinked glasses with Alice.
“Here’s to mud in your eyes and a stud between your thighs,” Mary said.
“Cute, Mary,” Alice said. “Real cute.”
“Okay, a cute stud.”
Alice sighed.
“So what are you working on these days?” Alice asked Mary. “Besides dealing with your old maid status?”
“Old maid? Who even uses that term anymore?”
“If the term fits…”
“I landed a new case,” Mary said. “The shrink who ran that intervention hired me to look into the death of one of her patients. Weird situation. The guy got stabbed to death. But he was wearing a diaper when he died.”
“What a way to go out,” Alice said. “Wearing your Depends. Had he shit himself?”
Mary’s beer tasted so good she drank half of it at once. She was going to remember this one.
“I didn’t ask if the diaper was empty or full,” Mary said.
“And you call yourself an investigator?” Alice asked. “How could you not pose that question? It’s the first thing I would ask.”
“For one thing, it wasn’t that kind of diaper,” Mary pointed out.
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t an old guy. It probably wasn’t a functional diaper.” Mary thought about it. “Okay, maybe it was, but he wasn’t wearing it because he was incontinent. It was most likely some kind of sex thing.”
“A sex thing where a grown man wears a diaper?” Alice asked. “Who the hell would enjoy that?”
“The diaper industry?” Mary said.
“This world just keeps getting sicker and sicker,” Alice said.
Mary thought about it. Had Craig Locher been an accidental death? A sex game gone wrong? Or had he been truly scared for his life and running down the street to get away from someone trying to kill him? The latter seemed to fit. Unless Locher had been drunk or on drugs and wandering around.
“It had to be drugs,” Alice said, seeming to read Mary’s mind. “The man was on drugs, got weird with his girlfriend, strapped on a diaper and died. Talk about a tragedy.”
“Hopefully it was an accident,” Mary said.
Alice looked at her. “When diapers are involved, accidents are bound to happen.”
Chapter Nine
The office of IdeaGen was classic Santa Monica – a standalone building with a sandblasted interior and poured concrete floors.
Mary had paid the tab for her beer and Alice’s wine, then driven over, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth to hide the smell of the beer.
It was important to be professional, after all.
Mary stood at the receptionist’s desk, which was a converted pool table that had kept its felt top.
“May I help you?” the woman said. She was a blonde with a southern accent and a pierced tongue. Mary had caught a glint in the woman’s mouth and it didn’t look like a silver filling in a back molar. Apparently IdeaGen was going for that more-edgy-than-corporate look.
“I have an appointment with Craig Locher,” Mary said with a bright tone in her voice. “I’m one of his clients. His favorite client, at least that’s what he tells me.”
The girl looked startled and Mary thought she heard the tongue piercing clacking against the girl’s teeth. A nervous tic, how quaint and unsanitary. Kinda creepy, actually.
“Um, Mr. Locher is no longer with the company,” the girl said. “In fact,” the girl’s eyes darted toward the hallway off the main reception area. “He passed away last week, unfortunately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mary said, putting as much compassion into her voice as she could. “Is there someone who will be taking over his clients?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, let me see if Kelly is in.” The girl’s fingers tapped a small console and Mary saw a little yellow light flash on the girl’s Bluetooth earpiece. Mary also noted the girl’s fingernails – painted a teal with a border of glitter.
“What’s up Crystal?” a voice said from the hallway. Mary turned to see a tall, lean, rawboned woman with a shock of bright red hair and shoulders that looked like they could double as a boat hoist.
“I’m sorry, what was your name?” the receptionist asked Mary.
“Mary Cooper.”
“Kelly, this is Mary Cooper; she’s a client of Craig’s.”
“Oh.” The woman came forward and shook hands with Mary. “I’m Kelly Hargold,” she said. Mary felt her hand smothered by the woman’s giant paw. Now, face to face with the woman, Mary guessed her height to be at least six foot three or four.
“Maybe I can help you,” she said. “Why don’t we go back to my office?”
The woman led Mary down a hallway where walls were filled with advertising awards, newspaper articles regarding the “innovative” company called IdeaGen, and a large cactus in a terra cotta pot.
The woman entered an office and Mary thought the woman might have to duck to avoid hitting her head on the door frame, but she made it through, barely.
Mary followed her into the office and saw a slim desk with a top made of a slick birch veneer. Two white plastic chairs sat on the other side of the desk and Mary guessed they had come from Ikea for forty bucks each, or some contemporary furniture store in L.A. for about four hundred bucks each.
There was a bookshelf behind the desk and on top sat several basketballs, each encased in a Lucite cube, all of them autographed.
The woman dropped into a Herman Miller desk chair, and Mary took one of the white plastic deals for herself. Definitely Ikea.
“So you’re a client?” Hargold asked. “What company?”
“I’m not actually a client, yet,” Mary said. “But I had talked to Craig on several occasions and was considering signing on with you guys.”
“What’s your company called?” the woman said. She had taken out a legal pad with a pen.
“Cooper Investigations,” Mary said.
The woman paused, put down the pen, glanced up at Mary.
“Investigations?”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you really a client, or are you something e
lse?” the woman said.
“Well, I would like to have my own ad agency, but I don’t think I have the budget for you. However, I’ve been hired to look into Mr. Locher’s death, so I thought I would drop by, see what kind of minimum budget you require for a client, and maybe ask you a few questions.”
“A million.”
“Well, I don’t have a million, but I do have a lot of questions about what Mr. Locher did here.”
“Why should I answer your questions?”
“Because someone killed your business associate and you want to help, maybe?”
“I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “And I don’t know anything about you.”
The woman’s face was a giant slab of sheer stone. If Mary got into a fight with her and threw a punch, Mary would probably break her hand.
“All you need to know about me is that I’m working for someone who cared a great deal about Craig Locher and I’m going to try to help find out what happened to him. Plus, I’m a very quick questioner, you should know that, too.”
Hargold contemplated Mary for a moment.
“So,” Mary said, filling the silence. “What did Mr. Locher do here?”
The woman hesitated, eyed Mary warily, then sighed. “He was a rainmaker. He specialized in bringing clients in, and he was very good at it. Craig was smart, articulate, funny, and the life of the party. Clients loved him.”
“Was there anyone who didn’t love him?”
The woman shook her head. “No one here. I’m sure our competitors didn’t like him. After all, we’re growing fast. Tripled our billings in the past twelve months. Our new clients probably had other agencies doing their marketing before they hired us. One agency in particular lost three clients to us, all of them wooed by Craig. I’m sure some of those companies were none too pleased with us, or with Craig.”
“What was the name of that agency?”
“Argo & Partners,” she said. “But I’m sure they didn’t have anything to do with his death. They weren’t huge clients. And they’re still doing well themselves. Clients come and go. In fact they probably have one or two of our former clients.”
