Total Sarcasm

by Dan Ames

  Now, it was almost midnight. Mary poured herself a small glass of white wine and went out to her balcony. Across the street, the Pacific Ocean moved with a quiet rhythm that soothed her.

  She sat in one of her patio chairs and put her feet up on an empty flowerpot that she’d been meaning to fill with some colorful plant for the past few years.

  Mary was starting to get a bad feeling about this case. Most of the time, victims of crime were chosen because of some type of vulnerability. Maybe they’re old, or young, weak, or distracted.

  The thing that Craig Locher and Valerie Barnes had in common might be the vulnerability of mental illness. How sick they’d been was the question. If it was garden-variety psychological problems, well, that would be half of Los Angeles.

  If, however, their mental problems were more severe, that would make them better targets for a predator.

  The question was, what was the killer after? The thrill of murder? Or something else?

  Mary finished off her glass of wine, went inside, and locked the sliding glass door.

  As always, she was tempted to sleep with the window open.

  And, like every night, she would decide against it and lock up before she went to bed.

  There were a lot of crazies out there.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lately, Mary had been favoring coffee from Del Monde, made with chicory. She had had a fitful night’s sleep and needed a shot of something strong to wake her up.

  The coffee was thick and a touch bitter, which was exactly what she needed.

  Mary drank her coffee, made a quick breakfast of toast and a hardboiled egg, then showered, dressed, and went out to her car.

  Her vehicle of choice was now a gray Honda Accord, albeit with a souped-up V-6 and a stiffer suspension coupled with thick performance tires.

  She wasn’t exactly an auto enthusiast, but there had been moments in her life when she’d gunned it after some low life and had wished for more power, better handling, and armor plating. Kind of a James Bond fantasy.

  Instead, Mary had bought the Accord new, then taken it to a mechanic who modified cars for the Hollywood big shots and had him give it the once over. So while it wasn’t going to win the Indy 500 anytime soon, the car was a lot faster than it looked.

  Which is all that mattered to Mary.

  That, and the customization that had gone into the car was all tax deductible as it was her work car.

  Always had to think about the tax man.

  Mary double-checked the first address, the closest, on Bristol Avenue in Brentwood.

  By the time she got there, the morning rush was over and the sun was warming the tree-lined streets.

  It was a beautiful area with wide landscaped lots, gates and thick foliate out front, providing only partial views of the impressive homes.

  Mary supposed that a partner in an accounting firm, if the firm was big enough, probably made some serious coin.

  And if Valerie Barnes lived here alone, in one of these homes, she would have to be pulling down some major bucks.

  Mary found the right address, pulled into the driveway, rolled down her window, and pressed the button on the intercom.

  There was no answer.

  The gate remained closed.

  Mary looked up and down the street.

  No sign of anyone, other than a small blue pickup truck with paint splatters all over it and a ladder sticking out the back.

  Mary rang the bell again.

  And waited.

  This was not the kind of neighborhood where neighbors kept close tabs on each other. The lots were too big, the homes too spacious, the landscaping too dense. She couldn’t even knock on doors because of the gates.

  Mary rang the bell one more time.

  She waited another fifteen minutes, sitting in the driveway, before she put the car in reverse and headed to the second address.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There were no gates in front of the homes of Studio City. The houses were smaller, the space between lots much tighter, and cars were parked on the street as opposed to palatial garages and circular driveways.

  Mary double-checked the address and stopped her car in front of a humble Cape Cod with brick on the lower half of the house and white aluminum siding on the upper half.

  A row of boxwoods in need of water ringed the front of the house, and the grass had small brown patches. Either some sort of grass disease or a dog with highly acidic urine.

  Unlike the beatific quiet of Brentwood, this stretch of Studio City near Davana Terrace was loud. In fact, it was so loud that Mary quickly realized there was a fight going on in the very house she needed to approach.

  Cops hated domestic disturbances and so did Mary.

  She had a .38 in a holster tucked into the back of her jeans and she was reassured enough to park the Accord and approach the house.

  The fighting was going strong. Mary heard the word ‘bastard’ used several times by a woman and the rejoinder ‘bitch’ employed by a male in matching numbers.

  “Wonderful,” Mary said.

  She rang the bell.

  The fighting stopped.

  “Great, now the cops are here you idiot,” the man said.

  “Shut up Paul you dumb-ass moron,” the woman said.

  The door cracked open and Mary saw a sweaty female face with strips of wet hair strung across the forehead.

  “I’m looking for a Valerie Barnes,” Mary said.

  “What, are you a cop?” the woman said.

  “No. I’m a marriage counselor,” Mary said. “Sounds like I got here just in time.”

  The woman looked at her.

  “Who the hell is it?” the man said.

  “Some chick says she’s a marriage counselor,” the woman said.

  “Tell her to go to hell, we’re doing fine,” the man said.

  “Not in my professional opinion, sir!” Mary called out. She spoke to the woman. “So, are you Valerie Barnes?”

  “What if I am?”

  Mary sighed.

  “Look, I’m not a marriage counselor, although it sure sounds like you could use one. I’m actually a private investigator and I’m here because a girl was killed yesterday. Her name was Valerie Barnes,” Mary said. “I’m just trying to learn more about her and if you’re the Valerie Barnes who lives here, then I can cross you off the list.”

  “Tell that bitch to get lost!” the man called out from somewhere in the house.

  The woman in front of Mary sighed.

  “Yes, I’m Valerie Barnes,” the woman said. “Unfortunately.”

  Then she slammed the door shut.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary left the bitch and the bastard, which sounded like the title of a Jane Austen novel, to their own devices and headed back toward Brentwood.

  Mary was impressed with “her” Valerie Barnes. The murdered woman had carved out a very nice life for herself, assuming she owned the house Mary had seen earlier.

  Thinking of her own finances, Mary felt somewhat embarrassed by the success of the younger woman. Oh, she wasn’t a complete fiscal flop, she had an investment portfolio, had built up equity in her office (she owned the building) and her condo was almost paid off. Although she sucked at math, Mary had forced herself to learn the basics of being a small business owner, the tax shelters available, and tried to make sound business decisions.

  But she wouldn’t be buying a monstrosity in Brentwood, or Bel Air, or Beverly Hills or Malibu any time soon. But who really cared? She loved her place in Santa Monica. Loved the restaurant and grocery store in Venice, and loved being close to Alice, who was often a pain in the ass but at least provided some entertainment value.

  Mary had found that being close with an elderly person was kind of like having access to a free comedy pay-per-view channel.

  She turned off of Wilshire which had suddenly become clogged, and gunned the Accord down side streets, loving the power of the engine, the tight handling with the sporty s
uspension.

  Mary had always had a bit of a lead foot, and now that she was driving this car full-time, she had decided that she would never go back to a “normal” car.

  It took her less than twenty minutes to get back to Brentwood and a lot had changed since she’d been there just a few hours back.

  Now, a shiny BMW 7-series sat in the driveway, and the gate was open.

  Mary decided to be bold.

  She drove right through the gate, up the circular driveway, and parked behind the Beemer.

  No sense being shy, she thought.

  Mary went up and rang the bell. There was a security camera flush-mounted above her.

  The door opened and a man stood before Mary.

  She instantly saw the resemblance to the dead woman she’d seen less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The man looked at her. He was incredibly handsome, but his face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of a man named Craig Locher, and I believe it may have something to do with what happened to your sister.”

  Mary had guessed at the connection, but it sure looked right to her.

  The man hesitated, then surprised Mary by opening the door wider.

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The home’s foyer was as impressive as the outside. A huge vaulted ceiling, a bench off to the right, and a marble floor.

  The man walked through the foyer, down a short hallway then turned left into the kitchen.

  It was five times larger, at least, than Mary’s. With white cabinets, marble countertops, and professional grade appliances.

  “I’m Trey,” the man said. “Valerie’s brother, as you guessed. Do you want something to drink?”

  He had a bottle of Perrier on the counter and a stack of paper.

  “No thank you. I’m very sorry about your sister,” Mary said. She was surprised by the invite in, and the apparent relaxed state of Trey Barnes. Was he this way with everyone?

  “You’re a private investigator?” Trey asked, ignoring Mary’s sympathy.

  “Yes, I’m looking into the murder of a man and it could be that your sister’s murder is related.”

  “What, like a serial killer?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said.

  For a moment, Trey Barnes seemed to remember that his sister was now dead. Mary thought he might start crying, but he regained his composure.

  “She was an awesome girl,” he said. “The pride of the family.”

  “Are your parents…”

  “They’re dead. Cancer got my Mom five years ago, a heart attack got my Dad six months after that. It was just me and Valerie. Now just me.”

  He looked around the cavernous kitchen, for a moment seemed to be lost in confusion. He looked at Mary, seemed to be surprised to see her.

  “So who are you working for?”

  Mary hesitated. She ordinarily never divulged her employer, but in this case it seemed appropriate.

  “A psychologist who was treating the victim.”

  Trey Barnes nodded.

  “Do the police have any leads on your sister’s case?” Mary asked as gently as possible.

  Barnes sighed and looked around, as if seeing the house for the first time.

  “I don’t think I can do this right now,” he said. “Do you have a card or something?”

  “Yes, I do,” Mary said.

  “I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve got a lot to do,” Barnes said, gesturing at the pile of papers in front of him. “You can call me if you have any questions. And maybe we can talk more later, but right now, I don’t know. It just comes in waves. A minute ago I was fine, now I’m not, and then a minute from now I’ll feel better.”

  Mary pulled out two cards, gave them to Trey and asked him to write his phone number on one. He did so and gave her that card back.

  He saw her to the door.

  Mary turned to him and said, “I’m sorry again for your loss.”

  Barnes nodded.

  “She was an amazing woman,” he said. “Now it’s just me.”

  Mary didn’t know what to say.

  Trey Barnes shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and shut the door.

  Mary wished she could have said something profound. But being profound wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mary swung by Alice’s house after her meeting with Trey Barnes.

  She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Alice was on her hands and knees with her yoga instructor/boyfriend Sanji kneeling behind her, holding the older woman’s hips and chanting.

  “Open up, Alice, open up,” he was saying in a sing song voice, followed by a phrase in Hindu.

  “Please don’t,” Mary said as she passed the couple and headed straight for Alice’s kitchen.

  “I’m wide open for you, Sanji!” Alice called out.

  “Good Christ,” Mary said, found a bottle of Heineken and an opener. She popped the top, hoped her Aunt hadn’t done the same out in the living room, and took a drink. The ice cold beer was a welcome taste. Mary took her beer back into the living room, plopped into a chair and watched the yoga spectacle literally unfolding in front of her.

  “Hey, this isn’t a football game,” Alice said. “I’m going to have to start selling tickets.” She was a short, solid woman with a head of finely cropped gray hair. Her eyes were hazel and she had the fine features all Cooper women had. Now, she was still on her knees, with her ass pointed backward.

  “Sanji’s at the 50 yard line,” Mary pointed out.

  “And he’s about to score,” Alice said. She started giggling.

  “Ladies, we must focus on the yoga,” he said. He was a slim man, at least ten years Alice’s junior, with fine, delicate features. He kind of looked like a perfectly grilled chicken wing, Mary thought.

  “I think I’m done for today, Sanj,” Alice said. She slowly got to her feet.

  Mary took a drink of her beer and checked her cell phone. There was a text from Jake to call him.

  “I will see you tonight?” Sanji said.

  “You sure will, sexy,” Alice said. “Make sure you bring that oil. And that pair of ‘Slippery When Wet’ underwear I know you’ve got.” Alice glanced over at Mary and winked.

  Sanji let himself out and Alice went to the fridge, got herself a Diet Coke, and sat back in the living room with Mary.

  “So what’s going on with you?” Alice said.

  “Still working that case I told you about, the guy in the diaper. It’s now become the guy in the diaper and the girl who was dressed up like a doll and then killed.”

  “It’s a sick world,” Alice said, sipping from her Coke. “So these two cases then, if they’re related, what do you think is going on? Some serial killer who likes dressing his victims up like babies?”

  Mary shrugged her shoulders. “They’re definitely related, but I don’t know what the motive is or who would even want to kill these two people. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Alice shook her head. “You really need to give up this whole private investigator dream,” Alice said. “I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

  “I’ve been doing it for ten years.”

  “Just because you’ve been doing something for a long time, doesn’t mean you’re right for it. Just look at your Uncle Kurt and standup comedy. The man was born for a career in industrial janitorial services.”

  Mercifully, Mary’s phone rang and it was Jake.

  “Didn’t you get my text?” he said.

  “I did. But I knew you would call, too.”

  “Well, get ready. I’ve got some big news for you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’ve found you a shrink,” Jake said. “I should have done this a long time ago.”

  “Did you find one who s
pecializes in boyfriend problems? As in, their boyfriend is a donkey?”

  “Very funny, Mary. It’s for your case. Her name is Nancy Pregler and she’s a consultant to the LAPD. She knows all there is to know about psychology and crime. We use her all the time and she’s smart as a whip. A good therapist, too, from what I hear. Maybe she can help you.” He paused. “And you really need some help.”

  Mary rolled her eyes as she heard Jake laughing at his own mirth-making. It was so cute. She couldn’t wait to bat him about the ears.

  “Thank you, Jake,” Mary said. “You’re so good for my mental health.”

  “She can meet with you today at three if you’re available, otherwise it’s a long wait.”

  “I can do three,” Mary said.

  Jake gave her an address in Beverly Hills.

  “Your LAPD shrink works in Beverly Hills?”

  “She must have given us a discount.”

  Mary hung up, then tried another phone call to Dr. Frank Fallon’s office but they weren’t answering. In fact, they had stopped the answering service. The phone just rang and rang and rang.

  Mary hung up, checked the clock, and saw she had just enough time to get to Beverly Hills to see her shrink.

  Gosh, she’d always wanted to say that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The address belonged to a carriage house that had been broken off into its own address. The grounds had been cultivated carefully, including a wrought-iron fence, to make sure the structure was completely separate from the monstrous house next door that had been its original counterpart.

  There was a gravel drive to the right of the small house with two parking spots. The first was occupied by a long, sleek Mercedes-Benz.

  The second spot quickly became occupied by Mary’s Accord.

  There was an intercom, so Mary pushed the small white button and the door quickly buzzed.

  She opened the door and stepped into the waiting room. There was a seating area with a long, black coffee table surrounded by chairs covered in not-so-subtle teal cloth upholstery. There were framed flower prints on the wall.