C is for Coochy Coo (Malibu Mystery Book 3)

by Sean Black

  Brendan pulled on his jacket as he headed for the door. He hadn’t said anything to either Sofia or Aidan, who were both still at their desks. That was weird too. Even if he forgot to say goodnight, which was rare, Brendan normally asked someone to remember to set the alarm if they were going to be the last person to leave. He didn’t just stalk out, like a bear with a sore head.

  “Goodnight, Brendan,” Sofia called after him.

  Brendan stopped and turned back to her, like he’d totally forgotten there was anyone else in the office. “Goodnight.”

  “You okay?” Sofia ventured. She could feel Aidan studying his dad while pretending to be engrossed in a spreadsheet on his computer.

  “Fine,” Brendan said. “You?”

  “Great,” said Sofia.

  “Great,” said Brendan, giving her the same ‘Are you completely nuts?’ look he’d shot her earlier. “Everyone’s fine. Well, goodnight. Last one out, don’t forget to set the alarm and check the gun safe.”

  The outer office door closed. Sofia and Aidan glanced at each other. What was up with that?

  Neither of them said anything. Sofia wasn’t sure she knew what to say.

  Finally, Aidan reached down and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet under his desk. He came up with a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. He took off the cap, emptied the pencils and pens occupying an LAPD mug next to his computer and poured in a measure of whiskey, not that he seemed to be doing any measuring. He held up the bottle and shook it in Sofia’s direction. “Want some?”

  Sofia shook her head. “Little early for me.”

  “I forgot. You’re more of a wine snob.”

  “Wine, yes. Snobbish about it? Not so much.”

  “Oh, well,” said Aidan, bending his elbow and taking a swig before slamming the mug back onto his desk. “Here’s to the old country.”

  Sofia studied him. He caught her doing it. Not that she was hiding it.

  “What?” he asked her.

  “Is that how you’re going to deal with this? Not talk about it and drink yourself to sleep?”

  Aidan seemed to give the question some consideration. “Pretty much,” he said.

  It was a typical response, and on the plus side, he had quickly rebounded to the Aidan she knew – a complete smartass who never acknowledged any real emotions beyond animal urges. She glared at him.

  “Hey, don’t sit there and judge me, Salgado,” he said.

  “I’m not judging.”

  “You’re totally judging. You may be the most judgy broad I’ve ever met and I’ve met some doozies.”

  Sofia got up from her desk and walked over to him. “Okay. First of all, the word ‘broad’ went out in 1954, and second, I’m not judging anyone.” As if to illustrate how non-judgy she was, she reached over him, grabbed the whiskey, opened it and took a swig. It tasted disgusting. There was a reason she stuck to white wine.

  She managed to choke down a cough, then put the top back on the bottle and placed it on the desk.

  Aidan took a more measured sip from his mug. “I’m Irish. We don’t talk about our feelings. We drink whiskey and punch each other.”

  “Doesn’t sound very psychologically healthy to me.”

  “I never said it was healthy. I said it’s what we do,” Aidan countered.

  “I’m worried about Brendan too. He’s been like a father to me.”

  Aidan’s hand shot up in the air. His open palm stopped about three inches from her face. “Whoa. Hold it right there, lady. That’s gross.”

  “What’s gross about it?” She was indignant. She’d said ‘like a father’ not ‘a father’, and it was true.

  “My dad is not your dad. Like I said, gross.”

  “I don’t see why.” This was making her mad, but she tried not to show it because Aidan was upset.

  “Okay, it’s not gross. Can we please change the subject?”

  He looked so uncomfortable that she figured it out. “Because it would make us brother and sister? Is that why?”

  “Like I just said, change the subject, Salgado,” Aidan said, through gritted teeth.

  They changed the subject. Then Aidan left and Sofia set the alarm, checked the gun safe and followed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Rather than head home where, despite her lecturing Aidan about using alcohol as a crutch, she would inevitably glug down a half-bottle of wine, Sofia got into her red Tesla Roadster and headed down the coast toward Venice. When she hit Pacific Coast Highway she put the windows down and let the cool air rush in, hoping it would clear her head.

  She arrived at Jack’s Gym thirty minutes after leaving the office. Jack had long since retired and the place was now run by Luis Cordabre, a former prize fighter turned boxing trainer. It was a good place to decompress. Nothing beat pummeling a heavy bag when she felt overwhelmed by life, and it was certainly a lot healthier than the wine option. Jack’s was a rarity in West LA, a gym without too many meatheads, where people came to train rather than pose or pick someone up.

  Sofia parked in the alleyway behind the gym, grabbed the bag she usually kept in the trunk, and walked round to the front door. Parking in a dark alleyway in the middle of Venice at night would usually be a bad idea, but the local criminal fraternity knew what Luis would do to them if they hassled any of his clientele, so they tended to avoid the place.

  Inside, she got changed into her workout clothes, did some warm-up stretches, then walked over to the heavy bag. She prowled round it as if it were an opponent, then threw punches and parried imaginary counters. Less than ten minutes later she was soaked in sweat and could feel the endorphin rush begin to kick in. She took off her gloves, skipped rope, and worked through some core exercises.

  Luis came in about halfway through her workout, but left her to her own devices. He had a rare ability to know exactly when people did and didn’t want to talk. He must have sensed that she wasn’t ready to talk just yet.

  After she’d showered and changed into her regular street clothes, she wandered over to where he was busy giving pointers to a young Hispanic kid, who seemed to spend half his life at Jack’s. Sofia guessed the kid had his eyes on a career as a prize fighter. Luis had been a decent fighter before he’d retired to run the gym, so the kid was in good hands.

  Sofia stood and watched him spar with Luis for a few minutes. He was good. He had better than average footwork, fast hands, and a powerful jab. Just as important, he had good defense. He kept his chin tucked in, his elbows likewise, and it seemed like he could take a punch.

  When Luis had taught her boxing for a movie that had never gone into production, Sofia had soon realized that the key to being a good boxer was the ability to take a punch as much as deliver one. In that respect it was a sound metaphor for life, although some of life’s punches weren’t as easily absorbed, or as quickly recovered from, as others.

  Luis finished up with the kid. He climbed through the ropes, threw down the pads and wandered over to Sofia. “Don’t usually see you this late on a school night,” he said. This was his way of letting her know he was aware something was up, while giving her the room to talk about it if she wanted to.

  “Between us?” she said.

  “Between us.”

  She told him about following Brendan to the hospital, because she knew Luis could keep a secret. He listened in silence, taking in everything she said. It was a great skill to have. Most people were incapable of really listening to someone else. And in Los Angeles, those who did were called therapists and charged two hundred bucks an hour for the privilege.

  Luis waited until she had finished. “So, what are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She really didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if it was her call to do anything. If anyone had to make a decision, it was Aidan.

  “Well,” said Luis, “I guess if Brendan wants to tell you what’s going on, he will.”

  It didn’t make her feel better, but maybe Luis was right. Aidan had said the same thing
. Perhaps it was as simple as that. When Brendan was ready to share, he would.

  “Thanks, Luis.”

  “Any time.”

  Before she left to drive home to Nirvana Cove, Luis called her back. “You ever hear what the Greek Seneca said about bad shit happening?”

  “No. What did he say?”

  “‘There is nothing so wretched or foolish as to anticipate misfortunes. What madness it is in your expecting evil before it arrives.’” Luis gave her a moment to absorb Seneca’s wise words. “In other words, there ain’t no point losing your mind over something that may not even be that bad. Or not as bad as you think it’ll be.”

  CHAPTER 9

  N ext morning, Sofia watched Aidan shuffle into the office, eyes shielded by Aviator sunglasses. He walked straight over to the water cooler and filled a plastic cup, then dug in his jacket pocket, produced a bottle of painkillers, palmed two tablets, tossed them into his mouth and chased them down with the water. He made a sound like a dog about to throw up, pounded his chest with his fist, and took a deep breath.

  Sofia watched all of this unfold, grateful that last night she had decided to go to the gym rather than drink a bottle of white wine with only Fred the seagull for company. Aidan must have noticed her watching him. He peered over his sunglasses at her, eyes bloodshot and narrow. “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Sofia said innocently.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” he said, as if that would explain his hangover.

  “Nothing to do with that bottle of Jameson,” said Sofia, swiveling her chair round and pretending to go back to work on a billing spreadsheet Brendan had asked her to help out with.

  “I’m trying to save the world from the dangers of booze by limiting the supply to others,” said Aidan.

  Sofia swiveled back. She was worried that if Aidan didn’t resolve things with his father, or that it was bad news, he might start to lose it completely. “If you want to talk about your dad, I’m here.”

  “Ugh. The California transplants are worse than the natives when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What kind of stuff?”

  “It means that men were designed to go out, hunt and fish, then drink beer. Not talk about their feelings.” He practically spat the last word.

  “What’s wrong with talking about how you feel?” She was genuinely curious. She’d always regarded talking things over as a good thing, certainly healthier than pounding whiskey and repressing your emotions.

  Aidan rolled his bloodshot eyes. “Where do I start?” He sounded like he was gearing up for one of his pre-prepared rants on modern life and how much it sucked compared to the ‘good old days’, whatever they were. Sofia was always amazed by how someone who was pretty much of her generation could have such a rose-tinted view of the past. A past he hadn’t even been around to see.

  “Just give me the headlines.”

  “Okay, my main objection is that talking about how I’m feeling isn’t going to change anything. If my dad is sick or dying, my pissing and moaning won’t make it any better,” said Aidan.

  “Who’s dying?”

  They spun round. Brendan was standing in the office doorway. He was dressed in his usual attire of dark grey suit, white shirt and tie, and clutching his briefcase.

  “Uh.” Aidan was caught completely flat-footed. “Uh,” he said again.

  “We were talking about Dr. Phil,” said Sofia, drawing on her quick-fire improvisational skills. “There was an episode that just aired about losing a parent, and we were talking about that.”

  Sofia was hoping that maybe if she mentioned the topic it might prompt Brendan to tell them what was going on. Instead he stared at them like they had antennas growing out of the top of their heads.

  “You watch Dr. Phil now?” Brendan said to Aidan. He spat the name like Aidan had spat ‘feelings’.

  “Uh,” said Aidan, unhelpfully.

  He would get kicked right out of any improv class. Even beginning improv.

  “I hate Dr. Phil,” said Brendan, marching past them toward his office. “Thinks guys should talk about their feelings. What a loser. Oprah’s got a lot to answer for, introducing that moron to the general public.”

  Brendan’s door shut. Sofia and Aidan looked at each other.

  “Great. Now he thinks I watch Dr. Phil,” said Aidan.

  “One of us had to say something other than uh.”

  “Yeah, but Dr. Phil?”

  Sofia didn’t think Dr. Phil was that bad. Before she could fire back, Brendan came back out of his office.

  “Where you going?” said Aidan, as his father headed out of the office.

  Brendan looked at him, puzzled. No one usually asked Brendan where he was going unless they had a meeting lined up at the office and were worried that it had slipped his mind, which almost never happened anyway.

  “I have a meeting,” said Brendan, as he pushed through the door. It slammed behind him.

  Sofia grabbed her bag, Aidan his jacket, and they headed for the door, ready to follow him.

  This time Sofia was determined they’d get some answers. One way or another. Even if it meant that someone might have to talk accidentally about his feelings.

  CHAPTER 10

  T hey circled the same UCLA Medical Center parking lot they’d been in the previous day without spotting Brendan’s Crown Vic. They’d lost him in traffic about five minutes short of the hospital, but both Aidan and Sofia were fairly certain he’d had to be headed there. They didn’t have any current clients in this part of town, and it wasn’t somewhere Brendan would drive to from Malibu unless he had a good reason.

  “Maybe he stopped off somewhere first,” Sofia suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “You want me to go inside and see if I can find him?” she asked.

  “No,” Aidan answered. “If his car’s not here then he’s not either. Let’s just sit tight for a while and see if he appears.”

  Aidan reversed into an empty space and turned off the engine. “So, what did you do last night?” he asked Sofia.

  “Hit the gym.”

  “Jack’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s Luis?” Aidan asked.

  “Okay.”

  Now that Aidan had shut down the possibility of them discussing what was going on with Brendan, they were left with small-talk. It made for a surveillance operation that was going to drag. Hopefully Brendan would show up soon and put them out of their misery.

  Five more minutes passed. They had run out of small-talk and lapsed into bored silence. Anyone who thought being a private detective was somehow glamorous should have tagged along on surveillance. It was unbelievably dull.

  Hours of waiting for someone to leave their home or a motel room. For boredom, it even edged out being on a movie set. That was one of the reasons why Sofia had stuck with television for as long as she had. She’d been the lead in Half Pint Detective so she was in almost every scene, which meant she was kept busy. When she wasn’t actually walking something, she was shooting, or in Make-up, or learning her lines in her trailer. There was almost no down-time.

  That was what she was thinking when someone tapped at her window. They looked up to see Brendan making a ‘lower the window so I can talk to you’ motion with his hand.

  Sofia hit the button. Brendan crouched down so he was eye to eye with them. Aidan didn’t want to meet his father’s gaze. He wasn’t the only one. Sofia had seen Brendan’s wrath up close. Although it hadn’t been directed at her, it was still a pretty scary sight.

  “What a couple of chumps! You know I spotted you when you were tailing me down here. We weren’t even past Moonshadows before I made you.”

  It was a popular Malibu beach bar and restaurant a few miles south of the Maloney Investigations office.

  Aidan seemed to perk up. “We’ve been following you since yesterday.”

  “I was talking about yesterday!” Brendan said. “I’m sending
you both on a surveillance refresher course and taking the money out of your salary.”

  Sofia knew better than to argue.

  Aidan didn’t. “Maybe if you weren’t creeping around behind our backs, we wouldn’t have had to follow you.”

  Brendan’s nostrils flared and his lips went so thin they almost disappeared. He seemed to have reached a state of rage Sofia had never witnessed before.

  “Creeping?” he said.

  Aidan shrugged. “Leaving the office without telling us where you’re going. Coming here. Not mentioning it to anyone.”

  “Did you ever think maybe I would tell you when I wanted to tell you?”

  Sofia saw a chance to pour oil on troubled waters. Maybe calm the situation down a little. This could not be good for Brendan’s health. His blood pressure must be through the roof right about now. “Brendan, we only did this because we were worried about you.” She glanced across at Aidan, hoping for back-up. Aidan looked away. “Isn’t that right, Aidan?”

  Aidan remained silent. This was obviously veering toward expressing-feelings territory. Eventually he muttered, “Yes.”

  Sensing Brendan softening, if only marginally, Sofia kept talking. “You have to admit you’ve been a little off recently. Like you’ve had something on your mind, but maybe didn’t know how to talk about. And, like I said, we were worried. Then I heard you talking to a doctor in the kidney-transplant unit.”

  Brendan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, like he was trying to staunch a nosebleed. “Sofia, please stop talking,” he said.

  Seconds passed. Brendan kept his eyes closed. Sofia kept her mouth shut.

  Brendan opened his eyes. “Follow me,” he told them.

  “I’m good,” said Aidan. “You can just tell me what’s going on. I don’t need to go inside.”