“I didn’t.”
“Mm hmm. Just like you didn’t kill that girl way back when.”
“I didn’t.”
“Spoken like a true convict. Prison is filled with innocent men, right?”
Kenum shook his head. “No. It’s filled mostly with rotten, guilty scum. But there are a few innocents in there. More than most people think.”
“And you’re one of them, right?”
“I’m guilty of a lot of things. But I didn’t kill that girl. And I didn’t kill your uncle.”
“Then who did?”
Kenum looked at her, but then his eyes lifted over her shoulder. His expression didn’t change but she sensed something was wrong.
Mary turned in her chair.
Six figures wearing identical blue suits stood behind her. They all wore Richard Nixon masks.
“I’m guessing they did,” Kenum said.
Fifty-Four
Nothing happened for a moment. No one spoke.
And then two things happened at once. Kenum lifted his shirt and pulled a small automatic from his waistline. Simultaneously, the Nixon in the middle lifted his arm to reveal an automatic with a silencer attached.
The Nixon’s gun spat first.
Kenum’s gun fell without firing. Along with its owner, who now sported a red hole just above his right eye.
“Guys,” Mary said. “You’re doing it all wrong. Presidents get assassinated. They don’t do the assassinating.”
Nixon with the Silencer pointed the gun at her while two others approached her. Another one pulled out a sawed off shotgun, jacked a shell into the chamber, crossed the room, and pressed the barrel against Mary’s temple.
Mary took the opportunity to study her captors a bit more closely. When they had first come in, she thought they were dressed identically. But now she saw that wasn’t the case. Yes, they all had on blue suits, white shirts, and dark ties. But some of the suits were pinstriped. Some had subtle checks. Some of the ties were dark red. Some were light blue. One didn’t have a tie. The black shoes differed the most. Mary saw wingtips, loafers, and walking shoes.
But most of all, Mary noticed the hands. They were all old, some wrinkled, most with liver spots, some with arthritis.
One of the Nixons stepped in front of her, pulled out a knife, and cut the duct tape holding her legs to the chair. They stood her up, then tore the chair from her and sent it sailing across the room.
“I wanna do her,” the lead Nixon said.
“We don’t have time,” one of them responded.
“I’m not really in the mood, guys,” Mary said.
One of the Nixons grabbed her arms.
“You didn’t learn from Watergate, did you?”
A Nixon took out a pair of handcuffs, freed Mary’s arms, then quickly cuffed her wrists to a pipe that ran the length of the room.
And then Mary saw something that took her breath away.
One of the Nixons was unbuckling his belt.
“I’m not in the mood, guys,” Mary said. “No really does mean no.”
Mary shivered. Whatever they had in mind scared the hell out of her.
“I only date younger men,” Mary said. “Isn’t there a shuffleboard tournament somewhere?” Her heart was thudding in her chest and her mouth was dry. The adrenaline pumped into her blood and she pulled on her restraints.
“Who wants to go first?” one of the Nixons said, his voice muffled and unrecognizable through the mask.
“Why don’t you talk about it?” Mary said.
“Someone do her so she shuts up,” the lead Nixon said.
“Enough with the sweet talk,” Mary said.
She tried to slip her wrists through the handcuffs. She pulled until she felt the cuffs dig through her skin and begin to split her skin and crush her bone. Panic welled up inside her. Suddenly she felt a hand on her ass. Mary kicked back and her foot connected with what felt like a solar plexus. She reefed back on the handcuffs, but her hands caught. A slight metallic grinding sound caught her ear, though. The pipe had moved, sending puffs of rust to the floor.
Mary wrapped her hands around the pipe itself and studied it. She saw a spot weld two feet in front of her, and a bracket with a screw that had already separated from the wall. She leaned forward and lunged sideways, pulling on the pipe with everything she had.
“Whoa, Nellie!” one of the Nixons said.
The pipe had separated completely from the wall, but had remained intact.
“Come on,” one of the Nixons said. “Hurry up, I’ve got a five-thirty tee time.”
Mary felt hands on her hips and her mind shrieked with panic and she felt a blind white hot fury explode within her.
She arched her back and rammed backward with her hips, knocking the nearest Nixon back. She pulled the pipe away from the wall and down, then swung around and planted her right foot on top of the pipe. The pipe groaned.
“Watch it!” one of the Nixons shouted.
Mary hopped on top of the pipe with both feet and it snapped, sounding like a gunshot. A three-foot section came free in her hand.
“Shit!” one of the Nixons said.
Mary twisted and swung the pipe in one smooth rotation. She followed through and saw the pipe connect with the nearest man’s temple. He flopped backwards onto the floor.
It was like a hand grenade had been dropped into the middle of the room.
Most of the Nixons bolted for the door, but the one who’d shot Kenum went for his automatic.
Mary leapt across the room and brought the pipe down on his forearm, just as he came up with the gun. It fired into the floor and then flew across the room.
She wheeled, looking for the Nixon with the shotgun, only to face the barrel two inches from her face. She ducked as the gun roared. The sound was deafening in the room and she heard the shotgun pellets punch a hole in the plaster wall. Mary swung the pipe and clipped the Nixon with the shotgun at the ankles. He staggered, and she swung at the other ankle, then upward.
The Nixon dropped the shotgun and ran for the door.
Mary thrust the pipe downward and opened her hands. The pipe slid through the cuffs and clattered to the floor. She dove for the shotgun, clamped the stock between her knees and racked a shell into the chamber.
She rolled just as the killer Nixon went for his automatic. Mary fired from a sitting position and the blast tore a fist-sized hole in the plaster just above the man’s head. He ducked, gave up the idea of getting back the automatic, and ran for the door.
Mary flipped the shotgun down, caught it by the pump, jacked the shell, flipped it back up, and fired just as the Nixon framed the door.
The pellets shredded his ass and she heard him scream, then tumble down the stairs.
Mary jumped to her feet, racked another shell, and ran toward the landing.
She made it there just as the Nixons ran through the door, helping the one with the bloody ass. She fired again, but hit the doorjamb and saw splinters explode.
Mary pumped the shotgun, but it was empty. She ran back into the room, grabbed the automatic with the silencer, heard an engine roar and tires squeal, then ran down the stairs.
She burst through the doors and onto the sidewalk. The street was empty.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, babe,” the kid on the bike said.
Mary lowered the gun to her side, realized her shirt was torn and hanging open.
“You’re giving me a boner,” he said.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
Mary walked back up into the room and found her cell phone. She punched the buttons from memory.
“Cornell,” Jake answered.
“I’m half-naked and wearing handcuffs. Get over here,” Mary said.
Fifty-Five
Mary stood in the silent room. It stunk of blood and gunpowder.
She looked over at Kenum sprawled out in an ever-widening pool of blood and felt sick to her stomach. The shock of what had just happened m
ade her numb.
She went over and searched his pockets. Nothing.
Mary did her best to fix her shirt. Her legs were quivering, and she felt a little lightheaded. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving shaken nerves in its place.
Maybe it was because she was still stunned by the sight of a man being gunned down in front of her, and maybe it was the fact that she’d had five senior citizens assaulting her and rubbing up against her, but it seemed like only a few seconds before she heard her name being called.
“Mary,” the voice said.
“Mary.”
She looked up, and saw Detective Jacob Cornell.
“Mary, what happened?” he said. “Are you okay?”
She wished he would put his arms around her.
“I guess I’m not an orgy kind of girl,” she said.
Jake put his arm on her shoulder. She moved a little bit closer toward him. Mary felt Jake’s body heat, and her shivering subsided.
“It’s okay to need someone, Mary,” he said. “Even if it’s me.”
Her body relaxed and she opened her mouth to say something like she needed him as much as she needed a trip to the Nixon library. But she didn’t. She slipped her arms around him and pulled him closer.
The ambulance team arrived and raced past them.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jake said. They crossed the room together and were just about to the door when Sergeant Amanda Davies appeared.
“Ah, Cooper,” she said. “Always seem to find you in such pleasant circumstances.”
Mary felt the woman’s eyes notice how close she and Jake were standing.
“I thought I was attending a bat mitzvah,” Mary said. “I knew there was going to be blood but this was ridiculous.”
“They don’t do circumcisions at bat mitzvahs, Mary,” Jake said.
“Yeah, okay,” Mary said. “Thanks for the Jewish education there, Yentl.”
Davies ignored her and said, “Let’s take this out into the hallway, unless you want to do this downtown.”
“You know, it doesn’t really matter where we go,” Mary said to Davies. “As long as I’m with you, I’m happy.”
Fifty-Six
Once the paramedics had checked out Mary, and the crime scene techies had arrived, the questioning began.
“So Mary,” Jake said. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning?”
“Because I don’t want to?” Mary said.
Jake just watched her, his face committing nothing.
Mary sighed and explained how she had come to be at Kenum’s apartment, leaving out the Catalina side trip, and the little kid with all the information. Just enough to satisfy them, not enough to actually tell them anything.
“So you want me to believe,” Davies said. “That there was murder and an assault on you by a bunch of old men wearing Richard Nixon masks?”
“It’s just so weird,” Jake said. “Nixon masks.”
“Yeah,” Mary said, nodding toward Davies. “Almost as scary as the one she’s wearing now.”
“Cute,” Davies said.
A coroner’s assistant walked past them and down the stairs, carrying a camera and a thick sheaf of notes. Moments later, the body of David Kenum passed by them on a gurney.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Mary said to the corpse. “Now, are we done here?” she said, looking at Jake.
“Could you excuse us, Detective Cornell?” Davies said. Jake looked between the two and then turned to head down the stairs.
Mary turned to Davies. “I’m glad you got rid of him – he’s such a third wheel!”
“Shut up, Cooper,” Davies said. “Listen, I could care less about you and your pathetic little games with Cornell, but once you start messing with my job then I get angry. And if I find out that you’ve withheld information or kept me out of the loop on anything regarding this case, you will never work again as a private investigator,” Davies continued, her teeth clenched. “You’ll just be a desperate old maid.”
“That threat’s as tired and worn out as your dildo collection,” Mary said.
Davies spun on her heel and pounded down the stairs. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hall.
Fifty-Seven
It hurt to open her eyes, to sit up in bed, to realize how much she’d had to drink the night before. But most of all, it was agonizing to remember the nightmares: horny old men coming at her from all directions.
The capper, the image that had finally jolted her wide awake at five o’clock in the morning: Richard Nixon. Standing on the steps into the Presidential helicopter. His arms held wide, his fingers forming two giant peace signs.
And he was buck naked.
Mary sat on the edge of her bed. She didn’t want to stand up, but she didn’t want to lie back down.
And she wasn’t going to lie to herself. The Shark’s departing shot at her had hit home: ‘…a lonely old maid…’
It wasn’t that she was lonely. Some days? Sure. Once in a while. But it was more the fear that she would become lonely when it was too late to do anything about it. That did trouble her.
The doorbell rang, forcing her to make the decision to stand up.
She walked slowly to the door, her head feeling like an Alaskan buttercup squash.
“Hey,” Chris McAllister said when she opened the door after first looking through the peephole.
“Hey,” Mary said, her voice flat and tired.
“Um, I was going to walk up to Peet’s Coffee – did you want me to grab you a cup or anything?”
Jesus, this guy was unbelievable. And blessed with perfect timing.
“Yes,” Mary said. “The biggest, strongest coffee they have, please. Here, let me grab my purse.”
Chris smiled. “No, no, it’s on me. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Okay, thanks,” Mary said.
She closed the door and made her way to the bathroom. She popped three Tylenol then stood under a blazing hot shower for as long as she could stand it.
By the time she was dressed in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, Chris was back with her coffee.
They sat together at the kitchen table, both slightly angled toward Mary’s view of the Pacific.
“I like this side of the building better,” he said.
“The view could be worse,” Mary said.
“I wasn’t just talking about the view,” he said. And smiled at her.
“Ordinarily, I love morning innuendo,” Mary said. “But this coffee is the only thing separating me from rigor mortis.”
“Rough night?” he said.
“Rough day. Rough night.”
He nodded and sipped his coffee. “I hear you’re a private investigator,” he said. He smiled, his eyes conveying the excitement he felt of talking to a real-live p.i.
“I’m afraid I am,” Mary said. “I got my license through correspondence school. I had a double major: private investigation and seamstressing.”
“What’s your current case? Or can’t you tell me?”
“Umm, it’s…”
“I was kidding, you don’t have to tell me…”
“No, it’s just, it involves family, and someone was hurt, and I’m trying to find the person who did it.”
“Oh, wow, I didn’t mean to pry. Are you…close to catching him?”
“It sure doesn’t feel like it,” Mary said, rubbing her head. “Sorry, I don’t have a lot of anecdotes…”
“Hey, that’s okay, maybe next time we…” he paused, embarrassed about what to say. “…have dinner, you can tell me some stories.”
“I don’t have good stories. Good neighbors. But not good stories.”
He actually blushed a little bit.
“You know what happened between us, the other day…” she said.
“Did something happen?” he said with a small smile.
“Yeah, well–”
“Okay, Mary, I understand,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I kno
w what happened isn’t common for you. And it sure as hell isn’t common for me.”
Mary set her coffee down and looked at him.
He got her sense of humor. He was handsome. He seemed to be nice.
Uh-oh, she thought.
I’m in trouble.
Fifty-Eight
Later that afternoon, she was outlining the progress of the case and still thinking about Chris McAllister when Jake called.
“Let’s get some sushi,” he said.
“Let’s not.”
“Oh, come on. You love raw fish and seaweed.”
“Stop with the sweet talk.”
“Sushi King sound good?”
The Sushi King was a cheap sushi place on Wilshire she and Jake used to go to on a regular basis. Not the best place in L.A. for sushi, but not the worst, either.
“Is salmonella all I’ll get out of this deal?” Mary said.
“What, now you need a special reason to see me?”
“Actually, I just need a reason to see you.”
“Why this sudden shift in Jake policy?”
“Because it strikes me as odd,” Mary said. “I haven’t gotten a lunch or dinner invitation from you in quite some time. I believe one of the reasons you fell so desperately in love with me was my curiosity. And as you can see, it still functions quite powerfully. So I’m wondering, why the offer now? Are you looking for a little quid pro quo?”
“Your cynicism saddens me, Mary.”
“Your sadness makes me cynical, Jake.”
“Are you done now?” Jake said.
“No.”
“There will be something besides food you’ll appreciate. And no, I don’t mean me.”
Fifty-Nine
If she’d been at the Hump, her favorite sushi place in L.A., she would have ordered the sashimi, and had it while watching Tom Cruise take off in his P-51 Mustang from the little Santa Monica airport, just off of where the Hump was located.
But this was the Sushi King.
So she ordered a spider roll and an Asahi Dry.
Jake’s order took a full three minutes for him to complete.
“You know, the ocean’s fish resources are scheduled to be depleted by 2050. You’re not helping,” Mary said.
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 13
