by Dan Ames
“I love spicy food, it just doesn’t love me.”
“Is that the attraction?”
Jake smiled at her.
“Are we still talking about food?”
Mary shrugged her shoulders. She had no problem with the guacamole. Her threshold for hot food was very, very high.
“So what can you tell me about our victim?” she said.
Jake signaled the woman in the pretty skirt back and they both ordered. He chose the enchiladas, Mary the green chile tacos.
Once the woman had replaced their depleted beers with fresh ones, he finally answered.
“Valerie Barnes,” he said.
“Vitals?”
Jake shook his head. “All I can tell you is that she had a DUI two years ago, otherwise her record is clean. Her employer was an accounting firm and she was apparently a partner. That’s all I’ve got so far.”
“What is the size of the accounting firm? She seemed pretty young to be a partner.”
“I’m sure the detectives are looking into it.”
“No sign of mental health issues?” Mary asked.
“Only the DUI.”
Mary leaned back as the tacos were placed in front of her. She could smell the fiery chiles.
“Have you heard anything else?” Mary prompted.
Jake was putting salt and pepper on his enchiladas. Why, Mary didn’t know.
“Not a peep,” he said. Jake began splashing hot sauce all over his dinner.
“This is going to end badly,” Mary said.
“Yeah, but if I’m going to go out, I’m going to go out in style.”
He shoved a forkful of enchilada into his mouth and began sweating.
Chapter Fourteen
Jake was assigned stakeout duty for a case he was working on, so Mary went back to her condo.
It was late, and she changed into sweats and a UCLA sweatshirt.
It was a long shot, but Mary was feeling lucky. She dialed the number of Dr. Paulette Blevins, her client, and waited for voicemail.
“Doctor, this is Mary Cooper. I wanted to run a name past you. Valerie Barnes. She was recently murdered and I’m calling to see if you have ever heard of her, especially with regard to Craig Locher. Please call me back when you get a chance.”
Mary thanked the woman and hung up, then went into her office and fired up her computer.
She fed the name Valerie Barnes into the various person locator programs she had on her desktop. Some were legal, some weren’t. One of the best programs now had a slightly outdated database because its creator, one of Mary’s former clients, had once again fallen off the grid. He was a hacker and lived life in the shadows. When he reappeared, if he ever did, Mary would see about an update. She was guessing it wouldn’t be high on his list of priorities.
The collective programs spit out a lot of information on a variety of women named Valerie Barnes. It was something private investigators knew all too well: no matter how unusual a name might sound, and Valerie Barnes wasn’t all that unusual, there was always more than expected.
In this case, seventeen names alone in the greater Los Angeles area.
Mary collated them into a spreadsheet with all of the pertinent details and began editing.
She cast a wide net with ages. For one thing, it wasn’t always easy to tell exactly how old a person was, especially in Los Angeles. Secondly, the woman had been cut up pretty thoroughly. Nonetheless, Mary was fairly confident in placing the age of the victim between twenty-five and forty. Forty seemed a little on the high side, but again, this was Los Angeles. Botox, surgery, crazy-ass diets, and health food. She’d met some women who were fifty that looked no older than thirty-five.
With that age frame in mind, Mary was able to throw out eleven of the seventeen names.
That left her with six.
Next, she checked ethnicity. Her Valerie Barnes was definitely Caucasian. She was able to eliminate two African-American Valerie Barneses.
Down to four.
One Valerie Barnes was currently incarcerated in a minimum security prison near San Bernadino.
Three.
Mary studied the details.
Two had DUIs.
She threw out the one that didn’t.
That left two.
Mary printed out the names and addresses. She would run them down first thing tomorrow morning.
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 landsc
aping 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 suspension.
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 pi
le 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.
