Naked Addiction

by Caitlin Rother

  “Wait. Wait,” Norman said, grabbing his arm. The sergeant frowned at Norman until he removed his hand. “Who’s the guy in the back of the cruiser out there? Is he the murder suspect?”

  “No, that’s the bartender, Jack O’Mallory. He called in the murder. For his trouble, we arrested him on suspicion of possession and distribution of narcotics.” The sergeant chuckled.

  “What kind of narcotics? Meth and cocaine?”

  “Could be either one or both. We’ll have to test it to make sure.”

  Norman could feel his eyes getting bigger. He was living the dream. “Is this murder related to the two beauty school students?”

  “Could be, but we don’t know yet. You the one who’s been covering the other murders?”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t you think they’re related? They’ve all happened in this neighborhood.”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes. “I just told you, we don’t know enough yet to say,” he said testily.

  “Okay. Can I get your name?” Norman asked, thanking God that he remembered given that he’d actually succeeded in getting some information on the record.

  “Stone. Sergeant Stone.”

  “Great. Thanks, sergeant. You’re the best.”

  Stone softened a little. “Let’s hope so,” he said, wryly.

  Norman looked at his watch and realized he had only minutes to spare before deadline. It was cool being a reporter. Very cool.

  As he was dictating what he had to Big Ed, he saw Goode drive into the parking lot and jog over to the sergeant. Judging by their expressions, something else was up. Goode was gesturing excitedly. Thinking it could be a break in the case, Norman tried to keep an eye on them while he finished up with Big Ed. Goode and Stone talked, they both made calls on their cell phones, then Goode took off.

  The last time Norman had seen Goode, he’d been pretty inscrutable and kept his cool. But not this time. The detective was obviously hyped-up. If Norman wanted to make it in the news business, he knew he’d have to do a little late-night enterprise reporting. So he jumped in the Newsmobile and followed the detective. Luckily, the beers were starting to wear off.

  Chapter 31

  Goode

  Because Stone’s patchwork homicide team was dealing with a ridiculously unusual three murders in four days, they all were being put to the test, both mentally and physically. Keith’s murder was obviously related to the other two, and it confirmed that Goode’s drug ring theory had merit. Once Goode got back to Pumphouse, he told Stone he wanted to call in Marshall Rogers, his partner from Narcotics, to help with the search at Seth’s place. Stone was saying that sounded like a fine idea when his cell phone started ringing.

  It was the deputy district attorney assigned to the case and the judge on a conference call about the telephonic search warrant for Seth’s house. Stone gave Goode the thumbs-up sign and started scribbling on a form he kept in his car for such occasions. Goode took the opportunity to call Rogers, who wasn’t so pleased. He was at a formal party with his wife.

  “She’ll be totally pissed if I just take off,” he said.

  But Goode persuaded him that this was important and she’d get over it. “At least you have a wife to piss off. And don’t forget to bring Rocky,” he said, referring to the unit’s best drug-sniffing canine.

  Goode grabbed the warrant info from Stone and took off. As he was driving down Mission Boulevard towards La Jolla, Goode pondered the incident with his sister’s roommate. He regretted being so hard on him, but the guy was such an idiot Goode just couldn’t help himself. He’d never been able to figure out how Maureen could live with two pool guys who got up at the crack of dawn and practiced their guitars before work, knowing their roommate was still asleep.

  Maureen sometimes complained about their weird habits, but said they didn’t bother her enough to move. Goode was still worried about where she was, but he’d done all he could for the night, so he tried to let it go and concentrate on the task at hand.

  Seth lived a few blocks from the beach on Sea Lane, a street that crossed La Jolla Boulevard. His house was on the east side of the boulevard, where the houses were worth many hundreds of thousands, if not millions, but far less than those closer to the water.

  Maybe Daddy bought him a fixer-upper.

  Goode hoped he hit the jackpot and found coke and meth at Seth’s house. He was betting that it matched the high-quality stuff found in Tania’s apartment.

  If Goode broke this case and made a big drug arrest in the process, he couldn’t have asked for a better way to go out of Narcotics. Not that working Homicide would give him a normal life, but at least it would be different.

  Glancing in his rearview mirror, he noticed that a brown Toyota behind him changed lanes every time he did.

  Could be a drunk who can’t drive without a pair of red lights to follow. Or maybe not.

  He knew he should probably head straight to Seth’s, but he figured a quick drive by Windansea wouldn’t add any significant delay. Plus he might shake the tail if that’s what it was. He also needed to psych himself up for what could be a nasty, if not dangerous, confrontation. Besides, Rogers would need a little time to placate his wife before coming to meet him, and it was against procedure to go into this type of situation alone. Although that hadn’t stopped him in the past.

  Through his open window, Goode could see that the tide was high and a good swell was coming in. The ocean worked on his nerves better than any Elmore Leonard novel ever could. He watched the waves crest, fall, and pull away like a lacey negligee of suds, revealing the sandy skin of the only woman who seemed safe to love these days.

  The sound of the water brought back the dream he’d had the night before. He was standing on the muddy bank of a river, watching it flow past him, like threads of a self-weaving fabric. The movement of the water was so quick it almost seemed still. He was mesmerized by it. Slowly, a few feet in front of him, a woman’s face emerged from the river, facing the sky, her eyes closed, mouth open and long dark hair hanging straight back to expose a neck mottled with purple blotches. It was Tania Marcus.

  Even in the dream, Goode found it uncanny that Tania could stand in one place, when the current would have swept anyone else down the river to the craggy rocks below. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, slowly raising her hand in a Miss America wave, her cupped palm rotating side to side. Then, she beckoned to him and her smile turned a little wicked, conveying a promise of pleasure if he went to her. But he knew better.

  “Come join me on the riverbank. You’ll be safe here,” Goode yelled.

  Tania’s smile faded as she shook her head. He realized how stupid it was to be discussing safety with a dead woman. And even more stupid that she would refuse.

  “Who did this to you?” Goode blurted out as she started to sink below the surface of the water. But it was too late. She was gone, and he woke up.

  Between the dreams, the diary entries, and the interlude with Alison, he’d been sexually aroused for four days now. It had been a few years since he remembered feeling like this, but he hadn’t realized how dead inside he’d been until the last few days. Joining the living was a scary prospect.

  But something about this renewed awareness felt wrong. Wasn’t it more than a little pathetic that he was infatuated with a damaged woman who’d been molested, not to mention a woman whose death he was investigating? Trying to think of something that would bring him back to center, he conjured up an image of Alison in her bathrobe, kissing him. He remembered how her breath felt on his neck and felt flushed all over again. What was happening to him? His emotions were all over the map. He was acting like a teenager, for Christ’s sake.

  “Enough,” he said out loud. “It’s showtime.”

  In the rearview mirror, Goode saw that the brown Toyota was creeping along behind him.

  “Who the hell is that?” he barked.

  Whoever it was, he was going to lose the bastard. Goode drove up Nautilus toward the stoplight at La Jolla Boule
vard and flicked on his left turn signal. The Toyota did the same. Goode pulled into the intersection and started to turn left, but then went straight instead so the Toyota had to veer abruptly to follow him. Goode swerved again, this time to the right, and lurched into a mini-strip mall where they sold gas, roast chicken and bikinis. The Toyota’s tires screeched as it straightened out and kept going. Goode sped out of the driveway in front of him, turned the corner, and headed up Nautilus after it. He put on his flashing red light and motioned the driver to pull over. As he walked up from the rear of the car and pointed his flashlight through the driver’s-side window, the light reflected off the driver’s familiar wire-rimmed glasses.

  It was that damn cub reporter from the Sun-Dispatch, Norman Klein, the kid with ink on his face who didn’t know what “off the record” meant, and he sure looked frightened. As well he should have. Goode needed to teach him a little lesson about anonymous sources and the inherent problem with trailing a detective on the job.

  “Roll down the window,” the detective ordered in his most official voice. Norman promptly complied. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I was just, umm, hoping to get some more information on what’s going on with these murders,” Norman said, his voice a high-pitched squeak.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve already seen that you don’t know the meaning of ‘off-the-record’ and Sergeant Stone told me you just casually strolled into our crime scene at Pumphouse tonight. You know, you’re putting your life in danger following me and I am not particularly impressed that you’ve chosen to take up such aggressive reporting tactics, Mr. Klein. I strongly suggest that you turn this little trash-heap of yours around and head home.”

  Norman’s mouth hung open slightly, his fingers white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. “I’m really sorry if I upset you,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d mind some credit for finding the body. . . .Can I call you tomorrow for an update?”

  “No, you can’t. From now on, you go through the sergeant for quotes.”

  Goode took no small satisfaction in scaring the kid, but he decided to have some mercy and lighten up on him. “Besides, I’m just heading over to my girlfriend’s house, so you can rest easy. You’re not missing any story here, Scoop.”

  Not knowing any better, Norman looked relieved. Goode laughed to himself about his little white lie, which was a necessary evil to protect his investigation.

  If he only knew what he was going to miss. Ha.

  Goode got back into his van and waited until he was sure Norman was gone before he rolled to Seth’s house and parked down the street. As the minutes ticked by, he felt his blood pressure creeping up. His testosterone levels were so high he felt like a time bomb with a faulty trigger. Where the hell was Rogers? The man knew how much Goode hated to wait when he was fired up and ready to make a bust. Goode was worried if he took much longer that Seth would have already flushed his stash down the toilet.

  Rogers once told Goode that he had a bad case of the lone wolf syndrome, daring death to touch him when he had no backup. Rogers was right. Seth Kennedy was a murder suspect, but Goode was too impatient to wait any longer. His partner had the address and would be there soon enough. Goode was going in, lone wolf or not.

  Seth lived in a squat, white house with dark blue shutters and a very small but well-kept lawn. The garden was lined with red, white, yellow and pink rose bushes, interspersed with purple, yellow and raspberry pansies. Track lights lined the brick walkway, casting an almost fluorescent sheen over the pansies.

  Inside, Goode could hear a man and a woman arguing. He put his ear to the door to make out the conversation better. The woman was sobbing.

  “Look, Clover, I told you, it’s over between us,” Seth said. “I have no time for your hysterical outbursts anymore. We were never dating. This was always a sexual thing. You knew that. I’ve moved on and so should you.”

  Hearing high heels clattering toward him across what sounded like a wooden floor, he dashed around the side of the house, took a deep breath in and let it out slowly so no one would hear him panting. From this vantage point, he could still peek around and see the front door.

  “Jake was right about you,” Clover screamed as she flung the door open. “You’re just a narcissistic asshole.”

  Goode ducked down behind the rose bushes, hoping she wouldn’t see him as he watched her walk toward the street as fast as her heels would carry her, get into a red Mercedes convertible, and speed off into the night. Just what he would have expected from the Clover he’d heard so much about.

  Nice car. Very upset driver. Not a good combination.

  Goode was pissed. There he was, finally close enough to talk to her, and he had to pass up the opportunity. But first things first.

  He rapped the brass door knocker three times. Getting no answer, he did it again. “Police. Open the door!” he ordered. “Kennedy, I know you’re in there.”

  When Seth finally opened up, he looked highly annoyed. “Detective Goode, it’s almost midnight,” he said sharply, tapping his watch for emphasis. “What’s so important it can’t wait until morning?”

  With Seth on the offensive, he almost had Goode believing that he didn’t know his best friend had just been murdered.

  “I need to talk to you. Do you mind if I come in?” Goode asked. When Seth didn’t move, he held up the search warrant and pushed past Seth into the living room. “Well, like it or not, I’m coming in. I have a warrant.” Goode loved that part of the job.

  “I really don’t know why you couldn’t do this at a civilized hour,” Seth snapped. “I’ve got to work tomorrow morning.”

  “Sorry,” Goode said with complete insincerity. “No can do.”

  Closing the door behind them, Seth said, “You’re just wasting your time and mine. I’ve told you everything.”

  Goode knew better, brightening when he saw that Seth was wearing a white pinstriped shirt like the one Tania was wearing when he found her, only this one had thin black stripes. Seth’s suit jacket and a red tie were strewn across the back of a maroon leather chair that looked like it belonged in a lawyer’s office.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Goode said as he walked along the wall, admiring the artwork, and inspected each piece. He leaned closer to read the signature on a small sketch.

  “Is that a real Picasso?” Goode asked incredulously. The frame was a big, deep, fancy gold one that didn’t really fit with the drawing.

  “Sure is. My parents gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday. It’s just a sketch, but it’s quite valuable. Someday, I’m going to line the walls of my mansion with Impressionist paintings. I really like flowers.”

  How sweet. “Yeah, I noticed your garden. You have a mansion?”

  “No. I meant someday when I have a mansion,” Seth said, pausing as he leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom. “So what’s this about? And what’s up with the search warrant?”

  The boy certainly seemed a little more jumpy than the last time Goode had seen him. Could it be that he had just killed his best friend, or that he had massive amounts of drugs on the property? Or both? Goode had no doubt about the drugs. They had to be there somewhere. And if Seth didn’t commit the murders, he probably knew who did.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Goode said matter-of-factly, sitting down on the matching maroon leather couch. Seth’s expression remained unchanged.

  Is he some kind of sociopath or does he really not know about Keith?

  “Your friend Keith Warner is dead. Shot in the back of the head tonight at Pumphouse.” He paused, watching Seth closely for his reaction.

  Impressively, Seth’s face fell as he stared at Goode. “Wait, whaat? Say that again.”

  “Your friend is dead.”

  Seth started pacing across the hard wood floor in his black Italian dress shoes. “You’re lying. You’re just trying to get me to say something you want to hear,” he said.

  Seth’s footsteps sounded hol
low, as if there was some space under the house, perfect for storing wine—or drugs.

  “No, Mr. Kennedy, I’m dead serious.”

  “When did this happen?” Seth asked, turning to face him.

  Goode wondered if Seth was scrambling for an alibi. “We got the call a couple of hours ago,” he said. “Where were you at that time?”

  “Give me a break,” Seth said, shaking his head. “You can’t be serious. Keith was my best friend. I can’t believe you would talk to me in this kind of tone. Besides, why would anyone kill Keith? He never did anything to hurt anybody.”

  Typical answer. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss, but everyone is a suspect right now,” Goode said. “That said, my eye is on you for the moment, so why don’t you answer the question? Where were you?”

  “I was showing a property on Whale Watch Drive in the Shores,” Seth said, running his hand through his hair. “To Dr. and Mrs. George Sherman. It’s a four-million-dollar property. I’m this close to closing the deal,” he said, pinching his fingers almost together. “Make myself a bundle.”

  Seth threw himself into a chair. “I can’t believe Keith is dead,” he said, rubbing his temples and focusing on a point in front of him. Goode followed Seth’s line of sight and saw he was looking at a snapshot of Tania taken at night on the beach next to a fire ring. He wondered if it was one of Paul Walters’ photos.

  “Where’d you get this shot?” Goode asked.

  “I asked her for one of herself before I left her apartment Saturday afternoon. It was taken in Malibu.”

  “By whom?”

  Seth shook his head and frowned. “How the hell should I know? What does that have to do with Keith’s murder? She got it out of a shoebox in the closet. Jesus.” Seth breathed out a long sigh. He shook his head and looked up at Goode, squinting. “He was my best friend, man, my best friend. How could you possibly think I could kill him?”