by April Hill
Surprise! The next thing I felt was not a doubled belt across my trembling ivory derriere, but something a whole lot nicer, and more restful, as well. All I had to do was lie there with my cheek on the leather desk blotter and moan with pleasure while Matt very considerately did most of the work. The desk was amazingly comfortable, and much, much easier on my knees. Especially the second time around. As I mentioned, earlier—Matt just never gets tired.
On the drive home, we talked about a lot of things, and Matt finally agreed to take me to Carlotta’s house to get the remainder of my stuff, and to look around a bit. Two birds with one stone, he explained. While we were there, he wanted me to go over anything I could recall about the day Gabe’s body was found. I knew where that conversation was likely to lead, of course, and I was already dreading it, but at this point, there was no way around it. I was going to have to tell Matt the entire story.
* * * *
It had been almost two weeks since Carlotta’s death, and though the house remained officially sealed, the yellow police tape was finally gone. Matt explained that he still had a squad car watching the house at night, but no one seemed to think there was much danger of the killer returning. No one but Matt, that is.
We got to the house in the early afternoon, and I spent maybe two hours gathering up what I wanted to take with me. After the investigation was over, we agreed that Matt would get a mover for the rest of my stuff. Not that I had much. It all looked kind of puny, sitting in a disorderly heap in the middle of Carlotta’s disorderly living room. A lot of clothing the Salvation Army would probably have turned down, a few boxes of books and a stack of videotapes, my art materials, all of Benjamin’s play-pretties and chew bones, his bowls and blankets… Jeez! The dog had more stuff than I did.
I sighed. “Not much to show for thirty-two years, is it?”
“Thoreau said we’re all traveling the road of life pushing a seventy-five foot barn,” Matt observed, wrapping an arm around me. “So, maybe you’re marching to a different drummer.”
“And maybe I’m just a big, fat failure,” I said sullenly.
Matt looked annoyed. “And what is it exactly that makes you a failure?”
I laughed bitterly. “Well now, let me add it all up for you, Dr. Freud. Maybe because at thirty-two years old I’m still a total screw-up who can’t make a decent living? My career has been painting quaint scenes on toilet seats, for God’s sake, and now, even that’s gone. Let’s face it, Matt, I’m an art whore. I’d probably be painting busts of Adolph Hitler or Saddam Hussein if someone would pay me for it. I’m a failure at the only thing I ever really wanted to do, I’m seventeen pounds overweight by the kindest assessment I can find in all the ladies’ magazines, and I found eight more gray hairs on my head this morning. Let me ask you something. What did you want to be when you were a little kid?”
“Hugh Hefner.”
“C’mon, be honest.”
“Okay, I wanted to be a cop. I always wanted to be a cop.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I always wanted to be an artist.”
“You are an artist. If you don’t like what you’re doing, then stop doing it and try painting what you want to paint. Work at a grocery store for six months, and paint at night if you have to, but start doing something you’re not ashamed of. Better yet, stay with me for a while, and paint all day while I’m at work.” He grinned, and patted my rear. “That way, if you don’t get enough done every day, I’ll do my best to provide you an incentive to work harder—maybe with that plastic bath brush you like so much? How’s that?”
“I’m extremely touched by your generosity, but no thanks.”
Matt picked up several of the lighthouse paintings and studied them. “These aren’t bad, you know.”
“They’re shit,” I snapped, grabbing the last canvas out of his hand and throwing it back on the pile. “They’re not even real lighthouses. I make them up. With Carlotta’s shop closed, I can’t even unload these. You know what, let’s change the subject.” I plopped down at the table. “Now, Detective O’ Connor, start detecting. What do you want to know about that day—that I haven’t already told you and every other cop in the county at least twenty times?”
Matt sat down across from me and took out a note pad. “I’m more interested in the night before that. Start from the beginning, and tell me everything you remember about that day, and that night.”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“Great answer. Very helpful.”
“Well, it’s true,” I groaned. “I went to bed early, with a headache.”
“What time?”
“Around 8:30.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I went to sleep, and slept all night.”
“What time did you wake up?”
“About 7:15. Benjamin was scratching to go out.”
“You slept almost eleven hours?” Matt raised an eyebrow.
“Is that illegal?” I asked sweetly. “Besides, I always told you about my sleeping habits. Totally nude, and for ten hours when I can get away with it.
“Do you usually sleep soundly?”
“I do after I swallow three over the counter ‘Sleep-Tight’ tablets before I go to bed.”
“So, you took those around eight?”
“No, I took those at about 2:30 in the morning, when my head…” I stopped abruptly. Matt was smiling. “I didn’t say that before, did I?”
“Nope. Are you sure it was 2:30?”
For a long moment, I didn’t say anything. I was remembering something else I hadn’t told the police, or Matt.
“There was something funny,” I said slowly, trying to get the details straight in my head.
“Funny?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I had a headache, so I guess it didn’t seem funny right then, but while I was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking the pills, I heard the damned rake thing. When I got up to look, it was going down the beach, toward Barry’s.”
Matt frowned. “Okay, two questions. Did you see anyone on the beach, and what’s a rake thing?”
I thought again. “I remember turning on the porch light, and walking out onto the deck, but by the time I got outside, it was too far away. I couldn’t see anyone—not really.”
“Not really?”
“It was more like a quick impression. Two people, maybe.”
“How long did it take you to get outside from the time you heard this rake thing?”
“Just long enough to get from the bed to the door … No, wait. I remember grabbing something to put on. I was sleeping in the raw, so I threw on one of Carlotta’s old muumuus. Anyway, the rake thing was already moving down the beach, already past Barry’s, by then. All I could make out was just these two dark shapes—men probably. One of them was in the Jeep, driving, and all I had was a quick impression of the back of his head and shoulders. The other one was walking along beside. That one was really tall, and fat—real big, anyway. I assumed they were the rake thing operators.”
“Did you see anyone else on the beach?”
“No, but then, I was groggy, and barely got a glimpse of anything before I went back inside.”
“You had the outside light on?”
“Yeah, but it didn’t help. I mean it didn’t illuminate the beach or anything. Carlotta was too cheap to buy light bulbs over forty watts.”
Matt frowned. “Do you think they saw you? The men in the Jeep?
“I didn’t notice anyone looking back. I wouldn’t think anyone would recognize me from that far, though.”
“Okay. Now, what’s a rake thing?”
“You know, the rolling gadget that cleans the beach at night, rakes the sand for cigarette butts and glass, and stuff? They usually run it up and down for the last time a little after ten-thirty every night—probably to make sure everyone’s off the beach. Kids, and people partying too late.”
“All right, then. Now, describe this rake thing.”
“It’s just a Jeep, r
eally. Like the one the lifeguards use, only this one has this big rake attachment on the back to drag the sand, and a big shovel in the front—sort of like a snow shovel? I’ve never heard it going by that late… Well, that early, I guess. You could probably ask someone exactly what time it was. It’s the county that does it, I think. God, Matt! Do you think maybe someone deliberately ran over Gabe with the rake thing?”
“I don’t know, but raking the beach would be a damned good way for someone to cover his tracks.”
“You mean like footprints?”
“Among other things.”
“But why would he bother? The surf would wash away footprints.”
“Only up to the high tide line. And not necessarily right away.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay, next question, Sherlock. Why did whoever it was put Gabe’s … the head in my car?” I gulped. “And all the rest of what the cops found there?”
“Good question. Opportunity, maybe. Maybe he or she was in a hurry, needed to dump what he had, and your car was available.”
“Do most murderers take their victims’ heads with them—like some kind of sicko souvenir?”
“Sometimes, but it’s not too unusual for them to spread things around, as well.”
I grimaced. “Jeez! You’ve got one great job!”
Matt shook his head. “It has its compensations. Anyway, all of this is just guesswork. Can you think of anything else?”
I couldn’t. Besides, I was too hung up on thinking about the rake thing.
“What do you think it would feel like to be sand-raked to death?” I murmured.
Matt made a face. “Not good, but that’s not what killed Tannhauser.”
This I hadn’t heard, before. “You know what he died of?” I whined, “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It’s still confidential.”
“That sucks!” I shouted.
Matt sighed. “Okay, his throat was cut, but if you tell anyone else…”
“And who am I going to tell?”
“No one, if you know what’s good for you. According to the ME, the knife went all the way through to the spine, pretty well decapitating the guy. Someone was pretty damned upset with Mr. Tannhauser. At first, we thought the head was taken to hide his identity.”
I grimaced. “That just goes to show how little they knew about Gabe. His head was not the most distinctive thing about him.”
“Do I want to hear this next part?” Matt asked wearily.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Detective. I’m talking about the tattoos.”
“Tattoos, plural? The only tattoo mentioned in the coroner’s report was the dragon and the well-stacked lady.”
“Ha! Are you telling me your crack CSI units missed the horned Satan, and the cobra, and–”
Matt looked puzzled. “Where?”
“Stop it, Matt!” I yelped. “You’re giving me the creeps! How could they have…?”
“The ME’s report mentioned that there was a lot of … surface tissue missing.”
I groaned. “All right, I am now officially going to throw up.”
“Sorry. Actually, the report did suggest that there might have been tattoos, before … before someone went to a lot of trouble to remove them.”
“Ugh! Why would anyone do something like that?”
Matt sighed and shook his head. “I’ve been a cop for twenty years, and I couldn’t tell you why people do ninety percent of what I’ve seen them do.”
Now I was getting really curious. “Okay, so how would you go about … about removing them?”
“You sure you want to know?”
I nodded.
“A belt sander, probably. Coarse grit.”
“Post-mortem?” I asked weakly.
Matt shook his head. “I sure as hell hope so.”
“And that means the body was moved here, from somewhere else, right?” I suggested. “Unless the killer had a really long extension cord?”
“Well, there are cordless models, but the first thing he’d need is a soundproof room.”
My stomach was turning over and over. “Oh, yeah. So, he wasn’t killed in the house?”
“No blood anywhere that we could find.”
“What about in his studio?” I asked.
Matt looked puzzled. “Upstairs, you mean?”
“No. The other one.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Tannhauser had another studio, besides the one in the house?”
“Yeah. Well, that’s what he told me, anyway—that he was using the place as a studio. I only went there one time. I can’t believe the cops didn’t know about it.”
“There’s still a lot we don’t know about the guy. Where is this place?”
“In downtown L.A., somewhere. Gabe was driving, and I wasn’t paying much attention. I didn’t even go inside—just waited in the car ‘til he came back.”
Matt had taken out his little notepad again. “Could you find it again? Would you know the building if you saw it?”
I thought for a moment. “Jeez, Matt, it was dark, and late. All I remember is that it was one of those really run-down industrial areas, you know? Near some railroad tracks. Not a big building, though, maybe six or seven stories—red brick, I think.”
“Anything else?”
Something came to me. “I remember seeing this really big shoe.”
“Shoe?”
“Yeah, like Minnie Mouse’s shoe. I know it sounds stupid, but that’s the kind of stuff I notice, not street names.”
Matt leaned over and kissed me, obviously excited. “Not so stupid. I know the place. It’s on top of the old Longtree Building, near the tracks. The Beasley Shoe Factory. The company went out of business in the early sixties, but no one’s never bothered to take the shoe down. Were you facing the shoe when you saw it?”
“Uh-huh. I noticed it when we got to the corner. Right in front of us. I remember pointing to it, and laughing.”
“Did Tannhauser turn left, or right after the shoe?”
I smiled sweetly. “First things first. Lieutenant. I get to go with you down there, right?”
“Wrong. This is police business.”
“All right then, you’ll have to check out every brick building, left or right,” I said smugly.
Matt sat down on the edge of the dining table, hauled me across his thigh, and had my pants down before I could say Minnie Mouse. He then selected a longish, largish piece of driftwood from the pile of flotsam littering the table and laid into my naked ass so hard the damned thing broke after the first few swats, forcing him to finish the job with his bare hand.
“Ouch! That’s not fair, you cock … OW! Oh, GOD! OWW!”
I’d been warned about using the ‘c’ word, of course, and had I known that the penalty for almost using it again would involve having my butt scalded until it smoked, I might have paid closer attention to the original warning.
When the lesson was over, Matt left me right where I was—over his thigh with my ass on fire—and repeated his request for directions. It did not escape my attention that his hand was still poised a foot above my throbbing backside. “That was for withholding information. Now, tell me where this place is to the left or the right—or I start all over.”
“Left,” I growled. “Gabe had to wait for a trash truck, and he called the driver a moron. It was maybe halfway down the block, on the right, I think.” Then, I made the mistake of renewing my own request, and adding a whine. “PL-EE-AA-SE let me go along, Matt! I promise not to…”
The second round was shorter, harder, and lower, but in the end, I won the argument. Every other building on the damned block was made of red brick, so Matt had to concede. It seemed I’d have to go there with him, to identify the correct building. Hee-hee!
We found the building very quickly, because lo and behold, I experienced this sudden, astonishing flash of recovered memory. It just came to me out of the blue that Gabe had parked in front of a very distinctive fire hydran
t that night. Isn’t memory amazing?
“That’s it,” I beamed, indicating the only fire hydrant on the right side of the street painted to look like R2-D2, from Star Wars. “The whole time I was waiting in the car for Gabe, I was worried that a cop would show up and ticket us.” Matt gave me an accusatory look. He knew I had been lying, of course, and that I had remembered this tiny little detail all along. But he couldn’t prove it in a court of law, now, could he?
Matt called Dan Olsen and told him to meet him here, then rang the downstairs bell until a night watchman showed up to let us in. Matt was going to make me stay in the car, but I started whining about the neighborhood not being the kind where a lady would be safe. So, after a five minute lecture about my not touching anything, I was allowed to tag along. The “watchman” was so drunk he kept running into walls, and obviously couldn’t have cared less if we stole everything that wasn’t nailed down, or set the building on fire. It looked like it should have been condemned twenty years earlier, and only two of the top floor lofts appeared to be rented. The guard told us which unit we wanted, handed over the key, then staggered off down the hall. We took the freight elevator up to the top floor, checked the numbers, and unlocked the battered green steel door that led to Gabe’s studio loft.
What Matt and I saw when we opened the door defies simple description, so let me try to explain it this way: Imagine a sort of giant playground for perverts. Disneyworld for the Depraved.
Chapter Seven
I like to think of myself as worldly, but standing in the middle of Gabe’s enormous loft “studio,” I suddenly felt as vanilla as my first ice cream cone. My first thought, actually—before I understood what I was looking at—was that the place was like a well-equipped gym, done in fifty shades of gray and black. In a way, I suppose it was a gym—the kind of gym where your personal trainer gets very personal, and very determined that you do it his way—or else. Which probably accounted for the leather restraints on the “workout equipment,” the cabinets full of whips and chains, and the steel rings in the walls and ceiling.
