by Zoe Burke
“Oh, honey. Take a nice, hot bath and get some sleep.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t like it that they let Jake go. I mean, he pummeled the shit out of Mickey, after all.”
“How do you know that they let Jake go?”
“Just a minute, Bea. In that cupboard, to the right, Brad. Now, honey, what did you ask? Oh, right, well Brad told us, we’re about to sit down with him…”
I choked and coughed and sat up straight. “Brad?”
“Yes. Got here a few minutes ago. He came to ask some more questions about Nana. The three of us were sitting down for a drink. You must be very careful, darling, until we’ve figured this all out.”
“MOM!”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
My whole body ached. “MOM! Where is Brad, right now?”
Mickey came out of the bathroom at that moment, and we locked eyes.
“Honey, he’s right here, in the kitchen with me. I’m just pouring him a Scotch. What on earth is the matter? Brad is…”
I got as much control over my voice as I could muster. “Mom. Listen to me. You have to figure out a way to get him out of the house. Do you hear me? Don’t let him hear this conversation because…”
A new voice came on the phone. “Annabelle, hi, it’s Brad. Your mother and father are very hospitable. Where are you?…Yes, Mrs. Starkey, that will be great. Just a splash of soda…” I could hear Mom tell him to for chrissakes just call her Sylvia. “Anyway, is Mickey all right? And why in the world do you want me out of the house?” This last question was posed with a quieter voice, one that I did not like one little bit.
“Brad.” That was all I could manage. I was still staring at Mickey. He quickly grabbed the pad and pen by the phone, scribbled something and handed it to me. “Mickey’s fine.” I was reading his notes. “He’s not with me at the moment. I’m at the apartment. Mickey had to run some…”—Mickey’s handwriting was not the clearest I had ever seen— “…errands,” I stammered.
Brad paused. I heard him take a sip. How dare he drink my parents’ good Scotch. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you want me out of here?” He was whispering.
“Why do I want you out of my parents’ house?” I repeated, for Mickey’s sake, hoping he’d provide the next line of dialogue. Unfortunately, he was concentrating on pulling on his boxers.
“That’s the question, Annabelle. I’m here for a friendly chat. Jake visited Martha after I had him released, and he found out from her where your parents live. Said there might be something here that could clear up your lesbian friend’s murder.” He sipped again.
“CASSIE! HER NAME WAS CASSIE!” I yelled, and Mickey jumped, wide-eyed, and vigorously shook his head no no no, like, don’t let on that you’re scared or pissed or ANYTHING. I took a breath and continued in what I hoped was a calm voice. “I don’t want my parents involved. They have nothing to do with any of this. I want you to leave them alone. Please put my mother back on.”
“Aaah. Well, I’d give the phone back to Sylvia, but she’s in the den now with Jeff, where I’ll be joining them. I’ll let her know that you’re fine. I suggest that you make your way here as soon as possible. And bring Mickey with you, wherever he is. I won’t be leaving any time soon.” And with that, he hung up.
I dropped the phone, trembling. “Mickey.”
Mickey was halfway dressed. “I know. Let’s get out of here and to your parents.” He eased himself onto the desk chair and put on his shoes. “On the way we’ll call Luis and my partner in New York—I filled him in yesterday. We need to find some law enforcement in this whole charade that we can trust.”
I hadn’t moved. “What if Jake is on his way there?”
Mickey stopped tying his shoes. “I don’t know why he would be, but hell, what do I know. Brad is enough to worry about right now.”
He slowly stood up and pulled a t-shirt over his head, then managed to position his shoulder holster. He gingerly slipped into his sport coat. “Let’s go, Annabelle.”
I still couldn’t move.
“I can’t leave you here. Jake could be on his way to your apartment, or to this room, to find either or both of us. We need to stick together.” He adjusted his eye patch. “Stand up. Grab your purse. Pick up your phone. Put on your jacket. Now.”
I did all of those things. At the door we heard a knock and “Room service!” We opened the door. Mickey grabbed the check and signed it. I grabbed the two plates of French fries and told the waiter to keep the ice cream and to leave the wine in the room. I set the plates down on the bed while Mickey made his way down the hall. I grabbed a pillow and shook it out of the pillowcase. I dumped the French fries in the pillowcase. The waiter watched me, amused.
“We’re in a hurry. Thanks.” I followed Mickey down the hall in a quick trot, the sack of fries slung over my shoulder like Santa Claus’ bag of gifts.
Chapter Twenty-three
On the way to Palo Alto, in between mouthfuls of French fries, Mickey called New York and then Luis. I was driving. Luis said he’d check with some guys in Las Vegas, to see if they could alert some reputable cops for us. He also told Mickey that he had a face-to-face with his captain, and as a result, they started a full-fledged investigation into Jake. Already they had connected him with two gangsters—Luis’ word, not mine—and a casino robbery. Luis identified the two fake cops who stopped us in the parking lot from photos taken at that robbery, photos that Jake had stashed away at the bottom of an evidence box.
That wasn’t all.
Luis confirmed that Georgia had been the legal consultant at one of the casinos where Jake handled security. She had no previous experience as an estate lawyer.
“She’s a phony, Mickey, besides being pals with Jake,” I mumbled through a mouthful of French fries.
“Looks that way. She’s definitely in this, whatever this is.”
I tried to concentrate on the road while my mind was racing. What if Jake and his friends were in California now, looking for Mary and us? We still didn’t know why. I did know that Brad was bad, and I couldn’t bear to think of Mom and Dad beaten up or worse—each time I did, I got the shakes. Instead I tried to come up with some answers to explain this mind-boggling horror show.
What I couldn’t figure was why these guys were still interested in us, or my parents. Jake had the hundred thousand dollar hatpin. What did they want? What did I, or Mickey, or my parents have to do with anything? Did they think all along that I had the pin, and that’s why Cassie got killed? Or was it something else entirely involving Georgia Browning, that had nothing to do with the hatpin?
I was driving too fast again, but this time, Mickey didn’t say a word. He kept handing me fries while he was talking on the phone. His partner promised to see who he could find in the SFPD. Mickey gave him my parents’ address.
When we got to their neighborhood—dotted with freshly painted houses accented by manicured lawns and spotless luxury coupes—the contrast of its movie-set perfection to what I imagined was going on inside my family home almost made me laugh.
Mickey had me pull over on the street a few houses before Mom and Dad’s and turn the ignition off. I rubbed my salty, greasy hands against my black capris and we both got out of the car, quietly shutting the doors. It was good to be dressed in all black. A brief image of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill crossed my mind, even though I look like her as much as I look like Halle Berry.
There was a black sedan in the driveway—we figured it was Brad’s. We didn’t see any other cars. The outside lights were on. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I guess it’s often true that nothing seems out of the ordinary when in fact, nothing is the least bit ordinary.
At the front door, I had my key out when the door opened. Brad grinned a welcome. “Come on in, kids. We’ve been expecting you.” He pointed his gun at us. “And, you should give me your gun, Mick.” He held out his hand.
“Nice patch, by the way.”
Mickey pulled his gun out and handed it over. “What are you doing, Brad? This isn’t smart. Why don’t we…”
Brad put Mickey’s Glock in his pocket. “Why don’t you shut up and come inside. I’m wrapping up a case here, and I can come up with reasons for arresting the whole lot of you. Go into the den there with Sylvia and Jeff, and we’ll all have a nice, long talk.” I hated hearing my parents’ names sliming out of his mouth. I ground my teeth.
We walked into the den. Mom and Dad were sitting very calmly on the couch, but their rigid faces showed that they were anything but calm. When I saw Dad mopping blood with his handkerchief from a big welt on his forehead, I gasped. He held up his hand to stop me. “I’m all right, Bea, I’m all right.”
“Yeah, he’s all right,” Brad said. “Let’s hope he’s learned not to try any more heroics.”
“Dad, what…?”
Mom was holding onto Dad’s arm. “Honey, perhaps you and Mickey should just sit down.”
“Now, that’s a good idea.” Brad motioned me with his head to the other side of Mom, and Mickey to one of two recliners. Brad took the other. “Isn’t this cozy?”
“What do you want, Brad?” Mickey clenching his jaw reminded me of Harrison Ford in Air Force One, which wasn’t a very good movie, but who can resist Harrison Ford?
“Jake has the hatpin, Brad,” I added, “if that’s what you’re looking for.”
I could tell that this was not news to Brad. “Mmm hmm. I know. He told me.”
“So what do you want?” Mickey’s jaw was still clenched. “You’re holding a gun on us, which hardly seems necessary.”
Brad took a sip of Scotch. “I want the other hatpin.”
“WHAT other hatpin?” I shouted.
Mom answered. Her jaw was clenched, too, and she sounded a bit like Cherry Jones playing the president on 24, telling someone or other to find Jack Bauer. “Mr. Franklin here has been telling us all about the other fucking hatpin. It has to do with a certain clock.” She was staring at Brad, who was staring at me.
I looked at Mom. “A clock? Huh?”
She turned to me. “Mister Fucking Franklin says that there are two hatpins, and that Mary Rosen hid the other one in an old clock.”
I frowned at Mom, then at Mickey, then at Brad. But before I could speak—because I was ready to tell Brad to go upstairs to Mom’s office and get the old clock and shake it around and if a hatpin fell out he could have it, if we could all please just live—Brad said, “I did search the house for a clock, took your parents with me on my little tour.” He waved his gun at them. “That’s when Daddy Jeff grabbed a vase upstairs and threw it at me.” He paused. “Anyway, the only clocks I found were the one on the wall in the kitchen,” he nodded toward it, “an alarm clock in one bedroom, and a digital clock in another bedroom.”
I cast a puzzled frown toward Mom. She shook her head ever so slightly. How could Brad have not found Nana’s clock? Had Mom hidden it somehow? Why would she do that? Were we really going to die for a clock that hadn’t worked in at least thirty years?
Mickey probed Brad. “Exactly what are we all doing here? There’s no clock, there’s no second hatpin, you’ve hurt Jeff, he’ll probably need stitches, you’re waving your gun like a wand, and I don’t see how this can end well. Want to clue us in?”
Brad sneered. “I figure maybe she”— his gun waved at Mom—“has hidden that clock or that hatpin somewhere else in this house. Here’s the thing: Jake will be showing up here in a little while with two, uh, associates, who are flying in from Vegas. Once they’re here, we’re going to tear this place apart. Then we’ll decide what to do with all of you.” He obviously enjoyed the thought.
“You’re going to KILL us for a measly $100,000???!! Or is it $200,000 now?” I screamed. I’d had enough of this calm-demeanor shit.
Brad’s contempt for me oozed from his cold, steely gaze. He pulled a cigarette out of his front pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it. I didn’t know that he smoked. I guess while he was playing Brad Franklin The Good Sergeant, he hid his habit. Now that he was Brad Franklin The Piece-of-Shit Cop, no more pretense. He took a drag and blew a long stream of smoke toward us. “I don’t know where you got that $100,000 figure. They’re worth a lot more than that.”
“Well, the one I know about belonged to Marilyn Monroe! Joe DiMaggio bought it for her! It belongs in a museum!”
He snickered at that, eyeing me with derision. “Ah, yes, I heard that Martha Davis story, too, from the cops who busted all of you at Tall Oaks. It’s a good one. But it’s nonsense.” He sucked on his cigarette, held his inhale, then blew out. “Those hatpins are much more than hatpins.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Brad pointed his pistol at Mickey. “You got yourself a live one, there, Mick. But you might want to advise her to calm the fuck down.” He shifted the aim of his gun to my face. “The hatpins are sharp on one end”—he fingered the trigger—“as Jake surely knows now! But the other ends, with the enamel and gold? They actually spring open and voilá, each holds a key, to a double-lock strong box. Where there’s a ton of dough. A helluva lot more than one hundred thousand K.”
Dad spoke up. “Where is this strong box? Why not just get it and blow it open?”
“It’s in a bank. In a safe deposit box. Jake’s got the key to that. But we need both hatpins to get what’s inside. Now, no one wants all that money and jewelry blown up, or lost, especially after all the work Mary and Georgia did to put it there.” Brad stubbed out his cigarette on the arm of the chair. He lit another, taking his time.
We were collectively holding our breath while he sucked in his. Then Mickey and I said at the same time, “Georgia Browning.” Brad took a drag, savoring the moment. “There’s a lot of money to be made off old folks. That was Georgia’s racket, and she was good at it.”
“You knew who Georgia Browning was all along.” Mickey was disgusted.
“Yeah. When you two came to the station with your sad little story about finding her, I knew I couldn’t protect her anymore.”
I inhaled a sharp breath of smoky air. “You’re saying Georgia killed Cassie and you were supposed to cover it up.”
He took another drag and went back to waving his gun around. “Your lesbo friend was in the wrong place at the wrong time, surprised Georgia when she was searching your apartment. It was unfortunate. She didn’t mean to kill her, but I guess she didn’t know her own strength.”
“You’ve been in on this all along.” Mickey practically spat the words out.
“Jake and I go back a long ways. We were at the police academy together. But, no, I got in on this deal just a few days ago. I’m ready to hang up my badge—too many pissy rules about how we have to be nice to the scum we bust our asses to arrest.”
I frowned. “What about Mary? Why was she in Las Vegas?”
“Looking for you. She figured you had at least one of the hatpins with you.”
“WHY would she think THAT?”
He smiled, like he was on top of the world. “She broke her foot when she fell after hiding the second pin, Georgia’s, in the clock.”
I suddenly remembered the big hat that Georgia was wearing in the photograph taken at Tall Oaks.
Jake continued. “Mary had already stuck her pin in the glasses case. Lost her balance and fell. Then your granny kicked the bucket while Mary was in rehab. When she got out, Martha told her you packed up your granny’s things. Said you mentioned something about maybe using the case.”
The glasses case. I found it on Nana’s bureau when I gathered up her things. Martha was watching me—she is really nosy—and maybe I did say something to her about that case.
“Why did Mary hide the pins? And why in Nana’s glasses case and whatever clock you’re talking about?”
“She had s
ome sort of falling out with Georgia—something about Georgia running a separate scam on a rich widow. Mary got Georgia’s key and booted her out of the deal, probably on threat of sicking Jake on her. But she knew Georgia was a risk and could put the whole plan in jeopardy. The worst place for her to hide the keys would be in her own room.” He laughed. “That’s why your little old Nana ended up an unknowing accomplice.” He snorted. “Mary told Jake everything, and he, well, insisted, that Georgia find the glasses case in your apartment.” He grinned.
Mickey leaned toward me. “Georgia broke into your apartment to find the glasses case, and she heard your message on the machine about going to Las Vegas…”
“…with a complete stranger named Mickey Paxton, and she told Mary to look for me there.”
“And Mary told Jake, so they were both looking for you…”
“And it was no accident they were both on the elevator…”
“And she picked us up in Luis’ cab, and…
“And she looked through my purse. Wow.”
Brad shrugged. “Yeah. Wow. Got it in six.” He exhaled through his nose, slowly. “Jake was none too pleased that his little old mother had lost the hatpins.” He tapped ash on the braided rug. “Mary was afraid to face him after she didn’t find the pin on you.” He chuckled.
“Now what, Brad, are you going to kill us after you and your pals ransack the house?” I tried not to sound as frightened as I felt. Stay cool, Annabelle, as cool as Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not. Just put your lips together and blow.
Brad smirked. “Kill you? Have you forgotten that I’m the law? I won’t have to kill you unless you resist arrest. See, once the pins are found, I can come up with enough, uh, evidence, to implicate you and your mommy and daddy as thieves. After I get the keys, I can make a case that you stole the hatpins, thinking they were valuable in themselves. Georgia will go down for the murder. I get her third of the payout. Jake and I will split for Rio, with or without Mother Mary, with our fortune from the strongbox. Now Mickey here, he might have to die assaulting an officer. I’m still working that part out, girlie.”
