Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  “I swear, Tucker, dead people cling to you like cat hair on a funeral suit. Somebody should invent an aerosol.”

  “Hey, this is L.A. People die here. I can’t help it if I know some of them personally.”

  “You ever ask yourself why, after all these years, this Cissy girl is making you run her errands? Especially since she knows you and the dead husband had a thing for each other.”

  “That’s right—had,” I said, perhaps too defensively. “I told you, that was back in college. Besides, Cissy isn’t making me do anything. I volunteered.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet. So what if the police are right and she killed Evan? Who’s to say she didn’t bring you into the equation to throw suspicion off her and onto you?”

  “Oh, come on, Venus. How could she possibly do that?”

  “I don’t know, but something doesn’t sound right to me. I say get out before things turn bad.”

  “I can’t. I promised.”

  Venus shook her head in frustration. “You’re making a mistake, but suit yourself.” She glanced at her watch. “I can’t believe you came all this way to discuss dead boyfriends. If there’s something else, lay it on me quick. I gotta get back to work.”

  “I need you to be my date for Eric’s wedding.”

  She studied my demeanor for a moment to make sure I was serious. “Is it casual or formal?”

  “Formal. Black-tie, sit-down dinner.”

  “DJ?”

  “Live orchestra.”

  “Small, intimate?”

  “I doubt it. Knowing Eric, I’d guess he invited three hundred of his closest friends, and money is no object.”

  “Then I’d have to say not just no, but hell no. You know the rules. You gotta take a man to a shindig like that, and he has to be a stud, because you don’t want anybody thinking you’re not still a contender.”

  “By ‘stud’ I assume you mean some good-looking guy who’s incapable of carrying on an intelligent conversation?”

  She leaned back and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Men weren’t made for talking philosophical shit over tea at the Ritz, honey. That’s why God made girlfriends. You follow me on this?”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Maybe I’ll invite Eugene.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Eugene is a twenty-five-year-old bony-assed kid whose social life consists of an annual birthday party for his cat.”

  “Liza isn’t just a cat; she’s—”

  “Look, Tucker, forget about Eugene. You know he can’t take the pressure. If you take him to a party like that, he’ll end up floating like a dead bug in the vodka punch.”

  I hated to admit it, but Venus was probably right. Forcing Eugene to deal with a noisy crowd of strangers could trigger another yarn bender. I didn’t think I could deal with one more knitted poodle cover for my spare toilet paper rolls.

  “There’s nobody else I can ask,” I said.

  Venus looked incredulous. “Just when was the last time you had a date?”

  That sounded like a math quiz, and I wasn’t interested. “Forget about the wedding. I’m not going.”

  “Huh-uh, no way. You gotta go. What about asking Deegan?”

  Joe Deegan was an LAPD homicide detective I’d met while he was investigating the death of my client. At the time, there had been some sizzle between us. We’d never acted on it, mostly because I wasn’t looking for an extra pair of jeans in my laundry basket. Besides, he saw my independence as stubbornness, and I saw his old-fashioned politeness as macho bullshit. That didn’t leave much room for a meaningful relationship.

  “What about Deegan?” I said.

  “Seen him lately?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s about time you did.”

  “No,” I said emphatically.

  Venus took one last gulp of water and shrugged, “You say ‘tomayto’; I say ‘tomahto’.” When she stood to leave, her stomach made a sound like a Maytag in the final rinse cycle. “Just don’t rule it out, Tucker. Besides, haven’t you had enough of those ‘E’ men? Eric, Evan—shit, even Eugene. I think it’s time you moved on in the alphabet. Why not start with Joe?”

  After she was gone, I swirled the dead coffee around in the foam cup for a while, watching the sludge stick to the sides and wondering if I should take her advice. Venus was right about a lot of things. Maybe she was right about Deegan, too. In theory, he’d make a good date for Eric’s wedding. He was easy on the eyes, funny, and on occasion even charming. Plus, if I showed up with a six-foot-two hunky cop, Eric’s lutefisk-eating aunt Lena might stop telling everybody what a low-rent catch I’d been.

  It sounded good, but I had to look at the downside of asking Deegan as well. He was a homicide detective. I’d have to monitor his dinner conversation to make sure he didn’t try to demonstrate blood-spatter patterns with the tomato bisque.

  I kept telling myself it was only one night. As long as the champagne flowed, I figured we could make nice for a few hours. I just wasn’t sure if Deegan would agree to my plan. What if he said no? What if he laughed when I asked him? That would be humiliating but survivable. After tossing the idea around in my head for a few more minutes, I decided that as much as it mortified me to invite him, I would, because sometimes you just have to take charge of your life.

  It was almost noon. The café was beginning to fill up with the forty-five-minute lunch crowd confronted with Mrs. Kim’s daily special, which today looked like canned sloppy Joe mix dumped unceremoniously over a crusty-looking hamburger bun.

  My stomach was still lurching from the smell of it as I headed out the door. On the way to my car, I told myself that even if Deegan agreed to hold my hand during my ex-husband’s nuptials, convincing anybody that Tucker Sinclair was in any way, shape, or form anything close to being a contender was like convincing the barfeteria crowd that Mrs. Kim’s sloppy Joes were haute cuisine.

  Whatever happened, seeing Deegan would give me an opportunity to press him for information on the Evan Brice murder investigation. He had to know Moses Green. They were both homicide detectives at Pacific Station. They probably gossiped about cases at the doughnut machine.

  I decided to stop by and ask him before I lost my nerve completely.

  -8-

  thirty-five minutes after leaving Venus, I pulled into the visitors’ parking lot at the LAPD’s Pacific Community Police Station, a two-story brick building surrounded by a low block wall. As I walked toward the lobby, a late-model blue Crown Victoria with multiple antennas that practically screamed, I am a city-issued vehicle, maneuvered up the driveway. When I turned to look, the woman behind the wheel braked hard. Moments later, Joe Deegan sprang from the passenger-side seat.

  Deegan is six feet two, lean, and has a tiny dimple at the tip of his nose that matches a somewhat larger one on his chin. It must have been casual day at the station, because he wore tight Levi’s 501s and a blue-gray T-shirt a shade darker than his eyes. A badge hung from his belt. A gun in a leather holster on his chest peeked out from underneath a brown leather jacket that looked as though it had come from some baby bovine on its way to veal scaloppine.

  A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Hey, Stretch, long time no see.”

  “I guess we’ve both been busy.”

  He acknowledged that line of bullshit with a nod. “Yeah, I guess that’s it, all right.”

  “I was wondering if you had a few minutes,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “What’s the deal? You finally drop me off your shit list?”

  “People don’t have to agree on everything to stay friends.”

  “No, not everything, just some things.”

  The driver of the Crown Vic, a woman somewhere in her twenties, leaned over to get a better listen. She was young enough to be a rookie, but she was obviously a quick study, because a placid mask of cynicism already controlled her facial muscles. Her full lips were highlighted with gloss the color of light brown sugar. Her dark hair was twisted into a
smooth, thick knot at the nape of her neck. Just looking at that well-mannered hair depressed me. Even on a good day mine had more cowlicks than the Double R Bar Ranch.

  Whatever else this young woman was, she was drop-dead gorgeous. I wondered if she was Deegan’s new partner or if perhaps she was already something more than that.

  “Look,” I said to him, “can we go someplace and talk—privately?”

  Deegan shifted his weight as he thought about that. Finally, he said something to the woman in the car, and she drove off. When she was out of sight, he placed his hand lightly on the back of my arm and guided me to the back of the station past a sign that read, “Do Not Enter.” He led me through a sea of black-and-white police cars to a grassy median in the middle of the parking lot, where a eucalyptus tree loomed over a picnic table shaded by a leaf-patterned umbrella. We sat on benches across from each other but far enough apart to avoid exchanging any body heat.

  Even though it was still early, a security light above the table was on. The glare bounced garishly off the flat grayness of the asphalt parking lot and the overcast March sky. A breeze agitated a scrap of aluminum foil, pushing it over the grass. Without taking his eyes off me, Deegan bent down, picked up the foil, and crumpled it into a ball. Then he waited.

  I was already having second thoughts about coming to see him. I stalled by asking about his sister, only because I’d met her briefly at a holiday party the previous December.

  “Which sister?” he said. “I have three.”

  I felt sheepish telling him I couldn’t remember her name.

  “Yeah, I guess we didn’t get that far.” He looked at me for a moment, as if he was going to open a new line of conversation. Obviously, he changed his mind at the last moment. “If you’re talking about Claudia, she’s pregnant.”

  “Again? That was quick. I mean, it’s none of my business, but didn’t she just have one?”

  His look of disapproval made me squirm. “So why’d you stop by?”

  I paused, wondering if I should leave before I got myself into real trouble. “I need a favor.”

  He leaned forward and gave me his gotcha smile. “Ah, I get it. Now that your ex is out of the picture, you need somebody to change a lightbulb.”

  I stood up so fast, the umbrella wobbled. “You know something? You’re a butthead.”

  He laughed. “Just tell me the truth, Stretch. If you had anybody else to ask this favor of, you wouldn’t be here. Am I right?”

  Of course he was right. That pissed me off even more than his lightbulb crack. So I lied.

  “No, you are not right. You and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I thought we were friends. Obviously I was wrong.”

  He scrunched up his face as though he smelled something bad. “If I buy that line of bullshit, will you tell me why you’re here?”

  “After what you just said?”

  He stood and hooked his thumbs inside the front pockets of his jeans—something Eric would never have done.

  “What?” he said. “You want me to apologize or something?”

  “For starters.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m sorry I implied you needed anything from anybody. How’s that?”

  “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

  The frown on his face told me I’d pushed too far. “You always have to drive, don’t you, Stretch?”

  I vaguely sensed my arms crossing tightly across my chest. “Okay, let’s call a truce.”

  He paused for a moment. Finally he nodded, and we both sat down. Deegan began working the aluminum foil, rolling it around in his hands and squishing it with his thumbs. For a moment I sensed nothing except the crackle of that foil and the aroma of his body lotion. The scent was pear. The jar had come from a cosmetics counter at Nordstrom. That much I knew. What I didn’t know was how it had gotten from the shopping mall into Deegan’s bathroom. I guess there were a lot of things I didn’t know about him.

  I took a deep breath. “I came to ask if you’ll go with me to my ex’s wedding.”

  Deegan looked as if I’d just hit him in the face with a pie.

  “You mean like a date?”

  “Definitely not like a date. All you have to do is listen to a little DUM-DUM-TA-DUM, throw some rice, and you’re free to go. And don’t worry, I’ll pay for the tuxedo rental.”

  “Gee, Stretch, you make it sound so romantic.”

  “Cut the crap, Deegan. Look, if you do this for me, I’ll owe you one, okay?”

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Can I get that in writing?”

  I swallowed a hard lump of irritation. “That’s not necessary, because unlike some people, I always keep my promises.”

  He opened his mouth as if to defend himself but apparently changed his mind.

  “So when is the big event?”

  I gave him the date. We spent several minutes discussing the details before he pulled an antique watch from an inside jacket pocket. It had a heavy silver chain and a hairy braided tail dangling from a loop near the stem. I imagined that the tail was a lock of hair commemorating his first lay, a girl named Ula, an exchange student from Finland with hairy armpits, who’d taken one look at Deegan and said, “I don’t think I’m in Lapland anymore.”

  He checked the time. “I have to get back to work.”

  I thought about asking him to fill me in on Evan Brice’s murder investigation, but I suspected it was a waste of time. Deegan was tight-lipped about his work. Besides, if he knew I was connected to another homicide, he might not take me to Eric’s wedding. It was better to call Moses Green directly.

  Deegan walked with me to the visitors’ lot where I’d left my car. When I slid into the front seat, he leaned down so his eyes were in line with mine.

  “By the way, Stretch, you don’t have to worry about paying any rental fees. I have my own tux. I even know how to do the tie myself.”

  I was surprised, but didn’t want to admit it. Just before I drove away, he handed me the bunched-up foil and asked if I’d take care of it for him. I said sure and threw it on the passenger’s seat. I was almost at the beach when I glanced over at the foil and noticed that Deegan had sculpted it into the shape of a goofy little heart.

  -9-

  when I turned onto Evan’s street, I saw a Latino in his late teens, standing in front of a black Honda Civic parked in front of the building. He had a wide, sensuous mouth and hair no longer than a five o’clock shadow. He wore wraparound sunglasses, a heavy silver crucifix, and a black silky shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned and exposed pectorals that were chiseled either by hours of lifting weights or by minutes of injecting steroids. A tattoo of a busty woman undulated up his arm. Her breasts were strategically etched at the curve of his biceps.

  From a second-floor balcony across the street, the woman I’d seen driving the Volvo leaned over the railing and shouted something at him, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. With one languid movement, the guy gave her the finger. Then he slid into the front seat of the car and drove off. I slipped into the vacated spot, thanking White Cloud, the spirit guide of parking places, for making me a victor by default in the L.A. curb wars.

  Rose answered her door dressed in a loose-fitting cotton housedress zippered up the front. Her hair was newly coiffed. She had abandoned her walker for a sturdy four-legged cane. I stepped into her living room and was immediately engulfed in a wave of heat that must have been pushing ninety degrees. I waited until she turned her back before using my hand to fan myself with the same urgency Icarus must have felt trying to get across the Aegean. Unfortunately, Rose turned just in time to catch me at it.

  “Oh, my, I’m sorry,” she said. “One good thing about living alone. Nobody tells you to turn down the heat. Rudy—that’s my husband—he was always hot. He’s been gone twelve years now. Are you married?”

  I told her no. She nodded as if I’d said something profound.

  “Better to be single and alone than married and miserable,” she said.
“I tried to tell my daughter that. She didn’t listen, of course. Twelve bridesmaids! My goodness. There was hardly enough room for the guests.”

  Rose found Evan’s keys and handed them to me. There were two on the ring. I assumed one was to the door and the other to the mailbox.

  “I guess Monique made it home okay.”

  “Yes. She’s at work now. She came early to do my hair, but she couldn’t wait around to comb it out. I can manage that part by myself. I just can’t get my arms up high enough to set the curlers anymore.”

  “Monique has a second job?”

  She paused for a moment to think. “Yes, she works over at that tire place on Marine. It doesn’t pay much, but they give her a good deal on retreads. I never learned to drive myself. That was a big handicap after Rudy died.”

  I wondered if anybody actually used retreads anymore and, if they did, where they fell in the pecking order of employee perks. I told Rose that a crew was coming to clean Evan’s apartment. She offered to let me stay with her while they worked. She also volunteered to let me use some moving boxes she had squirreled away in her storage unit, but warned me she hadn’t looked at them for years. It was possible termites had gotten to them by now. Creatures lurking in dark spaces nibbling on cardboard gave me a bad case of the heebie-jeebies, but I needed boxes in order to pack up the charity donations. Anything was better than driving around in bumper-to-bumper traffic looking for a box store.

  At around 1:50 p.m., I went down to the lobby to wait for the cleaning crew. While I was there, I picked up the letters in Evan’s mailbox, rationalizing that if the police were monitoring the mail for clues, they’d have left me a note. I was only mildly surprised to find the box full. I remembered Cissy telling me that one of Monique’s duties was picking up the junk mail. Apparently, she had abandoned the job.

  As it turned out, not all the stuff was junk. Several envelopes looked like bills, including a notice from the gas company, and an envelope from a medical clinic in Santa Monica. Everything was addressed to Thomas Chatterton. Seeing that name again made me wonder if the police had missed the point. Maybe Evan Brice hadn’t been murdered at all. Maybe Thomas Chatterton was the intended victim. I wondered if Moses Green would be interested in hearing my theory. The likelihood seemed remote. For now, I stuffed the mail into my vest pocket and made a mental note to remind Cissy to file a change-of-address notice with the post office.