The last thing I looked up was Michael’s obituary. It was the run-of-the-mill line about how he was a loving father and husband who was survived by his wife and son that got to me. Such an ordinary line, but after the death of my client less than two weeks ago and seeing the devastation it caused his mom and best friend, I knew how much grief that short statement hid behind it.
I didn’t let myself think about what it would mean if Mr. Black really was responsible for this man’s death. Instead, I sifted through the usual motives. Money. Power. Love or sex. Or secrets.
It didn’t help. Michael Watts had power and money (albeit perhaps less of it than he was used to), he had a wife, which meant the love and sex motives were on the table, and he could have stumbled across a big secret. Any of them could apply.
The one positive was that none of them seemed to fit Mr. Black. But if he wasn’t guilty—a point I was unconvinced on—how the heck were we going to find out who was?
As far as I could see, we had two avenues for rustling up other potential suspects. One was to learn more about the victim. That would be challenging since there was no way I was about to question his grieving widow and the wealthy crowd wasn’t going to talk when we didn’t even have a PI license for credibility. The other was to find out who else the police had looked into. That would also be tricky with a sad lack of any handy-dandy contacts.
I closed the laptop. Mr. Black’s arraignment hearing was scheduled late this morning, so maybe he’d be able to tell us more after he’d been released on bail. Until then, I’d have to explain to Etta that we were at a dead end.
“Dead end? What nonsense. Didn’t you hear Joy mention a neighbor who saw Abe leaving the Watts’ residence around the time of the murder?”
“Sure, but we don’t know which neighbor, and why would they talk to us?”
Etta shook her head. “Have you never read a cozy mystery? There’s a nosy neighbor on every street, and I’m willing to bet that it was them who was the witness. Michael was shot in the middle of the day. Who else has time to peer out their window and take note of strangers coming and going on the day before Christmas for goodness’ sake? A nosy person, that’s who. And the thing about nosy people is that they’re bored, and they’re bored because they’re lonely. And you know what lonely people like? Someone to talk to.”
I wondered if Etta was such an expert on this because she was in part describing herself. She knew everything that happened in our apartment building, she often complained about being bored, and she certainly liked to talk. Yet she was so smart and self-assured that I’d never thought of her as lonely before.
I didn’t let my thoughts show. “But how would we find this person?”
“Easy. They needed a line of sight to the house, so that’ll narrow it down to a couple of neighbors. Most people should either be at work or out and about enjoying their holidays, but the lonely soul is probably home alone. So we’ll knock on doors and ask.”
I had to admit, it was a clever plan, as long as her assumptions held up. “But how do we get the victim’s address without speaking to Mr. Black?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “We have his full name, his wife’s name, and the suburb he lives in from the news articles. Haven’t you ever heard of a phone book? It’s even easier these days with it being online. Now stop coming up with excuses and let’s get going.”
I knew there was no way she’d let it go until we’d at least tried. “Okay. I have a couple of hours until I need to go to work.”
“We’ll take my car. It’s spiffier than yours. But bring some cookies. I’ve been too wound up and excited to eat breakfast.”
Half an hour later, we were out the front of the Watts’ residence in Pacific Palisades. It was a dark brick two-story building with bright white eaves, window frames, and accents. A matching white balcony supported by ornate columns sat above the front entrance. The homes here rivaled Connor’s in size, and those on the Watts’ side of the street backed onto the Riviera Country Club golf course for beautiful views.
Of course, we were only interested in those that had views to the Watts’ estate. Thick hedges between the adjoining properties blocked the ground floor line of sight, but since the homes were all two-story, it was possible the nosy neighbor we were looking for could live in either of the houses directly next door or one of two properties across the street. A fifth property would have had a view if it weren’t for a giant, evergreen ash tree.
Between the trees lining the road, the verdant, manicured gardens, and the beautiful homes, it was a pretty street. Hard to imagine Mr. Black driving here in his worn-out, wheelchair-accessible minivan and killing one of the residents.
We ruled out two of the houses when nobody came to the door. The lonely neighbor we were looking for shouldn’t have anywhere else to be. A third we dismissed because the surplus of cars in the driveway suggested they had guests over. Not because these homeowners couldn’t afford a surplus of cars themselves, but because they could also afford to keep them garaged.
We tried the estate directly across from the Watts’ place, and an elderly gentleman in a monogrammed maroon bathrobe answered. “Well, aren’t you two a sight for old eyes,” he said when he sighted us on the porch. Those “old eyes” were bloodshot with a web of veins that matched his bathrobe. “Who did I impress to deserve you knocking on my door?”
Etta shot me an “I told you so” look before laying on the charm. “Why I can tell you’re deserving just by looking at you. We were wondering if you might be able to help us with an important investigation. About the murder that happened across the road.”
“You don’t look like police.”
Etta laughed. “We aren’t! And I’m sure thankful about that. We’re looking into it for a concerned friend of ours.”
The man’s shoulders sagged, causing the bathrobe to gape wider at his chest and confirm my misgiving that he had nothing on underneath.
“Oh, is this a special friend of yours?”
Etta gave a playful push to his drooping shoulder. “No, not that kind. I’m as free as the day I was born. Why do you ask, you old devil?”
“Because I was thinking of inviting you on a date later.”
“I’ll look forward to your invitation then,” Etta said, letting herself inside, “after you’ve helped us with a few questions we have.”
I followed her, and we settled in a room with an abundance of chandeliers, gold, and expensive antique furniture. The chandeliers didn’t cast enough light to offset the dark wallpaper and furnishings, and the air smelled of dust and stale cigar smoke. Etta seated herself beside our nosy neighbor while I chose a spot facing them.
“What did you want to know?” the man asked. He sat with his legs wide, and I was grateful his robe was of sufficient length for that not to matter.
Etta leaned toward him. “What is the Watts family like?”
“Normal by the standards of people around here I suppose. A bit noisy occasionally, with yelling or music, but that’s what happens when you’ve got a teenager in the house. Can’t be helped. Believe it or not, I was a naughty teenager once.”
He waggled his eyebrows at the word naughty.
“You don’t need to convince me,” Etta said. “I still like to be naughty sometimes.”
I wondered if either of them would notice if I hid behind the settee I was sitting on and stuck my fingers in my ears.
“Did the police talk to you about the murder?” Etta all but stage whispered the word “murder”—like someone who thought it was fun scandalous gossip rather than a tragedy. I wasn’t sure if that bit was an act or not.
“Yes. I was very helpful because I saw somebody leave the house within the hours they thought it had happened.”
“Is that the one they arrested?”
He nodded, pride as plain on his face as his overly long nostril hair.
“Did they ask you anything else?”
“Sure, loads of questions.”
&nbs
p; “Like what? What did you tell them?”
“Like whether I’d seen anything odd lately, so I told them about this crazy cat video I came across on the Google, and then they said they meant anything odd happening on this street or around the Watts’ house. So I told them about a lady I noticed watching the house about a week back. She didn’t get out of the car, and she left after Mr. Watts did. I wrote down her license plate because I know that’s what you’re supposed to do when you see something suspicious.”
“Where is it?”
“The license number? I gave it to the police.”
Damn. He might as well have tossed it in a piranha tank for all the good it’d do us there.
“Can you describe the lady in the car?” Etta asked.
“Let’s see… White. Young and pretty. Brown hair. Wearing those giant sunglasses that are the fashion these days. I don’t know why everyone likes them so much when they remind me of oversized bug eyes.”
“How young?”
“In her thirties or forties? I’m not sure. Everyone seems young when you get to my age. Not that I’ve forgotten how to act young if you get my drift. That’s what counts.”
“Young at heart. Absolutely. Do you remember what sort of car it was?”
“A dark blue Honda Civic.”
One of the most popular cars in LA.
Etta got to her feet and fluffed her hair flirtatiously. “Well, sir, you’ve been mighty helpful to some ladies in need. You give me a call sometime about that date.”
He stood there, beaming ear-to-ear as we made our exit, never realizing that she hadn’t given him her number.
6
“That was kind of mean,” I told her. “What’s wrong with him? Why not let him take you on a date?” Etta seemed to be on a date every other night. How hard could it be to add one more to her rotation? After her explanation about his loneliness, I felt bad for the guy.
He’d have to get rid of the nostril hair though.
Etta flapped a hand at me. “Are you kidding? He’s way too old.”
By that, she meant he was close to her own age. I knew better than to argue, so I checked the time instead. “Let’s go pick up Mr. Black.”
We’d offered to drive him home after his arraignment and bail hearing since his car was at the house where they’d arrested him and Hallie couldn’t drive.
He looked exhausted. An overnight stay in jail would do that to you, as I’d found out from experience. But somehow I’d expected a man who looked like the Hulk would fare better than me.
We stopped at a diner so Mr. Black could eat something more satisfying than jail rations and we could talk to him without his family having to go over it all again.
“It was a professional job,” he told us after wolfing down a stack of pancakes. “My boss, Mr. Bergström, instructed me to go and rough him up a little, so that’s what I did.” He wiped a giant hand over his face and rubbed his clean-shaven scalp. “He was alive when I left. I’ve never killed nobody.”
His gentle brown eyes—the same as Joy’s—were soft, pleading, and I felt myself beginning to believe him.
“Then you didn’t know him personally?” I asked. “His kid goes to the same school as Joy.”
He rubbed his skull again. “There was nothing personal about it.”
“Then why are the police so sure it was you? While your profession isn’t exactly… legal, it gives you a reason to be there, and there’s no motive for murder from a debt-collection perspective.”
“My boss is denying that he told me to go in the first place. Doesn’t want the police looking into his books, I’m guessing.”
“Hell.” Etta’s tone was so sharp I suspected she’d been thinking of a different word. “Doesn’t he have any loyalty toward you?”
Mr. Black shrugged his massive shoulders. They were wide enough that Etta and I could have sat on one each, without even half a butt cheek hanging off the edge. “The old boss might’ve, but Mr. Bergström’s new. Why stick his neck out?”
“Why indeed,” Etta muttered, and I felt a twinge of foreboding she might be hatching up a plan to change Mr. Bergström’s mind.
“Do you know anything about the victim?” I asked. “What information do you get for a job?”
“Just the name and a list of addresses they might be found at, sometimes a photo and details of their debt. But there weren’t any photos or loan info for this one.”
“Did you keep the addresses?”
“The officer who arrested me grabbed the list, but since I visited each location, I think I can remember them.”
“Good.” I dug a pen and scrap of paper out of my bag. “Can you write them down for us?”
His handwriting was surprisingly neat as he printed them out.
“And did you notice anything when you were at Michael Watts’s house?” I asked. “Anything to suggest why someone else might want him dead? Or anyone else in the area?”
“Not that I can think of. I wasn’t there that long, and I made sure there was no one around before I went in. Didn’t want to upset his wife and kid. It was bad enough to beat him up on Christmas Eve.”
He set the pen down and looked at Etta. Maybe he knew she was the more sympathetic party. “It’s bad, isn’t it? I don’t think the police are even looking at other possibilities.”
It took me a minute to recognize the expression on his face since I’d never have expected to see it there. Fear.
“Don’t you worry, Abe.” Etta patted his hand. Hers looked like a child’s patting a grizzly bear paw. “Izzy and I will take care of it.”
Mr. Black turned those brown eyes on me, and I tried not to show my doubts about that.
“Thank you. It really means a lot.” He wiped moisture from his cheeks. “I can’t leave Hallie and Joy. I can’t.”
We dropped Mr. Black home, and even I got moisture in my eyes watching Joy run and Hallie wheel out to see him. The momentous weight of what we’d agreed to do sat heavy on my conscience.
Etta, on the other hand, was buoyant. “We’ll talk to the police next,” she said. “Find out whether it’s true they’re no longer investigating other possibilities and if they had any other suspects before deciding it was Abe.”
“You’re a civilian,” I said, remembering Hunt sneering the word at me. “They’re not going to just hand you their case files.”
“You let me take care of that,” she said.
She drove us home to pick up Dudley. We hadn’t been able to take him with us this morning since he wouldn’t fit in the car with Mr. Black. Heck, Mr. Black barely fit in Etta’s car full stop. She shooed me over to my own apartment and told me to refresh myself with a cup of tea while she took care of something.
Ten minutes later, she opened the door with Dudley in tow. Dudley was a sleek black ex-racing greyhound she’d rescued as an early Christmas present to herself. Contrary to my preconceived ideas about the breed, he was the laziest dog I’d ever met and liked nothing more than a soft bed, paired with copious cuddles and treats. It was impossible to tell whether Dudley or Etta was more pleased with their new living companion.
I was almost as pleased as they were. I smooched Dudley on his long nose and showered him with pets before giving Etta my attention. When I did, I took an involuntary step back.
“What are you wearing?” I asked, shocked to see her looking like… well, a little old lady.
She tugged the shapeless knit cardigan that draped over her equally shapeless full-length skirt. A pair of sneakers I’d never seen before peeked out underneath. “Oh, this? It’s my harmless-old-lady outfit.” She grinned, and I noticed her lipstick was applied slightly off-center, with a pink smear on one tooth. “That reminds me, I need to grab my walking stick.” Sure enough, she retrieved an ugly black walking stick with a quad-legged base for extra stability.
I was speechless.
She grinned again. “Wait until you see this baby in action.”
We went in Etta’s Charger again. She�
�d purchased a pet hammock that hung over the rear footwells to turn the narrow backseat area into a padded bed for Dudley. Because it was a two-door car, Dudley shared my window, his wet nose quivering by my ear for most of the trip. Lucky he didn’t drool. Much, anyway.
We arrived at the 27th Street Community Police Station that was handling Mr. Black’s case. The old two-story gray brick building stirred up bad memories since it was here that Hunt worked and where he’d thrown me in jail. But it was a big station and the chances of running into him were slim.
Both valid points, yet somehow the butterflies in my stomach weren’t buying it.
It was a cool day, so we left Dudley in the car with the windows cracked. As always, he was quite content chilling on his hammock, though he’d prefer it if we stayed with him.
I would prefer that too.
“Maybe I should keep Dudley company while you go in without me,” I said as Etta checked her skewed lipstick and put on a pair of coke-bottle glasses to complete her transformation.
“Get your ass out of that seat. You agreed to help me with this, and I’m gonna hold you to it.”
I got out and followed her inside.
Etta shuffled up to the front desk, her walking stick thudding heavily against the dark tiles. I could almost see the policeman behind it soften at the picture she presented. “How can I help you, ma’am?”
She leaned in and put a hand on the counter as if to steady herself. “It’s my grandson.” Her voice wobbled like she was about to start crying. “I heard he’s in some trouble, and I was hoping to speak to the detective in charge.”
“Well, sure. I’ll see if the detective is available. Otherwise, I’m sure we can find someone to talk to you. What’s your grandson’s name?”
Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3) Page 6
