by M. Z. Kelly
“You’re not thinking of doing more interviews?” I asked, as we moved into the family room and took a seat on the sofa across from Prissy and his great-grandmother. Nana was clicking her dentures, between sips of Chica Loca.
“I think we need an agent,” Mo said. “Somebody who can see that we’re financially compensated for what we know. Maybe we’ll write a book after we solve the case. Then we’ll hit all the talk shows.”
I thought about Lieutenant Edna and said, “Fuck me.” Okay, I didn’t say it. What I did say was, “Maybe you should hold off for a while, let the furor over your interviews die down.”
I looked over and saw Tex coming down the hallway. He was carrying a large musical instrument that looked like a cross between a trumpet and a tuba. He handed the contraption to Mo as she stood up.
Mo must have seen my questioning look and shrugged. “Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
“It’s called a fluba,” Tex explained. “It’s a compilation of parts from a variety of instruments that’s designed to produce a uniquely harmonious blend of sonic timbre and texture.”
“Used to play the tuba in high school,” Mo said. “Figured I can still blow a few notes.” She placed her lips on the instrument and let loose.
The sound that followed was something akin to a moose that was either in an amorous state of sexual arousal or had really bad gas—or maybe both.
“I’m getting my guitar,” Nana said, clicking and heading for the stairway scooter. “I’ve got some new riffs I want to try out.”
Prissy looked at me. “She’s like a new woman, thanks to this.” He motioned to the green energy drink that he was also drinking. He lowered his high-pitched voice an octave. “She told me that it’s also reactivated her sex drive.”
My eyes grew wider. “God forbid.”
“She’s started reading the obits, looking for widowers. She’s even planning on attending a couple of funerals.”
Ten minutes later, Nanadonna, the octogenarian version of Madonna and Lady Gaga, appeared with her electric guitar. She was wearing pink hot pants, a form-fitting yellow blouse that didn’t show off her form because she no longer had one, and four-inch thick platform shoes. The outfit looked like something that walked out of the pages of a 1970s Sears catalogue. I wondered if she’d worn it during that era.
Nanadonna plugged in her guitar, clicked her dentures, and began flailing against the strings as she tried to balance herself on the platform shoes. The guitar screech sounded like a cat with its tail caught in an electric fan. Bernie’s paws went up to his ears as Nanadonna’s band mates joined in the musical caterwaul.
I headed for the fridge and more wine, thinking about some old saying I’d once heard about the band playing better and the girls getting prettier at closing time. All I knew is that it was a hell of a long way from closing time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I stopped by Charlie’s house the next morning. I was nursing a hangover from drowning out the sounds of a band that my roommates had christened, Electric Hair. The name had something to do with their plan to have my brother, Robin, style their hair so that it looked like they’d stuck their fingers in a light socket. Considering my constant battle with the frizzies, I probably belonged in the band.
Charlie answered the door and immediately ushered me to the patio. On the way, I smelled something fried. I realized that my partner had fallen off the rice cake wagon and landed in a plate of hash browns. Bernie trotted toward the kitchen to investigate.
Charlie’s first question was about Wilma. “Did you get a chance to talk to her?”
“Saw her as I left work yesterday.”
My partner ran a hand over what looked like a three-day stubble. “Don’t tell me. She’s seeing another guy.”
I decided to try cheering him up. “She said you’re a tiger in bed.”
Charlie’s lips turned up. It was kind of scary because he almost never smiles. He looked like a tubby jack-o’-lantern.
“She really said that?”
“Yes, but she’s worried that you’ll...” I thought about trying to be diplomatic, but decided instead to just lay it out for him. “She’s worried you’ll want to jump in the sack with her and have another heart attack.”
“I’m going to call her this morning, tell her that I’m healthy as ever.”
“The benefits of fried food?” His brow furrowed. “I smelled the remnants of the heart attack breakfast when I came in.”
He made a surrender gesture with his hands, still smiling. “Okay, so I slipped. It’s back to veggies and protein for lunch.”
“I think you should give things with Wilma more time. I told her I thought you two should just share companionship until you’re healthy again.”
“Companionship.” He said the word like it was a fatal medical condition. “You really told her that?”
“Think of it as a sexual hiatus.”
I got a fifteen minute lecture about how he didn’t need a hiatus, how he was ready to put into practice his newly acquired sex-ed knowledge, and that companionship was something for old people. Apparently Charlie, like most guys, looked in the mirror and still saw a teenage boy.
As I stood to leave, I told him about my conversation with Pearl. I said that I was planning to talk to John Duncan about taking a look at the murder files on my father.
“If I were you, Kate, I’d leave it alone. Nothing good is gonna come from digging up the past.”
I gave him a hard look, called out to Bernie, and then said, “By the way, thanks for telling me what happened with my father. I can’t believe you kept everything from me.”
“I was just trying to protect you. Didn’t want you getting hurt.”
“Thanks, for nothing,” I said, tugging on Bernie’s leash. My voice took on a girlish lilt as I added, “I’ll talk to you later, Daddy.”
***
Pearl and Edna asked Jessica and me to join them in the conference room when Bernie and I arrived at the station. Trent Andrews, our captain, attended the meeting, explaining that he was there to get a personal update on the wedding murder investigation so that he could report back to the chief of police.
Captain Andrews was one of those men who exuded confidence without the arrogance that sometimes comes with authority. He was in his mid-fifties, with a solid build, and deep brown eyes that seemed to perpetually register concern.
The captain spent the first five minutes of our meeting talking about some of the classic cars he was restoring. He pointed out his 1969 Camaro that was in the parking lot. The car looked like it was just driven off the showroom floor.
When he was finally ready to get down to business, he said, “I probably don’t have to tell you that the chief is taking a lot of heat from city hall over the Harmon Sanders arrest. The press smells blood in the water and is trying to tie the mayor to the escort service. The chief wants us to move forward on the case as quickly as we can. He wants us to get to the truth, regardless of how everything shakes out.”
After we gave Andrews a brief overview of our case, Jessica took over, telling the captain, Pearl, and Edna that she’d spent all day yesterday and most of the night researching Jimmy Marcello’s financial dealings. She didn’t acknowledge me, apparently still miffed about yesterday’s go around.
“Marcello and his business associates are definitely behind Discrete,” Jessica said, “But Discrete is just a small holding in a very big empire. He’s involved in the escort service as well as several other companies that are layered under a structure of multinational corporations.”
“Can you break it down for us?” Edna asked.
Jessica looked over her reading glasses, a smile lighting up her face. My new partner was relishing her role as corporate detective.
“Let’s take Midland Enterprises as a place to start. Midland is the corporation that Discrete operates under but it’s a subsidiary of a larger corporation called Abex Holdings. Abex is a shell corporation, if you want my opinion. It�
��s located offshore and reinvests its shareholder’s money in a variety of U.S. companies.”
“And Marcello is one of Abex’s investors?” Pearl asked.
“Yes, and this is where things get interesting.” Jessica was positively basking in the glow of what she’d learned. “As I said, Abex has a relationship with several companies located in the U.S. They’ve invested Marcello’s earnings in these companies basically as a means to launder his dirty money. Among the companies Marcello has invested in are Telecomp, Warburg International, and MWC Enterprises.”
I was drawing a blank. “What do these companies have to do with what we’re looking for?”
Jessica stared at me like I was the dumbest kid in a high school algebra class. “MWC, stands for Michael Warren Clinton.”
“Our victim?”
“One and the same. It’s one of several businesses that Clinton owned to develop his products.”
Edna scratched his forehead. “So, the question is, did something happen in Marcello’s business relationship with Michael Clinton that was serious enough to get Clinton killed?”
Captain Andrews spoke up, asking Jessica, “What do we know about MWC Enterprises and the kind of products they developed?”
“It’s a software company. They develop operating systems for electronic devices, including computers and cell phones.”
“Melanie Grace mentioned something about that,” I offered. “She said that Michael was creating software that worked with the GPS in cell phones to do marketing.”
Andrews said, “Forgive me, but maybe we’re jumping to conclusions, thinking there was some problem between Marcello and Clinton. It could be that Marcello simply saw the potential profit in Clinton’s software and made an investment.”
“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But from what we know about Marcello, it’s not his style. He’s like a bloodhound that picks up the scent of money and, when that happens, I doubt that anyone is safe.”
“That’s probably an apt description.” Andrews looked over at Jessica. “Good work, Detective.” He then glanced around the table. “The chief wants us to move forward at full speed. Let’s all keep our noses on this and see where the scent of the money trail leads.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jessica, Pearl, and I spent the rest of the morning at Hollywood Station trying to get a handle on Jimmy Marcello, his many business interests, and his relationship with Michael Clinton.
Jessica’s research revealed that Marcello had invested millions in Clinton’s company. He would have expected a sizeable return on that investment. Losing money would have made for a very unhappy investor.
“Maybe Clinton’s business was failing,” Jessica suggested. “When Marcello didn’t get the return he was promised, he paid Clinton back in the best way he knew how.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But Clinton was still worth millions and he had to be worth more to Marcello alive than dead.”
Jessica suggested we bring Marcello in and lean on him. “We turn up the heat, play it like someone saw him in the vicinity of where Marla West was killed. We eventually tell him that we know about his ties to Michael Clinton and his software company. We let him think that we can tie him to the wedding murders because the business partnership went south.”
Pearl folded his hands together and shook his head. “Marcello’s no dummy. He’ll lawyer-up. And, if he was behind West’s death, he would have hired someone to do the hit. I think we need more legwork on this before we talk to him.” He glanced at me. “I want you and Jessica to talk to Melanie Grace, again. See what Clinton’s former marketing manager can tell us about his ties to Marcello.”
“I think we should also talk to Michael’s father again,” I said. “He mentioned that Michael and Steven Drummond had a falling out. Maybe he also knows something about Marcello being connected to both of them.”
***
After interviewing Melanie Grace for the second time, Jessica and I pulled up in front of Harry Clinton’s house in Brentwood. Grace hadn’t been much help, only telling us that Marcello and Clinton did have a business relationship. We learned that Marcello was a venture capitalist, funding the development of some of Clinton’s products. Grace was unaware of any problems between the two men, other than telling us that Michael Clinton was almost always in conflict with someone and Marcello was probably no exception.
We also went over Clinton’s relationship to Steven Drummond. Grace, once again, said there was no love lost between Clinton and Drummond, but again claimed that she and Steven had moved on and had no interest in seeing Michael Clinton harmed.
We found Harry Clinton in his side yard, tending to a garden. He greeted us and then bent down to Bernie, letting him sniff his hand.
“I know it’s an odd place to plant a garden,” Clinton said to us after giving Bernie some attention. “But the cabbage and the strawberries get the best sunlight here.”
“Can we talk to you for a minute about some of Michael’s businesses?” I asked.
“Of course.”
He led us around a walkway to a patio where he poked his head inside the house and asked his housekeeper to prepare some lemonade. The residence was a rambling older ranch-style house in an upscale neighborhood of expensive homes on large lots, about twenty minutes from Hollywood.
We made small talk about Clinton’s yard and gardens before the refreshments arrived and we got down to business.
“We’re looking into the relationship your stepson had with a man named Jimmy Marcello,” Jessica said. “We understand that he bankrolled some of Michael’s projects.”
“The money man,” Clinton said, his pale blue eyes smiling over at Jessica. He sipped his lemonade, then set it aside. “As I told Detective Sexton before, I wasn’t very close to my stepson in recent years, so I don’t know much about his relationship with Marcello.”
“But you knew that he was the money behind Michael’s products?” I said.
“Yes, he was a high roller. The last time Michael and I talked about business affairs was just before Christmas. I do know that he was grateful that Marcello had enough confidence in his inventions and products to help with development. From what I got out of Michael, I think he trusted him.”
“There was no animosity between them?” Jessica asked.
“Not that I knew about.” Clinton’s eyes grew moist and he looked away for a moment. I imagined that he was still trying to deal with the loss of his stepson.
Jessica went on, “We know that Marcello invested a lot of money in Michael’s company—millions, in fact. He would have expected a healthy return.”
“As far as I know, Michael’s businesses were doing well. I would imagine Marcello got a healthy return on his investment.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm either China or Michael?” Jessica asked.
After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Maybe Steven.”
“Steven Drummond?”
Clinton nodded and then looked over at me. “As I mentioned when we talked before they were friends and business partners at one time. They had a falling out.” He smiled. “I’m just speculating, of course. I have no real basis to know if Drummond harmed Michael.”
I took a sip of lemonade, thinking about Steven Drummond, how his name kept coming up in our investigation. “Do you know if Drummond had any business ties to Marcello?” He shook his head. I set my glass aside, still wondering if we were missing something about Michael’s competitor. “Have you ever met Steven Drummond?”
“Oh yes, of course. He and Michael went to school together. They were very close at that time, almost like brothers. Steven even stayed at our house a few times.”
“And they got along well at that time?”
“Oh yes. They were both very driven and eventually formed a partnership. Steven worked for Michael developing a prototype for a videogame. They were just kids at the time, so the enterprise never really went anywhere.”
“Do you think Stev
en could have been jealous of Michael?”
Clinton ran a hand through his graying hair. “It’s possible.” He paused, sipped his drink again. “There was definitely a jealous streak in Steven that I saw when he was younger.”
I found his comment interesting. “Jealousy over what exactly?”
“They were very competitive, even over women.”
I looked at Jessica then back at Clinton. “Was there someone in particular?”
Clinton looked at me for a long moment. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“When they were in college, Steven dated China for a period of time until Michael came along.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After a great deal of back and forth with Pearl and Edna following our interviews with Melanie Grace and Harry Clinton, we decided to interview both Steven Drummond and Jimmy Marcello. We had knowledge about business arrangements that tied both men in different ways to Michael Clinton and China Warner, but not much else to go on. We had no other leads and needed to shake something loose.
The next day, after leaving Bernie with my brother, Jessica and I caught a Southwest Flight out of Burbank to San Jose and met with Steven Drummond. His company, Grapevine, was located in Mountain View, just north of the city.
Grapevine was a sprawling twenty-acre campus of green buildings, all designed to develop the latest in consumer electronic products. I remembered reading somewhere that the company was worth several billion dollars, with Steven Drummond holding the majority of that wealth.
A secretary led us from a reception area down a hallway where we waited outside a conference room until the CEO of Grapevine finished up a meeting.
Drummond greeted us, shook our hands, and led us to his private office overlooking rolling hills. As we settled in I noticed there were toys lining the shelves behind his desk.
“I didn’t do it,” Drummond said with a grin before I could open my mouth. The CEO of Grapevine was tall and thin, but handsome in a boyish way. His hair was uncombed and he was wearing faded jeans and a blue t-shirt. He looked more like a college kid than the head of a billion-dollar electronics empire.
