by M. Z. Kelly
“We’re not here to accuse you of anything,” I said. “We’re just gathering facts.”
“I did hate Michael, though. You probably know our history.”
I glanced at Jessica then stared across the desk at him. “Maybe you could fill us in.”
Drummond brushed the brown hair out of his eyes and smiled. “We were friends and colleagues, of a sort, going back to our college days. Our plan back then was to get into the development of videogames. The industry grosses over 100 billion annually and, since we were both gamers, we thought we could make a fortune.”
“Did you invent any games together?” Jessica asked.
“We worked on a couple of prototypes before I invented a game called, SpaceWars. It was a take-off on the popularity of Star Wars, only more violent. During my senior year in college, China and I came home at spring break to show the game to Michael.” Drummond inhaled and released his breath slowly. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Michael and China began seeing one another,” I said.
“Behind my back. When I found out, I realized that I’d not only lost my girlfriend, but my best friend.” He shrugged. “Of course, it means nothing to me now but at the time I was very upset, as you can imagine. I am sorry about what happened to China, though. Michael got what he had coming to him, but China...” He sighed. “It’s just too bad.”
“You said that Michael got what he deserved,” Jessica said. “What do you mean exactly?”
“He was an asshole who took advantage of everyone he ever met, women, friends, business associates. It didn’t matter who he screwed over, all that mattered was that Michael got what he wanted.”
Drummond reached for a book behind him and tossed it onto the desk. I saw that it was a dictionary. “Look up the word, asshole, and you’ll find a picture of Michael.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm him?” I asked.
“Other than China for him cheating on her, no one comes to mind.”
“What about your girlfriend, Melanie?”
He laughed. “There’s no doubt that she hated Michael, but Melanie’s hardly the violent type. I don’t think she’d given Michael another thought until you came around asking about him.”
“And Jimmy Marcello?” I asked, playing the last card in a very thin deck.
If the name meant something to him, Drummond didn’t give anything up.
“His name’s familiar, but not in a good way. I think I heard rumors about him making some investments in Michael’s businesses.” He shrugged. “Hey, maybe Michael finally crossed the wrong guy and Marcello took him out. Stranger things have happened.”
“We’ve recently learned that Marcello was behind an escort service named, Discrete. As you probably know, several years ago China worked for the business.”
Drummond’s brows lifted, the pitch in his tone rising. “She what?”
“It’s been all over the news.”
His gaze drifted away. “I don’t watch TV. Waste of time.”
“China had several high-end clients,” I said, realizing he was shocked by the news.
Drummond looked back at me and slowly shook his head. “Wow. I had no idea.”
I went on to run the names Malik Brown and Marla West past him, but got nothing. Drummond seemed lost for a moment, stunned at the knowledge that his former girlfriend was a prostitute.
We chatted for a few minutes longer until we were satisfied that Steven Drummond couldn’t help us.
On the way out of his office, the CEO of Grapevine showed us one of his inventions. “They’re called, Vines,” Drummond said, handing me what looked like an oversized pair of sunglasses. “They’ll integrate the features of a smartphone, along with GPS and real-time mapping. The result will be an intuitive augmented reality where you’ll be able to ascertain directions, receive information, do social networking, and find stores and products of interest. The software is very discerning. It learns and evolves based upon the interests of the individual user. It’s like having a sixth sense.”
Since we had a couple of hours before our flight, I spent a few minutes trying on the glasses and entering into Steven Drummond’s virtual world, an augmented reality he called, Vine Street.
I put on glasses, realizing that they completely sealed out any external light, as Drummond explained, “Just so you know, the device is going to instantly sink with your smart phone and any social media sites. You’re going to see…”
“Oh my God,” I said. “My family and friends are all here.” I was looking at what I assumed was a virtual park with a winding road running through it called Vine Street. Everyone I was friends with on Facebook and other sites was strolling along the street and adjacent park. The experience was overwhelming. I was suddenly totally immersed in this virtual world, even though I knew the “real” world was somewhere outside what I was experiencing. It was disorienting but at the same time amazing.
“What you’re seeing are avatars that take on the facial characteristics of your family and friends,” Drummond said. “You’ll also find there are a few others in your new world who have been sent to welcome you.”
I was so enthralled by this new reality that I barely heard what he’d said. My mother, Natalie, Mo, and even Charlie came over, saying hello to me. Even Bernie, whom I’d set up an account for on Facebook, came over to me and did a tail wag. A few moments later, someone who I assumed was a virtual guide appeared. Her name was Emma. The attractive guide offered suggestions on local areas of interest and attractions in the area around Drummond’s offices.
When I verbally responded to Emma, asking her about where I could find the closest Nordstrom store, she provided me with locations, directions, and discounts for products that were on sale, all with the apparent intent of getting me to spend my last dollar. I even found myself interested in a purse that was on sale. Emma told me that I could receive a ten percent discount if I purchased the handbag within twenty-four hours.
After I spent a few more minutes inside Drummond’s virtual world I handed the glasses back to him. The experience was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, but it also wasn’t a place I wanted to “live in” for more than a few minutes at a time. “Tell Emma thanks for the offer,” I said to Drummond, “but I already have a serious shopping addiction.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Newport Beach has a manmade harbor south of Los Angeles in an affluent area of Orange County. The area catered to several wealthy boat owners, including Jimmy Marcello.
Jessica, Pearl, and I had made arrangements to meet with Marcello on his yacht the day after we returned from our meeting with Steven Drummond in Mountain View.
Bernie was still with my brother, who I’d called and promised to meet up with later. Our interview with Steven Drummond hadn’t turned up anything new and I felt like our case was circling a black hole.
As we drove to Newport Beach, I hoped we would get something useful out of Marcello. The knowledge that the mob boss might have been involved in my father’s death also wasn’t far from my thoughts.
One of Marcello’s assistants, a big man named Emilio Cruz, gave us a grand tour of the yacht while we waited for his boss. We learned that the Carina was named after Marcello’s daughter. The yacht was 160-feet long with all the amenities one would expect on a billionaire’s boat, including five decks, a swimming pool, a beauty salon, bars, playrooms, lounges, a medical center, and a disco.
After the tour, Cruz escorted us to an upstairs lounge that was adjacent to the ship’s main cabin where we waited for Marcello.
I’d had very little sleep the night before, thinking about everything from my last conversation with Jack to my father’s death. I accepted an offer of coffee from a steward and told Pearl that Marcello was probably one of those super rich who tried to intimidate through impression. Pearl said he’d heard that Marcello had other methods of intimidation, none of them as pretty as Carina.
When Marcello finally
arrived and made apologies for keeping us waiting, I wondered if I was face to face with the man who murdered my father. The crime boss was almost exactly as I’d imagined him, dark, solidly built, controlling and intimidating. There was something abrupt, almost brutal about his personality.
Was this the same man I’d last seen as a little girl on that terrible day my father had died? Something did seem familiar about him, but I wasn’t sure if it was something I’d remembered or my imagination working overtime again.
As per our earlier discussion, we let Jessica take the lead since she’d unraveled some of Marcello’s ties to Michael Clinton. My new partner seemed nervous as she began the interview.
“We’d like to begin,” Jessica said, her voice wavering, “by discussing Marla West’s death. We know that she worked for you as the manager of Discrete. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm her?”
“What are you saying?” Marcello said flatly. “She was a victim of a hit and run. End of story.”
“We think her death could be tied to the blackmail of some of Discrete’s clients.”
“Blackmail?” Marcello’s massive shoulders shrugged. “If that’s the case, I know nothing about it.”
“You are aware that Harmon Sanders, the mayor’s chief of staff, was recently arrested for soliciting a Discrete escort?” Jessica asked.
The crime boss’s brow furrowed. “I saw the papers. So what?”
“Ms. West was observed videotaping the incident.”
Marcello took a sip of expensive water and swished it in his mouth before swallowing. “I don’t know where you’re trying to go with this. Marla West was a long-time employee of mine. Her death was a tragedy.”
“Where were you two nights ago at approximately six o’clock?”
Marcello smiled. His voice took on a caustic edge. “You really think I got in my car, went out and ran her down on the street?” He shook his head. “I was here in meetings. Meetings is all I do. It’s why I’m rich. There are several business associates who were with me.”
Pearl took over. “Tell us about Discrete, Mr. Marcello. We understand you’ve owned the business for a long time, going back to the 1980s, in fact.”
“What’s to tell? It’s an escort service.”
Pearl’s lips turned up, exposing the gap in his teeth. “A prostitution service.”
The mob boss returned the smile, but his lips didn’t part. “Let’s be frank. Escort services offer an arrangement, namely a date between the escort and the client. Money is exchanged up front for that arrangement. If two consenting adults later decide to fuck on their own time, that’s their decision.”
I’d almost bitten my tongue in half, waiting for an opening. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Marcello. Marla West was blackmailing powerful and wealthy clients of Discrete. When Sanders’s arrest hit the papers, you wanted to make sure she wouldn’t talk.”
“Wow, that almost sounds like an accusation, Detective...Sexton, isn’t it?”
“And then there’s China Warner. She was a Discrete escort at one time who was being blackmailed by a former client of hers, Malik Brown. Both China and Mr. Brown ended up being murdered. Was that to cover up what they knew?”
“I don’t know Mr. Brown. As for China, I do read the papers. It was a tragedy about what happened, especially on her wedding night. If she worked for the escort service at one time, it had nothing to do with her death.” He smiled, drank again. “I’m at a loss as to know why you’re here asking me about these people. I can’t help you.”
“What about China’s groom, Michael Clinton?” Jessica said. “Were you acquainted with him?” My new partner was testing Marcello, asking him what she already knew to see how he’d respond.
“We may have shared some business interests in the past. I really can’t specifically remember because I have hundreds of enterprises.” He motioned to his yacht. “Some of them are quite lucrative.”
“As in Abex Holdings?” I asked.
Marcello’s smile was tight, like one of those grins a bully gives you right before he beats your brains in.
“This meeting is over,” Marcello said, standing up.
I also stood, not quite able to stretch my five foot nine inch frame to his, but we were inches apart. “We know about everything, Mr. Marcello. We know about your holding company, Abex Corporation, that’s made billions. We also know about how Abex invested in MWC Enterprises.”
“I’m sorry,” the crime boss said. “I’m on a tight schedule. I have an upcoming cruise and have a planning session. Life’s a bitch, Detective.”
“What exactly did Michael Clinton do that got him killed? Was his business not profitable enough for you?”
Marcello moved toward the door, but stopped and turned back to me. “It’s an exceptional day, Detective Sexton. Why don’t you stop making false accusations and enjoy it? Maybe even go for a walk in the park.”
I moved closer to him, heading him off before he could leave the room. My voice shook with rage. “You were behind what happened to my father.”
The mob boss’s smug little smile returned. “I make it a point of knowing about my adversaries. Perhaps you should do the same.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“That was a direct threat to me and a reference to what he did to my father,” I said, after we’d been escorted off the Carina by Marcello’s goon, Emilio Cruz. I’d wanted to go after the elderly mob boss and, as Natalie might have said, “kick Don Corleone in his meatballs.”
Pearl tried to calm me down. “That may be, but proving it’s another matter.”
“Is there something you both want to tell me?” Jessica said, interrupting.
As we drove away from the harbor, Pearl filled her in on my father’s death, how I believed his investigation of Discrete might have been tied to what happened to him.
“Just when did you both plan on filling me in on everything?” Jessica asked, her thin lips twitching.
“We just did,” I said. I was in no mood for her pettiness.
“I’m going to make a complaint to the lieutenant.”
“For what?”
“For withholding information from me that’s pertinent to this investigation.”
The ever-patient Pearl said, “Jessica, if that makes you feel better, go right ahead.”
It went on like that most of the way back to the station. Jessica in a snit, me throwing a fit, and Pearl ready to quit. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to quit, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he went back into retirement as soon as our case was over. Jessica had pushed us both to the limit.
Back at the station, we filled Edna in on what had transpired before Jessica lodged her complaint. The lieutenant did an eye-roll, followed by a couple of fuck-me’s, as Jessica cornered him and unloaded. Pearl and I walked away. We spent the rest of the day pushing around paperwork before deciding to call it a day and regroup in the morning.
On my way home, I honored Natalie’s request and stopped at the Fruit Farm where Tex’s band was scheduled to perform. I saw my brother, Robin, with Bernie near a stage that had been set up in the parking lot, and walked over to them. As I took Bernie’s leash from him, my brother’s eyes went straight to my hair.
“What?” I asked.
“I just did the band’s hair and...well...I think you could use some work.”
Robin is a hairdresser and he’s gay. His sense of hair, style, and fashion is always spot on. A wave of depression hit me. “Can I come by the salon tomorrow night?”
“I think you should. Maybe we need to think about a keratin treatment and some hair extensions.”
Now I was really down. “You mean my hair is thinning?”
“No, I think it would just give you some...body and texture.”
I didn’t know how I could pay for hair extensions. My apartment had burned down a few months earlier and I was still fighting with the insurance company over a settlement. In truth, I was flat broke. All that said, there are two emergenci
es in life that a girl can’t ignore: hair and men.
“I’ll see you at seven,” I said, just before the announcer introduced Electric Hair.
My roommates ran on stage to what can only be described as stunned silence. I watched as the people around me fell mute, their mouths gaped open, and they looked like they’d just swallowed one of the Fruit Farm’s flies. Even Bernie seemed frozen, except for his head, which he cocked from side to side, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
Tex, Prissy, and Mo were wearing red spandex bodysuits. Their psychedelic hair was spiked and they all wore neon red lip gloss. Tex looked like an electrocuted mad scientist, Prissy was a very tall, very scary version of a girl from a bad LSD experience, and Mo was busting out of her outfit from every direction imaginable.
But it wasn’t Tex or Prissy or Mo that had really gotten the crowd’s attention. It was Nanadonna.
Prissy’s great-grandmother’s outfit was so tight that it showed every wrinkle in what can only be described as a bright red birthday suit. If the camel had any toes, it would have kicked the crowd.
And, then there were her breasts. They had somehow been materially enhanced to look like two mini-volcanoes. The only problem was, thanks to age and gravity, the volcanoes were erupting at the Nanadonna equator. With her wild white-blue hair flying behind her, Nanadonna looked like something out of a slasher movie for senior citizens—Grandmothers of the Corn?
As the band grabbed their instruments, there was a screech of electronic feedback, followed by a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard before. I think I might have even lost my auditory virginity. It was Einstein on the dudelsack, Aretha on the fluga, Norman Bates on drums, and his dead mother on electric guitar.
And then Natalie strutted on stage.
The lead singer of Electric Hair was a spectrum of color and not too subtle sexuality; a psychedelic cross between Tina Turner and Marilyn Monroe.
