by M. Z. Kelly
“It looks similar to the other homicide,” one of the uniforms said. “Knife wounds to the chest. The coroner is on the way.”
After the uniform left, Jessica motioned to the victim and said to me, “Maybe you should stick a hand up his ass and look for a name tag?”
It was typical cop humor, but I didn’t like it and told her so.
“You need to get over yourself,” Jessica said.
“And you need to be respectful of the victim.”
I walked away from her, trying to calm myself. The area had been cordoned off with yellow crime tape, but down the block I saw several school kids craning their necks, trying to get a look at the body. Pearl did a preliminary examination and came over with a wallet. Jessica joined us.
“The driver’s license says he’s Joshua Defoe, age sixty-four. Lived in Santa Monica.” He held up a five and some ones. “Maybe the same motive as with Mr. Wakefield.”
“What’s that?” Jessica asked.
Pearl shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”
Twenty minutes later, a beautiful dark-haired woman came out of the rain. It was Brie Henner. I exchanged hugs with my coroner friend.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Brie asked.
“I’m having a better day than some,” I said, referring to the dead body.
She smiled. “I’ll take a look. Maybe we can get together for coffee soon?”
“I’d like that.”
We waited as Brie examined the body, trying to stay out of the rain that was flooding the intersection near our crime scene. We watched as the cars failed to slow down and a VW bug stalled out before being rear-ended by another driver. Horns blared as one of the uniforms pulled his car over to the intersection to restore order.
Brie came over to us a few minutes later. “The cause of death looks to be three or four knife wounds to the chest. I’d estimate TOD sometime between one and four in the morning. Our victim was drunk, probably didn’t see his attacker before it was too late. No defensive wounds. If there’s anything else noteworthy, I’ll call after I get him to the shop.”
As Brie and the crime scene people finished up, Pearl said to Jessica. “Kate and I are going to the vic’s last known address in Santa Monica and do the notification. I’d like you to start canvassing the liquor stores.”
After Jessica aired a grievance about being left behind, Pearl and I drove to Santa Monica in his car with Bernie in the backseat. I’d transferred the murder files on my father back to his car before we left the parking lot.
As he drove I filled him in on what I’d learned. “The files confirm my father’s undercover investigation into Sal Madden and Discrete, but there’s no mention of Jimmy Marcello, so I’m not sure the investigators at the time knew he was behind the business. The report confirms that I was there when it happened, but I couldn’t tell the investigators anything.”
“Do you remember anything at all about that day?”
“Sometimes I think I see a man’s face, but then I know it’s just my imagination working overtime.” I kneaded the muscles in the back of my neck and changed the subject, telling him what I’d found out about our closed investigation. “I learned from a source last night that China’s sister, Mags, had an affair with Michael at one time.” I filled him in on the FA meeting, leaving out the details of my fabricated fetish.
“If Edna gets wind of you still poking around the case he’s going to go ballistic,” Pearl said.
I smiled. “If he asks, I’ll just tell Henrietta that I’m trying to work through some fetishes.”
We found that our victim, Joshua Defoe, had been living with his sister, Margaret Atwood, near Broadway in Santa Monica. After breaking the news and trying to console her, we asked Atwood if she knew of anyone who would want to harm her brother.
“Josh was an alcoholic who stayed with me when he was sober, which wasn’t very often.” She brushed back her short, gray hair and sniffed. “He’s been divorced over ten years. Doesn’t have any contact with his ex or his children. I can’t really think of anyone who would do this.” She broke down, sobbing.
“How did Joshua support himself?” I asked, after she found some composure and blew her nose.
“There was a small pension from when he worked as a janitor for the school district and some social security benefits. He didn’t have anything else.”
We thanked her and left our cards before heading out into the pouring rain. On the way to the car, Bernie picked up the scent of something he couldn’t resist and broke away, pulling his leash out of my hands.
“Damn it. Of all times.”
I handed Pearl my umbrella and began the chase. Ten minutes later, I was soaked to the bone and found my partner with a couple of Pomeranians inside their yard. They were doing the trot and sniff four-step when I finally got ahold of Bernie’s leash.
“Why is it that you pick the worst neighborhoods and weather to act like a dog?” I asked as I marched him back to the car.
Pearl smiled as Bernie shook off the water and I tried to wring out my coat. “You two look like a couple of wet mud hens.”
“More like a horny rooster and a mud hen.”
Pearl drove me back to where I’d left my car and we met up with Jessica on the street. It was late afternoon and the rain wasn’t letting up.
“I talked to a clerk at Moonlight Liquor on Vine who recognized our first victim,” Jessica said, holding her umbrella and reading from her notes. “Ralph Wakefield usually came into the store to buy booze early in the month before he ran out of money. The clerk saw him with a couple of other guys a few times. No names or descriptions. Not much to go on really.” She looked up and then over to me. “Did you fall in a river?”
“Something like that.”
Pearl said, “Let’s go back to him tomorrow with some mugs on Defoe and see if he recognizes our latest victim.” He pulled his coat around him. “I’m going home, having some hot chocolate, and calling it a day.”
***
Once Bernie and I got home, I spent a half hour in the shower, trying to wash away the mud, the cold, and my fatigue. I stepped out of the shower, ran a towel over the steam on the mirror, and screamed. I suddenly remembered my brother telling me that I couldn’t wash my hair for three days because it would wash out the keratin treatment.
“Holy shit. What was I thinking?”
My keratin was gone, my hair would be a disaster, and I had to be at Mack’s in thirty minutes.
“Where’s my gun?” I cried, knowing that I could never pull the trigger, but at the same time wanting to put myself out of my misery.
I was, of course, a half hour late meeting Mack. I’d spent that half hour trying to squeeze into a pair of low-rise skinny jeans and tame a mane that was crying out for keratin. I finally got my hair under control except for a weird flippy-thing it did on one side.
I looked at Bernie as we pulled up in front of Mack’s cottage in the Hollywood Hills. “Do not run off and do your best to act like an expectant father—no trying to nail the little woman when no one’s looking.”
Bernie whined, licked the air.
Mack’s housekeeper, Piper, answered the door.
“There’s that very bad boy,” she said, taking Bernie’s leash.
Mack came up from behind his housekeeper and hugged me. He was wearing dark pants, a black turtleneck sweater, and a tan jacket. He looked divine and smelled like something out of an exotic store that sold spices.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, taking my Burberry pea coat.
“Sorry I’m late. It’s been a dog and hair disaster day.”
He touched my hair, sweeping the bangs from my eyes. “I’d say it’s perfect—the hair, I mean.” He looked at Bernie. “As for the dog, we’re just going to have to wait and see what kind of daddy he makes.” We smiled and we held on one another’s eyes for a moment before he motioned to the hallway. “Let’s go check on Thelma before we leave for dinner.”
We found the black lab with he
r older counterpart, Louise, in the family room. Louise was graying around the muzzle, but still managed a couple of hello twirls. Thelma, on the other hand, despite her condition found enough energy to do the happy dance with Bernie. Maybe it was her way of saying that she expected some form of child support.
“How long before the big day?” I asked Mack.
“The vet checked her yesterday. We’re thinking it could be toward the end of the week.”
Piper, who was trying to restrain Bernie, said, “He say Thelma not very big. Maybe only have one or two puppies.”
I looked at Mack. “A male and a female?”
“Guess we should think of some names.”
“What do you think about Elrod, if we have a boy? My cousin had a dog with the same name.”
Mack shook his head. “There’s enough trauma in this world. Let’s toss around some names over dinner.” He checked his watch. “We’d better get going. Our reservations are for eight-thirty.”
Miceli’s Restaurant, on La Cienega in Hollywood, was the city’s oldest Italian restaurant. It’s red and white checkered tablecloths and wine bottles hanging from the ceiling were hallmarks of the eatery. It’s said that everyone who was anyone in Hollywood has eaten there, including the Beatles and Marilyn Monroe.
“I probably should have chosen some place fancier,” Mack said as we settled in at a private table away from the other patrons. “But I’ve been dreaming about their food since I left for Columbia.”
“This is perfect,” I said. “I could eat here every night if I had my way.”
Mack ordered a Chianti from Tuscany and we clinked glasses. “To Thelma and Bernie,” he said. “And to grandparenthood.”
We sipped and chatted about our dogs for a few minutes, trying out a few names for the puppies, but not really settling on anything. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the Chianti was turning everything into a warm glow that rekindled my feelings for Mack. I noticed there were a few more flecks of gray in his short brown hair than when I’d last seen him.
“So, tell me about your time in Columbia,” I said, looking into his eyes that seemed impossibly blue and deep.
“Beautiful country if you’re not being held captive in a basement.” He sipped his wine then explained. “Carlos Mendoza is a wealthy businessman from Spain. He brought his family to Manizales about five years ago where his furniture factory is located. Some local entrepreneurs decided that kidnapping his nine-year-old son, Ramon, would be a good business venture. They were hoping for something in the five million dollar range. After several weeks of negotiations, they got $250,000, Carlos got his son back, and Columbia lost a factory that employed about a hundred people. The Mendoza’s closed their business and returned to Spain permanently.”
“Your work sounds dangerous,” I said, thinking about how the former navy SEAL’s private detective business took him around the world.
Mack’s specialty was helping the families of kidnap victims. Thanks to a linguist mother, he spoke six languages, and with a burgeoning kidnapping problem around the globe, his services were in great demand.
He shrugged. “Life’s a dangerous business. Most people don’t get out of it alive.”
The waiter came by and we ordered Fettuccini Carbonara and Chicken Milanese, with extra plates so that we could share.
“I saw your boss, I think his name is Henrietta, on the news the other day,” Mack said.
“That’s my guy. You’ve probably heard about the wedding murders and Harmon Sanders going down for it.”
I filled him in on my case before we ordered more wine. “Sanders may be involved, but I think there are a lot of other things going on beneath the surface. The mayor held a news conference and is refusing to resign, but his job is hanging by a thread. The talk is that he may have known about Sanders handing out political favors in return for prostitutes. There’s also a mobster named, Jimmy Marcello, who’s in the mix.”
“I’ve heard of that guy, nothing good, of course.”
“He’s been involved in a local escort company called, Discrete, as well as some other shady businesses. He’s made a lot of dirty money, invested in legitimate business including one that was owned by our victim, and launders his profits through a company that’s overseas.”
“That would seem to fit with what I’ve heard.”
I accepted more wine and then filled him in on Marcello’s possible connection to my father’s murder. I also told him about how the circumstances of his death had been kept from me.
“And no one, including your mother, ever told you about your dad being involved in the undercover investigation?” he asked.
“It seems they were all trying to protect me. I was four years old and there on the day he was shot. I saw everything that happened, but don’t remember anything.”
We were quiet for a moment as our food arrived. We filled our plates, sharing the dishes, when Mack finally said, “You need to be careful, Kate. If Marcello was behind your father’s murder that potentially puts you in the crosshairs.”
“I’m a big girl,” I said, feeling my wine.
He smiled. “I’ve noticed.”
My eyes misted over as I met his gaze and I felt compelled to explain my feelings. “It might sound strange, but I think this is the reason I became a cop. I’m supposed to be here in this time and place and find out what happened to my father. It all seems somehow fated.”
“You’re pretty special.” He leaned over and kissed me. I kissed him back, something warm and wonderful exploding in my mouth and it wasn’t the food.
We left the restaurant a little after ten and arrived back at his house in time to see Piper out the door. I was getting Bernie’s leash when Mack asked me to stay and brought out another bottle of wine.
We sat in front of the fireplace and the room started to heat up. It wasn’t from the fire. We kissed passionately for several minutes, our hands exploring one another, until he unexpectedly pulled back. I saw the distance in his eyes.
“Something wrong?” I asked, thinking maybe he’d suddenly come to his senses and realized that my hair and life were disasters beyond repair.
He set his glass down, brushed a hand over my bangs like before, and said. “You want to tell me about him?”
Damn. Was it that obvious I’d been thinking about Jack, wondering if I was doing the right thing? I did have strong feelings for Mack, but he’d obviously sensed that I was conflicted.
“You’re very perceptive,” I said.
“I’ve had a lot of practice reading people.”
I sighed, searching for the right words to explain my feelings. “I was seeing a former detective, Jack Bautista, who now works for homeland. Our relationship was...I guess you could say it was moving along. Then a few days ago, before I called you, he told me that he’d moved to Washington and taken the new job because he wanted to be near his ex-wife, something he hadn’t bothered to tell me before. She was recently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.”
I paused, took a breath, and touched Mack’s knee. “You’re right. There are probably some feelings that I still need to sort through.” I released the breath, wondering if I’d just ruined our relationship before it really started.
Mack moved closer to me, until he was inches away. His blue eyes seemed to look inside me, like he knew everything I was thinking and feeling. “I want you to know that I have feelings for you. I like you very much, Kate. But, after my wife died I decided that I wasn’t going to get involved unless I was sure it was something special.”
He moved closer and tenderly kissed me on the lips. “I want you, but I don’t want part of you. If and when you sort through everything, let me know. I’ll be here.”
A few moments later, Bernie and I had said our goodbyes and we were on the road again. The rain had finally let up but I could barely see the road through the tears spilling from my eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Yeah, I seen ‘em both in here a few times,” the clerk sai
d, handing the mug shots of Ralph Wakefield and Joshua Defoe back to Pearl.
We were at Moonlight Liquors the next morning. The weather had finally cleared, but not my mood. I was still depressed about the way things had ended with Mack last night. Any chance of us making things work now seemed remote. I also realized that I hadn’t sorted through my feelings about Jack.
“They bought alcohol?” Jessica asked the elderly clerk.
The man frowned. “Well, they didn’t come in here to buy fashion accessories.”
“How did they pay?” Pearl asked.
“Credit cards.” The clerk scratched his head. “No, come to think of it, they had debit cards. I remember ‘cause one of ‘em couldn’t remember his PIN—not sure which one. It took him several tries to get it right.”
We thanked the clerk and huddled back on the sidewalk to talk.
“What’s a couple of homeless guys doing with debit cards?” I asked, tugging on Bernie’s leash when he saw a small dog across the street.
“It could be their social security,” Pearl said. “I have a friend who told me the government’s gone paperless. If you don’t have a direct deposit account at a bank, they issue you a debit card. And we know that both of our victims were social security recipients.”
“Did we find debit cards in their wallets?” Jessica asked.
Pearl shook his head. “It might be that the cards were the only thing the killer took.”
“Wouldn’t do him much good without the PINs,” I said.
“Unless our perp got the victims to give up their PIN numbers before they were killed.”
“But Brie said it didn’t look like the victims struggled or fought back.”
“We know both victims were alcoholics. Could be the perp gained their confidence, got them to give up their PINs at some point, maybe while they were drunk to buy more booze, with the intent of keeping the cards after they were killed.”
“In which case, unless somebody happened to notify social security that a couple of homeless guys are deceased, the killer is out there continuing to use their debit cards every month,” Jessica said.
