by M. Z. Kelly
Tex helped himself to one of my Fugs and wiped the cheesy dust on his Rubik’s Cube T-shirt. “Nedalander is not nearly my intellectual equivalent, but he does have a unique sense of humor that borders on the Yodic.”
“Yodic?”
Tex looked at me like I was from another planet. “Yoda, as in Star Wars. To quote from the master, something you may find useful in your chosen profession, ‘When you look at the dark side, careful you must be...for the dark side looks back.’”
“I’ll try to remember that.” I looked over at Natalie. “You want me to date a guy named Nedalander who talks and probably looks like Yoda?”
“Think of him as a Jedi Master,” Natalie said.
“More like a little green alien. I think I’ll pass.”
“I’ve been doing some statistical analysis and thinking about your wedding murder case,” Tex said, changing the subject. “Perhaps what you’ve been looking for is right under the proverbial schnozzle on your face.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose.”
“You’re losing me, Einstein.”
“Nearly 73.9 nine percent of all homicides involve a close family member or acquaintance. It is statistically improbable that your killer’s motive is some random non-familial variant involving jealousy, rage, or financial gain.”
I knew from experience what he was saying was probably accurate but I was in no mood for statistics. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“As Yoda might say, the last step in a long journey is already taken.”
I was starting to feel the Chica Loca. I turned to Mo and said, “Do me a favor, pull out your light saber and just cut off my head.”
“You’re better off drowning your sorrows with some buffalo wings,” Mo said. “I’m gonna call in an order for an extra-large bucket of wings with some of that red sauce. A girl’s gotta keep her strength up, especially when she’s been dumped by two guys in the same day.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I exhaled and realized my head was already spinning from the crazy girl. “I’ll take a rain check. I’m going to bed.”
I stood up at the same time we all heard Nana urgently calling out from upstairs. “Code red...code red...”
I looked at the others and, in my best Yodic voice, said, “Not upstairs will I go.”
Bernie settled on his blanket in my bedroom while I laid out my clothes for tomorrow. I was taking a blouse off its hanger when I happened to notice a box on the top shelf of my closet. I remembered that it contained some old photographs from when I was a child.
I dumped the pictures on my bed and began a little trip down memory lane, trying to clear my head from the Chica Loca.
I came across a photograph of my sister and me holding hands. I must have been about seven and Amanda would have been five. We were barely speaking now and I felt something wistful as I studied the picture. There was also a picture of us with Robin when he was a baby.
Then I came across a family portrait. It must have been taken a few weeks before my father was killed. Mom and Dad were on the sofa. Amanda and I were sitting between them. I was cradling Robin in my arms. I brushed a tear, thinking about how the man in the photograph, my father, would never live to see his family grow up.
The tears started to come harder. I was about to put the pictures away when one caught my eye. It looked like it was taken during some kind of work celebration. Dad was with an officer who had dark, curly hair. The more I studied it, the more I became convinced the man was Sam Weber. He and my father seemed so young and full of life.
I wondered if my dad had any idea that Weber knew that their lieutenant, Pete Arroyo, was reporting their undercover investigation to Jimmy Marcello while Weber kept silent about what was happening.
Then I noticed there was a pretty dark-haired woman sitting on the other side of my father. There was something vibrant and...
“Wait a minute,” I said out loud, examining the photograph more closely. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but the lady in the photo looked like the woman I’d seen during my hypnosis session.
Could it be that she and my father had been seeing one another and she’d met him at the park that day? Had my father been cheating on my mother with this woman? I was turning the possibilities over in my mind, but at the same time wondering if I was imagining things, when my phone rang.
I answered and heard a man’s voice say, “Kate, it’s Mack. My trip has just been cancelled. Can you come over?”
I was still feeling the effects of the Chica Loca, I’d been dragged through a swamp, I was suffering from code red trauma, and knew I must look like hell. So I said what any other woman who’d had my kind of day would have said.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Mack met me at the front door after I circled his neighborhood and made a couple of quick turns to lose the feebie who’d been watching my house. Before leaving home, I’d showered for a second time, brushed my teeth, threw on a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt, and pulled my unmanageable hair back into a ponytail. A little lipstick, some shadow, and it was as good as it was going to get, considering my day.
“How’s Thelma?” I asked, following him into the family room.
“She and Louise are spending the night with Piper. I think we’re getting closer to the big day.” He noticed that my four-legged partner wasn’t with me. “No Bernie tonight?”
“He’s had a case of the squirrellies lately, so I left him with my roommates.”
Mack handed me a glass of wine that I knew I didn’t need, but took anyway. We settled onto the sofa a few inches apart.
“You said earlier when you called that you’re case got reopened,” Mack said before tipping up his glass.
“Yes, but I don’t really want to talk about the case tonight.”
“I understand.”
I moved closer to him, the remnants of the Chica Loca still working in my bloodstream. Mack was wearing black pants and a dark t-shirt that covered his lean, muscular frame. As always, I felt something confident and reassuring in his presence.
“The truth is I don’t really want to talk at all, Mack. Other than to say I’m ready to move on.” I smiled, finding the depths of his eyes. “I’m sure of it.”
That’s good to hear,” he said, moving closer to me. “I’m glad you made a decision.”
“How does your saying go, first trust your heart, then your hands?” I said.
“Something like that.”
“I’m ready to use both my heart and my hands.”
I brushed my lips against his neck, finding the scent of something that reminded me of spring, but also something unknown, something more inviting. Our lips touched and then our tongues. He was warm and tender and maybe even a little dangerous, all at the same time.
Mack moved his hand up, undoing my pony tail and running a hand through my tangled hair. I cringed and he pulled away from me.
“What is it?”
“My hair, it’s...”
He kissed my forehead, my hair. “Your hair is beautiful, Kate. Everything about you is beautiful.” His voice became softer. “I want you. I want you tonight. But not here, not like this.”
***
We drove fast, the city lights swooshing by as Mack’s black Range Rover took us down Sunset and across the city. We held hands as he drove, each of us anticipating what was to come.
We hadn’t talked about it, but I understood why he wanted us to be together someplace other than his house. There were too many memories there.
I waited while Mack checked us into the Chateau Marmot. I knew from having grown up in Hollywood that the castle on the hill, as it’s sometimes called, had been the temporary abode to everyone from Greta Garbo to Jim Morrison.
The place is like a grand European estate with an air of mystery, romance, and a decadent, ethereal party atmosphere. If place can be an aphrodisiac, the CM is lust on fire.
And as Mack and I walked into the cozy garden cottage he’d ren
ted, we had one thing on our minds—to set the place ablaze. We fell into one another’s arms, our lips finding each other as we moved past the fireplace and luxurious furnishings into the bedroom. I had the feeling that we’d entered a private hideaway that was part of a secret world where our pasts were forgotten. It was his hands and my hands, everywhere, exploring, pressing, urging. Our lips came together, in a burst of taste, sensation, and desire.
Mack seemed present to me, giving himself completely in a way that I’d never felt before. He was confident and tender, but at the same time there was something primal in his manner. My shirt came off and then my bra, his tongue and lips everywhere. I pulled back, peeled off his shirt and fell against his chest, moaning. My hand moved down and I felt his rising desire. Then my jeans were pulled off and we went flying back onto the bed.
Our kisses became more urgent, deeper, and then the rest of his clothes were gone. I hesitated for a moment, as the angle of moonlight from the overhead window let my eyes see for the first time the deep scar on his chest. I lifted my head, questioning what I was seeing.
“It’s nothing,” he whispered.
And then we were together. In that instant something stirred at the back of my mind before the world disappeared and everything became a misty, dreamy explosion of ecstasy and wonder.
When we finally rested, I tried to regain some of my strength and catch my breath. I touched his chest. His hand tensed on mine.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I whispered.
He took a moment, finally said, “Something bad in a place far away and long ago. Lots of people died. I got lucky.”
I kissed his chest. “I think you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your scar is from a broken heart when you lost your wife.” I felt his chest heave. “It’s okay. I’ve got scars, too. Maybe together we can heal one another.”
He kissed my forehead, brought me closer to him and said, “I hope so.”
Somewhere, far outside our cottage, I heard the sound of people chatting and laughing. Something about it reminded me of family, one of those scenes you think about from a long ago night when you were a child and the world felt safe and warm and timeless.
I raised my head, thinking about China Warner and some things about the case shifted and began falling into place.
“What is it?” Mack said.
“I just thought about something I have to do in the morning.”
“We still have most of the night.”
I smiled. “Then let’s make the most of it and work on healing.”
And we did.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
I wasn’t scheduled to be at the station until one the next day, which was a good thing, considering that Mack and I slept until ten. We had a light breakfast and, while it was difficult to leave him, we agreed that we’d try to get together that evening.
I picked up Bernie at home and noticed that the FBI was back on my tail as I pulled into the parking lot at Hank Stanley’s office in Beverly Hills just before noon. I’d called Michael Clinton’s accountant, telling him that I had a few follow-up questions about Michael’s finances. He reluctantly agreed to meet with me.
“I’d like to go over a couple of things that occurred to me after our last conversation,” I said, as Bernie settled at my feet in the little office.
Stanley’s dingy workplace was cluttered with paperwork and looked as if it hadn’t been updated in thirty years. I found that surprising, given that we were in one of the most expensive zip codes in the world.
I checked my notebook from our earlier meeting, thinking about what Stanley had told me China had said once about family—the comment that occurred to me late last night. “When we spoke before, you said something to me about China wanting to start a family after she and Michael were married.”
The thin brows on his pasty face lifted. “She did mention it, but I think it was just one of those things a young married couple thinks about. I wasn’t aware they had any immediate plans to have children.”
“Yes, but you said she was concerned about Michael’s debts. From the way you said it, it seemed like China was worried about the long-term effect the debt that Michael was accruing would have on their family.”
He shrugged, but at the same time fidgeted in his chair. “I think it was the typical concern any young bride might have. She was just thinking about their future together, their financial obligations.”
“We’re not talking about your average family, Mr. Stanley. We’re talking about a multi-millionaire inventor with extensive business connections.”
The accountant twisted the gold band on his left hand. “Yes, but as a practical matter, I don’t think China knew a lot about Michael’s businesses, and...” Stanley checked his watch. “I have another appointment, so if there’s nothing further, I need to cut this short, Detective.”
“You told me the night of the wedding that you were just a numbers cruncher—that you weren’t that involved in Michael’s business dealings. You said the same thing to the FBI recently.”
“That’s correct.”
I shook my head. “You were lying, Mr. Stanley. China came to you because you knew a great deal about Michael’s businesses. You knew about both the companies he was invested in and the people behind those companies.” I leaned forward, my eyes boring into him. “You knew about his ties to Jimmy Marcello, didn’t you?”
“I know nothing...”
“STOP!” I yelled, Bernie coming up on all fours at the same time. “Not another lie, not another evasion, not another distortion of the truth. You will tell me exactly what you know now or we’re going downtown and having a discussion with the big three.”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“The FBI, the IRS, and the DOJ. I could go on with the alphabet soup of other federal bureaucracies that will be involved in this case, but I don’t have time. Tell me what you know now or the heat is going to be turned up so high you’ll wish to God that you’d never met Michael Clinton.”
Stanley pushed back in his chair, his gaze drifting away. When he finally spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. “You have no idea.”
“No idea about what?” I demanded.
His gaze slowly came over to me. “I’ll tell what I know only if I’m protected. I want the government’s assurance that my wife and I will be safe.”
“You have my word on it.” I walked over to a window and pulled back the curtain as Bernie settled down again. “There’s an FBI agent outside this office right now. I’ll see to it that he’s assigned to you fulltime for protection and provides you with anything you need until additional measures are in place.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Okay.” I saw the tremor in Stanley’s hand as he brushed back his thinning brown hair and began telling me what he really knew about his dead client. “There’s a company. It’s called Abex.”
“Yes, Abex Holdings. I’m aware of it.”
“It’s located offshore for tax purposes. Mr. Marcello owns that company. A few years back, Abex began investing heavily in revenue and development in one of Michael Clinton’s companies.”
“MWC Enterprises,” I said. “Keep going.”
“I think it was the Mishio Sequence that got Michael and China killed, if you want my opinion.”
“Wait, you’re losing me. Explain what you mean.”
“The Mishio Sequence is a proprietary algorithm that Michael developed. It’s used in certain kinds of software. I don’t understand the technical aspects about how it works, but it has something to do with using the GPS in cell phones to track customer locations for marketing purposes. The sequence uses existing data to extrapolate customer buying trends, but it also incorporates intuitive properties. The program is designed to learn from the user and create marketing that’s specific to each individual customer.”
“And Abex invested in this software?”
“Yes, but it’s more complicated. Anothe
r company claimed that it developed the sequence and software that interfaces with the Mishio Sequence. They planned to use it in conjunction with their smartphones and other products to sell the rights to the marketing information directly to hundreds of companies. The software and sequence is worth a fortune. Nothing like it has ever been developed.”
“I don’t understand how this other company got the sequence and software. Didn’t you just say that Michael developed the algorithm the software uses?”
“Yes, but it became the basis of a legal dispute. Michael Clinton at one time worked with the owner of a company that claimed the rights to the algorithm and the matter ended up in court. The lawsuit was filed through their corporate entities to keep their names out of the press.”
“Who owns the other company?”
“Steven Drummond.”
I had that feeling you get when the pieces of an impossibly complex puzzle finally start coming together. I remembered Harry Clinton telling me that his stepson and Steven Drummond had been best friends in college.
Had Michael Clinton’s claim to ownership of the Mishio Sequence been part of the reason their friendship had ended? The other part being the fact that Michael took China away from Steven Drummond. I also remembered the designer glasses that Drummond had shown me during my visit to Grapevine, how he said they were designed to find products and stores tailored to the user. Did they contain the proprietary software that Stanley was talking about?
“So Michael and Steven ended up in court over the dispute?”
“Yes. Michael won the case two months ago and was granted exclusive rights to the Mishio Sequence and software. The patent and software are worth millions.”
“And Marcello’s holding company, Abex, had an interest in it?”
“That’s why China came to me with concerns about Abex Holdings. She was worried about the long-term effects that business relationship might have on her family. She knew that Michael was indebted to Jimmy Marcello for millions.”
“And you talked to Michael about his future wife’s concerns?”
Stanley nodded. “I told him that Marcello was ruthless and couldn’t be trusted. Michael told me to stay out of things that didn’t concern me.” Stanley waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I agreed. I had no other choice.”
