Brotherly Love

by Jason Blacker

  “Did you look in the garbage can when you came in?” asked Mike.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Don’t bother, nothing in there of note.”

  “Thing is, Anthony,” said John. “These guys live around here for the most part. They’re rich, powerful men who need these indiscretions kept discreet, so what comes in with them goes out with them when they leave.”

  “How do you know about all of this, John. Something you keeping from me about your personal life?”

  “Hey now, that’s a low blow. No, we’ve received some anonymous tips on occasion and patrol has been sent out here to check things out.”

  “Well, you find out who he came out here to meet and you’ve got your man on the grassy knoll,” I said. “Why’d you even bring me along for the ride. Not that I’m not grateful.”

  “I miss working with you, pal. And besides as the Captain of Homicide, I can spend the allocated consulting funds how I please.”

  “Well, gosh, I’m forever in your debt.”

  “Yeah, and that.”

  “I’d like to speak to the witness who called this in. Ms...”

  “Antonucci,” said Mike.

  “Yeah, her. I’d like to talk to her about it,” I said.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” said John. “I’ll get her info to you and you can probably sit down with her this morning.”

  I nodded and finished my coffee.

  “I’m gonna go and work on a warrant for the vic’s computer, then we can go and visit the grieving widow.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The coroner walked past, after her two body men who were carrying Ray on the stretcher.

  “Don’t be stranger,” she said to me.

  “I won’t.”

  I watched her walk back to the coroner’s van and then get into her Prius. I felt weak at the knees. Even in overalls she looked smoking.

  “Glenn,” said John.

  Glenn looked up at his Captain.

  “Get Anthony the witness's details,” he said.

  Glenn wrote some information on a piece of paper at the back of his notebook. He tore it off and handed it to me. I looked at it. It said, “Naomi Antonucci, 505 Parkwood Drive. 310-555-9332.”

  I was parked on North Parkwood Drive, and it wasn’t long enough to have a 500 block, or so I figured.

  “Where is this place, Glenn?”

  “Well, this here is North Parkwood Drive,” he said to me, pointing behind me where my car was parked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I parked there.”

  “Right, but it kinda zags left up there by North Mapleton and then heads north again. I figure the house is up at the end up there.”

  Now he was pointing past where Ray had not five minutes before been lying, stone cold dead. I didn’t think Glenn was the finest traffic cop but I had an idea where he was sending me.

  “I think I’ll drive,” I said, mostly to myself.

  “You’re getting soft Anthony. A walk will do you good.”

  “Nope, I don’t think so. Marlboros and walking don’t go together so well.”

  I popped open the lid from my finished coffee and took off my gloves. I bunched them into the coffee mug and then put the lid back on. John was on the phone, cops were milling around amongst a few crime scenes guys.

  “Mike, we’ve got something here,” said one of his guys. He walked off to check it out. I fished out my phone and dialed Naomi’s number. An Hispanic woman, sounding older, maybe in her sixties answered.

  “Can I speak with Naomi Antonucci?”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “My name’s Anthony Carrick, I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I didn’t have to wait long. In the meantime I watched Mike head over to his guy and they had a huddle around a rock. Like the one he was kicking over to me earlier. Mike nodded, I couldn’t hear them. His guy put it in a big plastic bag. That must be the weapon of opportunity I figured.

  “Hello?”

  “This Naomi?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Hi, Naomi, Anthony Carrick,here. I’m with the LAPD and I’m just here at De Neve Park. I’d like to come and speak with you about the victim you called in earlier this morning.”

  “Okay.”

  She sounded like she wasn’t sure. Like if she had a choice, she’d rather have said no.

  “How about in five minutes?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good, I’ll see you then.”

  I hung up the phone and looked around. This was one hell of an opulent neighborhood. I thought something like this would likely ruffle folks’ feathers around here. The big orange was moldy in places, but folks like these didn’t like to look under the seams. That bright shiny sheen was what they liked to live in. Like a bubble that was gonna slowly burst and everyone was going to get gum on their face.

  John was just getting off the phone. I walked up to him.

  “I’ve gotta get going. Another homicide from last night just came in. I’ll catch up with you later,” he said.

  “Sure will.”

  I walked back to my car and tossed my coffee cup into the trash on my way out of the park. I got in and drove to the address I had already memorized. I parked outside the gates and had to get out of my car to reach the buzzer. Nobody spoke to me, but the gates opened up and I drove in. Must have been my winning charm again.

  I walked up to the main doors and just as I knocked, the old Hispanic woman answered. She was wearing a one piece pale blue dress with apron that came down below her knees. She was stocky and short with black hair. That was about the only thing that wasn’t natural. She smiled at me.

  “Detective Carrick,” she said. “Please, come this way.”

  I didn’t correct her but I did follow her into a large living room where a woman sat on a large, hard-looking couch. She had on blue yoga pants and a tight white yoga top. Over that she wore a blue jacket, but it was mostly undone. Her bosom was not a gift from the gods, but manmade. But bespoke, you could tell, not like the ladies down on Ventura Boulevard.

  She got up and walked over to me. She was slender and graceful like a dancer but not a professional dancer, maybe more like one whose dance partner is a pole. Though I bet she’d left that a long time ago. She held out her hand. Delicate fingers with a French manicure.

  “Detective,” she said.

  “Please, call me Anthony. You must be Ms. Antonucci?”

  “Mrs. but you can call me Naomi. Would you like something to drink?”

  Her hand was warm and soft in mine and it disappeared in my mitt like an easy flyball.

  “Water would be great.”

  She nodded at the old lady who had invited me in and she disappeared.

  “Please sit, Anthony.”

  I sat and took off my fedora, placing it next to me. She sat across from me and picked up her bottle of Perrier. The Hispanic lady came back in and handed me my own green bottle.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Thank you, Maria,” said Naomi. Her voice cool as the bottle in my hands as it started to sweat.

  Maria left and I looked over at Naomi. The house was big. I felt small in it. It had no personality. Even the cancer ward was warmer and friendlier than this place. I opened my bottle and took a swig. The fizz bit the back of my throat. I coughed and she smiled at me.

  “What happened to Ray?” she asked.

  “You knew him?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re reasonably close here as a community. Ray owned a series of high end car dealerships. In fact he got me a great deal on my Cayenne.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, trying to feign interest and enthusiasm.

  Naomi looked to her right and out the window into an expansive yard, smoother than a putting green.

  “So, what happened to him?” she asked again.

  I figured I need to rock her world a little bit to get
somewhere with her.

  “Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out. But can you think of any reason why someone would want to beat him to death with a rock.”

  She looked back at me then, and a wave of horror crawled up and down her like fire ants. But she controlled it pretty quickly. She shook her head.

  “That’s awful,” she said. “Ray seemed like such a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone doing that to him.”

  “Do you know why he might be out in the park late at night?”

  That question wobbled her center again, but she steadied herself. She took a sip of water from her expensive bottle.

  “No, that seems strange.”

  She didn’t look at me when she said it. And the way she said it I knew that she knew what went on in that park at night.

  “Can you tell me anything else about Ray?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, tell me about his family.”

  “We’re not that close. We’re close as a community, doesn’t mean that we hang out with each other all the time.”

  “Seems like some of the men do,” I thought to myself.

  “Ray has a wife and a son. His son still lives with them, he’s going to UCLA but I forget what he’s studying. His wife’s older than me. We don’t really hang out at the same places.”

  “Do you have any problems in this community much, Mrs. Antonucci?”

  “No, Mr. Carrick, that’s why we live here. With wealth comes some distance from the, um…”

  She was looking for just the right word to use. I didn’t think she wanted to insult me and she knew I was a working stiff.

  “Distance from the struggles that life can sometimes throw your way.”

  I smiled at her and took a sip of water. It bit me in the back of the throat again.

  “You should run for office.”

  “I rather prefer anonymity,” she said.

  “Do you know where Ray used to live?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “The Hopes live across the road and two houses down. You can’t miss it, it has a tennis court right up against the edge of the property.”

  “Just before I go; you said you’d been coming back from your run this morning when you found him. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I’ll sometimes stop in the park to do some stretching before I walk the rest of the way. And that’s when I saw him. Well, I saw his feet sticking out and I went to investigate. There he was, poor man, face down in the dirt.”

  “So he was on his stomach?”

  “Yes, just like I told 911 when I called it in. Why are you asking me these same questions? This whole experience has been quite upsetting.”

  “Because I enjoy your company.”

  She smiled at me. The only real warmth I’d felt in that home the whole visit.

  “How was his body positioned?” I asked.

  She looked up at the ceiling trying to recall.

  “I don’t know. He was lying on his stomach, his legs were straight out and his arms were by his side.”

  “Which way was his face looking?”

  She blew air up towards her bangs.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. He was dead and I got scared and ran home and then called 911.”

  “Did you notice any injuries or blood?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was he messy, dirty, or did he look reasonably clean.”

  “I don’t remember. I think he was clean.”

  “Was he dressed?”

  “Mr. Carrick, what are you inferring?”

  “You know what I’m inferring, Naomi. Some of the men in this neighborhood like to meet out at that park, sometimes late at night for, what would you call it?”

  I looked at her and waited a moment. Her gaze fell to the floor.

  “Brotherly love. Does that sound about right?”

  She didn’t say anything for a while and then she looked up at me.

  “You know, it’s easy for you to come in here with your cavalier attitude and smart remarks, but you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I know what it’s like to live lies. Ask my ex about it.”

  “No, you don’t. Not really. Sometimes you have to turn a blind eye to get by.”

  “So the other one can get plucked out, too?”

  I leaned in towards her. My elbows on my knees. I was dangling the Perrier in my hand like it was noosed up.

  “Listen, Naomi. I don’t care what a man chooses to do with another man, or a woman or the both of them. So long as nobody’s getting hurt and everything’s on the table. I couldn’t give a nickel for every dime that asked. But rich people, they hide themselves away from the rest of us because they think they’re better than us. But really, you’re worse, you sully yourselves with the dirty ends of toilet paper morality and you think you’re self-made. You’re not self-made, you’re made on the backs of the poor. And that really dents my Buick.”

  I looked at her, trying to see how that washed over her. She didn’t seem to mind. She was either used to blunting her feelings or she was using pharmaceuticals for them.

  “You know, you’d be welcome here anytime with your tough guy attitude. I find it very exciting.”

  She got up from her couch and came and sat next to me. She put her hand on my hand.

  “What would your husband think?”

  “He wouldn’t know,” she said. “He does what he does and I do what I do.”

  “You do who you want to do.”

  She smiled. I wanted to slap some sense into her, but I knew that’d only sting my palm. I stood up, reaching for my fedora.

  “When is your husband going to be home?”

  She sat there on the couch I had just left, clutching her hands together. She was an attractive woman, no doubt. But I had a feeling she knew the insides of too many bedrooms and the stipple of too many ceilings.

  “My husband should be home by eight.”

  “Good, I’d like to come by for a visit.”

  She looked up at me then with the faintest frown wrinkling her botoxed forehead.

  “You don’t play for their team, do you?”

  It was a sincere question, but some folks just don’t get it.

  “I fight for truth, justice and the American way, Naomi. There’s been a homicide in your neighborhood. Your neighbor’s dead and you’re worried about who I sleep with on cold winter nights.”

  I shook my head and started walking towards the front door.

  “I’m good, you know.”

  “At what,” I said over my shoulder, as I walked out the door and closed it behind me. The sun was burning up the sky really good now. A fireball scarring the blue canvas. Too bad it couldn’t burn up the stink in the rotting Big Orange.

  I got in my car and turned around to leave. From my rearview I thought I saw her watching me as I went. Sad, hollow lives that not even money can fill.

  I exited the Antonucci’s drive and headed south looking for the house with the tennis court visible from the road. It was where she said it was. I pulled up on the side of the road just in front of the gates. I took out my phone and dialed John.

  “You lost again?” he said when he answered.

  “You could say that. But no, I’m outside Ray Hope’s place. Has next of kin been informed.”

  “Not yet. But seeing as how you’re there, could you take one for the team?”

  “For double my rates.”

  “Not in the budget, Anthony. You know that.”

  “Worth a try.”

  I hung up the phone and looked through the well-manicured hedge, past the tennis court and at the house. There was an Hispanic man watering some flower beds up by the house. I got out of my car, leaving my fedora riding shotgun. I walked over to the gates and paused by the intercom. It had a camera on it too. I pushed it like it was my play on a Vegas slot.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was a woman’s. White I would have guessed and older.


  “Is Phyllis there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Anthony Carrick with LAPD Homicide.”

  “This is Phyllis,” the voice said.

  I looked at the camera and put on my stoic, hardboiled face. The sort of face it seems I’m always wearing.

  “I have a personal matter I need to discuss with you, in person.”

  “Come on in.”

  There was a side gate that buzzed and I pushed it open. It closed behind me and I walked up the long driveway towards the house. I passed the tennis court and it looked pristine. Like it had never been used. The lawn was immaculate and green. That’s not a natural color here in The Big Orange. Not that bright green anyway. The gardener looked over towards me and I nodded at him. He looked back at his watering.

  The water was coming out of the hose attachment in a large spray like a shower head, and I kept thinking of elephants. Maybe because the hose was black and reminded me of an elephant’s trunk. But more than likely because there were elephants in just about all the rooms in all the houses around here.

  I got up to the main door of the house, and what do you know if there wasn’t a knocker on it that was of an elephant’s face. The trunk curved like a J and I used it to knock a sprightly tune onto the door. Sometimes a funeral dirge starts out sprightly. That was me.

  An older woman answered the door. Gravity had made a mess of her. Makeup was thick but carefully done, but her whole body sighed like a deflated balloon towards the floor. Her hair was blonde. Unnaturally blonde and she was plump. Not the bombshell I had just shared a Perrier with across the street. Though to be fair, Phyllis, if this is who answered the door was a good twenty years her senior.

  I looked at her with a bright smile. She didn’t return mine. An aura of imbued unhappiness emanated from her like old grannys’ perfumes. I almost gagged on it. But my smile held tight.

  “Detective Carrick?” she said.

  “Please, call me Anthony.”

  “Come in.”

  I walked in behind her and closed the door. This one wouldn’t close itself and Phyllis had started up ahead of me. She led me into a living room that was the gauche brother to Naomi’s living room. The furniture and ornate decorations reminded me of Napoleon for some reason. Old and flowery and ornate. Above the fireplace was a large painting. I’d guess it was four by six feet, of Ray and Phyllis. Ray sitting in one of the ornately shaped chairs I saw in this living room. Phyllis standing above him with both her hands on his right shoulder. Not a glimmer of a smile shared between them.