by J. R. Rain
“I would never do that.”
“You would do exactly that.”
I grinned. “It would be kind of funny, though, wouldn’t it?”
Sanchez shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be. Okay, fine, maybe a little, but it would get me fired and you arrested for obstructing justice.”
“Would be worth it,” I said.
Sanchez shrugged. “Maybe.”
The living room had a vaulted ceiling that seemed to go up forever. The walls were covered with big windows and big paintings. One of the paintings was from an artist I was certain I had studied in college. It was of a ballerina en pointe, arms circled above. There was now a spray of blood across the painting, which might diminish its value. Or not. It depended on how macabre the collector was. I could see it hanging in, say, Stephen King’s office, blood spray and all.
“Shot in the head,” said Sanchez. “Found him on the couch.”
“The camelback couch,” I said.
Sanchez looked at me. “Yeah, the camel-fucking-back couch. Does it matter?”
“Not really, unless it does.”
Sanchez looked at me. “Mendez is going to want to talk to you.”
“Who’s Mendez?”
“Investigating officer.”
“Is he your cousin?”
“Because he happens to be Hispanic?”
“And a homicide detective,” I said. “Like you.”
“Always nice to know my friend is a racist, honkie motherfucker. Here’s Mendez now. Don’t make me regret inviting you down here.”
Mendez came over and we shook hands. LAPD is a big department, with many sub-stations. This was the Hollywood Station, or division as they liked to call it. Mendez was young and serious and got right to the point. He pulled me off to the side, out of earshot from anyone else.
“You were working for the victim?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“I was his hairstylist.”
He looked up from his notepad. “I thought you were working a case.”
“Or that.”
The young investigator gave me the hard stare. “Just answer the fucking questions. What was the case?”
There is no client/investigator confidentiality when it came to my cases, especially when said client’s brains were presently splattered across the far wall. I told the young buck about the case. He made copious notes, holding the pen tightly, knuckles white. His hand, I noted, was shaking slightly.
“First case?” I asked.
He ignored me. “How many times did you meet the victim?”
“Just the once. He wanted a little off the top.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck do you think you are? This is a murder investigation, mister.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Will you give me a fucking break? Yeah, this is my first homicide. Well, the first that I’m the lead.”
“Must be terrifying.”
“Just give me a break, all right?”
He shook his head as his hand continued shaking. He took a deep breath that didn’t seem to entirely fill his lungs. There was sweat on his brow.
“When did you meet the victim?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did the victim mention anything that would lead you to believe his life was in danger?”
“No.”
“Do you have any thoughts on who might have killed him?”
“Someone with a gun.”
“Any thoughts that I can use?”
“No.”
“Where did you meet the vic?”
“My office.”
“Do you know the vic personally?”
“Was I a swinger, you mean?”
“Yeah, that.”
“No. I’m happily monogamous.”
“So am I.”
I decided to take the lead, and said, “How did the killer gain entry?”
“There’s no sign of forced entry. This is also a damn big house. We’re still looking.”
“Was there a struggle?”
He shook his head. “Nothing out of place or knocked over. No bruising, no scratching. The vic was drinking wine at the time of death.”
“Was there a second glass of wine?”
“No.”
“Do you have the murder weapon?”
“It hasn’t been found.”
“So, not a suicide.”
“Definitely not a suicide.”
“Time of death?”
“Middle of the night is our best guess.”
“Who found the body?”
“Maid.”
“At least it wasn’t the butler. Any reports of a gun being fired?”
“We’re asking around, but no one heard anything.”
“A silencer?” I asked.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“A professional?”
Mendez looked a little sick. “Maybe.”
We stood around some more as the young homicide investigator blinked down at his notes. He took in more air, and this time, his lungs seemed to fill to capacity. “I’ll call you if I have any further questions.”
“Or,” I said as he walked away, “if you need a haircut.”
He ignored me. I might have ignored me, too.
Chapter Fourteen
I was at McDonald’s again.
Sitting across from me was Jack, drinking from a small orange-flavored drink. He seemed to be enjoying it.
“Are you really God?” I asked.
“Do I look like God?”
“No. You look like a bum.”
“You expect God to look a little different?”
“Yes. Maybe more like Zeus. Or, for that matter, like me.”
Jack threw back his head and laughed, revealing a row of yellow teeth, a few of which might have been actually rotted. When he was done laughing, he settled back in his seat, chuckling lightly and sipping again from his drink. “You have always had a healthy self-image, Jim.”
“To say the least,” I said. “But is that a good thing?”
“Do you really care about my answer?”
“I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Would my answer change your behavior in any way?”
“Only if I somehow quit being me.”
He laughed some more. “So there you go.”
I sipped from my McDonald’s mocha latte. Actually, not too bad, although it tended to have a slight, well, McDonaldized taste, whatever that meant.
“But to answer your question, Jim, there’s nothing wrong with thinking highly of oneself. But there’s also something to be said for being humble.”
“I tried being humble once,” I said. “It didn’t suit me.”
“No, I suppose it didn’t. Still, laced within your bravado, Jim, is self-deprecation, and that can be charming, too.”
“So, I sort of walk a fine line of thinking a little too highly of myself, and yet, still laughing at myself, too.”
“Like I said, charming.”
“Would you say I handle the duality perfectly?”
“No,” said Jack, “but I have a feeling you would.”
He laughed and I laughed. Just two guys enjoying our drinks. That one might be the creator of the known universe and multiverse was another story entirely, and one that I was still wrapping my head around.
“I’m working on a case,” I said.
“I imagine you are, Jim.”
“I’m looking for someone who may or may not be alive.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“If you were God, you would know the status of this individual’s fate.”
“This would be true,” said Jack, winking. “If I were God.”
McDonald’s was quiet tonight, but that could change in a heartbeat, with the next wave of partying teens. I said, “I can’t bring myself to ask you about the case.”
“Are you afraid that I might not know the answer? Or that I
might give you the wrong answer? That I might prove, in fact, to be human?”
“In a word, yes.”
“You enjoy thinking I might be God.”
“I do, yes. But...it also feels a bit like cheating, too.”
“Life is meant to be lived, Jim. A lot of people don’t understand that concept. They want the answers given to them, and so, they go to psychics or mediums, and so they watch Oprah and Dr. Phil, looking for shortcuts.” He paused, sipped his drink, set it down again. “Do you want me to give you a truth that will set you free, Jim?”
“Boy, do I,” I said.
Jack smiled at my mock enthusiasm. “You need to look no further than your own life experiences to find all the answers you seek.”
“But how do we know what the right answer is?”
“Do you have to have the right answer?”
“Right answers help.”
“What if I told you there is no right answer?”
“Then, I would say you’re speaking esoteric mumbo-jumbo.” I paused.
“So, we ditch all the self-help books? The online psychics? The mediums and Oxygen network?”
“Of course not, but please do be aware that, first and foremost, the answers you seek are within you. Others add to your awareness, your experience, and, sometimes, to your confusion.”
“And what if we really don’t know what to do?”
“This may not sound politically correct, Jim, and often, this one aspect of living a physical life is often forgotten in this modern world, but consider a short prayer.”
“A short prayer to whom?”
“To God, to the Universe, to your ancestors, to your guides, to yourself. Ask to be shown the way, for the answers within you to be revealed. Pray for clarity and wisdom and knowledge.”
“And what if we are not given clarity and wisdom and knowledge?”
“Then accept what God gives you.”
“And if you don’t believe in God?”
“Then there’s always Oprah and Dr. Phil.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sanchez and I were drinking beer at El Vaquero, a Mexican restaurant and bar a half-block from my apartment. I had just ordered my third beer, or, cerveza, which might be the only Spanish word I know, or need to know.
“You do realize that your client is dead, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“You cashed his check?”
“I did.”
“But you don’t feel good about it.”
“I feel weird about it, yes.”
“Because you are now in possession of a dead man’s money?”
“Something like that.”
Sanchez nodded. “You took his money, you cashed it—hell, you’re buying our drinks with it tonight. So, with you being you—that is, someone who adheres to a strict moral code that only he understands—you feel obligated to see this case through to the end.”
“He was killed on my watch, so to speak,” I said. “I don’t like people killing my clients, even if I just met them. And it’s your turn to buy drinks tonight.”
“Doesn’t make his murder your responsibility, Knighthorse. The police are on it. My colleagues are on it. Let it go. And there’s no way in hell I’m buying drinks tonight.”
The waitress came by with my cerveza. As she dropped off my third drink, Sanchez ordered his fourth. Trained observers, so that made it not creepy, we both studied her backside closely as she left.
“We could just order our drinks together,” I said, “so that the waitress doesn’t have to make so many trips to our table.”
“Or we can be less gay.”
“Or that,” I said.
When we were done observing the hell out of her ass, professionally, of course, I said, “I’m going to finish the job I was hired to do.”
“Even though you don’t have to.”
“I was paid to do it,” I said. “I agreed to do it. Whether or not my client is alive or dead—”
“Oh, he’s dead.”
“—has no bearing on the completion of my job. If I take his money and do nothing, I would feel like a thief. But more than that—”
“More than that, your curiosity has been piqued.”
“You could say that.”
“And you’re thinking that his murder might have something to do with him meeting you.”
“He was killed the next day,” I said. “It’s a logical assumption.”
“After publicly announcing hiring you to look into Freddie Calgary’s death.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Ever wonder why he did that?”
“Ever since.”
“Someone didn’t want him looking into Calgary’s death,” said Sanchez.
“That’s how I see it.”
“That same someone may not want you to continue your investigation.”
“That same someone can eat shit.”
Sanchez grinned. I didn’t grin. I studied the crowd around us, observing everyone. Truth was, I knew there was a good chance that whoever had offed Clarence would come after me next. Trouble was, I wasn’t so easy to off. At least, not yet.
The waitress came by again and, after I put in another drink order and she was about to leave, Sanchez continued a bogus conversation, “And thanks again for taking me out on my birthday, Jim. I appreciate it.”
The waitress paused and wished him happy birthday.
Later, after they were done singing to him and giving him his lighted cupcake, the waitress dropped the bill off in front of me without hesitation.
When she was gone, I looked at the bill, then at Sanchez, and said, “Happy birthday, asshole.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was early morning.
These days, I awaken at the butt-crack of dawn. Why that is, I don’t know, but I kind of enjoy it, even though I don’t do much at dawn. I don’t meditate or write in journals or catch up on emails. I certainly don’t get to the office early. No, I usually lie in bed with Junior, scratching his belly or his rear end or behind his ears. While I scratch, I think about my coming day, I think about the work waiting for me, and sometimes, I think about whose ass I’m going to kick. Welcome to my world.
Today had been slightly different. Today, of course, I had awakened next to Cindy, which was always a treat, in more ways than one.
Now, as Cindy showered, I let Junior back into the room. He hadn’t been pleased with getting kicked out. He had let us know by whimpering outside the door while Cindy and I were, ah, taking comfort in the throes of passion. I had tried my best to ignore him.
“Can’t you give a guy a break?” I asked him as I dressed.
Junior did his sort of half-sneeze, half-snort thing he sometimes does, to indicate I’m working his last nerve, although I’m fairly certain Junior doesn’t know what that saying means. Neither do I, for that matter.
The morning was brisk. A low bank of stone-gray clouds hung just above the rooftops. Okay, maybe a little higher, but not by much.
I thought of Clarence Atkins’s death as I walked. Sanchez had faxed over some of the crime scene photos. Not for the faint of heart. The back of Clarence’s head had been blown clean off...okay, maybe not so clean. He had been wearing a silk robe and slippers, although he was wearing only one such slipper when they found him. I could picture him flying back, even as the back of his head and some of the top of it exploded out. A violent, angry, horrible way to treat another human. To take everything they were and hoped to be and had and loved and hated and worshiped and created, and smear it across the wall with blood and bits of bone. To ruin a man completely and totally. For what?
So far, Mendez had no clues. Sanchez was working the case unofficially, since it was out of his district. Mendez, I suspected, was probably grateful for the help, since Sanchez was damn good at his job. I told Sanchez last night, via email after he sent me the disturbing pictures, that he and Mendez sounded like a Mexican daytime drama. Sanchez y Mendez: Homicide Policia.
> He had a rather colorful reply, something about me being racist and not as funny as I thought I was. I think I caught him in a bad mood.
Now, as I stood in line at Starbucks, on the corner of Main and Second, behind precisely thirty-two other people, it occurred to me that I had some bad news to share with Cindy. This case had taken an ugly turn. Someone very violent was on the loose, and I didn’t want her to inadvertently become caught up in it. I wanted her home and safe; in fact, I wanted someone to keep an eye on her.
So, while I waited in line, I pulled out my cell phone, found the name I was looking for, and hit the green dial button. A moment later, Spinoza’s quiet, yet strong voice answered.
“Knighthorse.”
“Did I catch you in the middle of making waffles again?”
“I haven’t made waffles in ten years.”
I knew about Spinoza, and I knew about his dead son. I knew that Spinoza had spent time in jail for drunk driving, and that the two—his dead son and Spinoza’s drunk driving—had gone hand in hand. Spinoza was a good friend, but a tormented soul. Who wouldn’t be? Yes, I suspected the last waffles he’d made had been for his son.
“Maybe I’m thinking of a different Spinoza,” I said.
There was a breathy pause on his end of the line, which, for Spinoza, qualified as a small laugh. Or maybe a big one. He said, “Maybe. What can I do you for, Knighthorse?”
I told him about my case, quietly, so as not to alarm the Starbuckians who’d slipped into the coffee shop to escape the real world. I told him what I needed, and he said, “I’ll be over there tonight.”
“She won’t like it,” I said.
“Maybe not,” said Spinoza. “But at least she’ll be safe.”
“She has a guest room.”
“Couch is fine. Or a chair. I don’t sleep much anyway.”
“I’ll let her know,” I said, and gave Spinoza her address.
When we hung up and as I waited to put my coffee order in, I thought about how I was going to break the news to Cindy. The bad news.
Trust me, I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Chapter Seventeen
It hadn’t been pretty.
Cindy and I rarely fought, if ever. We discussed things with passion. We discussed things fairly, generally listening calmly to each other’s side. At times, we had a model relationship.
