Baja Blues: The Boy Who Played With Marbles (Liza McNairy Mysteries Book 2)
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"And you're doing so, why?"
"Look... you're my friends, Liza... you know? Despite whatever happened between us, Danners... I still care for both of you. And I thought... well... that maybe knowing there's more information out there might open your eyes to other possibilities."
"What... like Alexandria and little Eduardo having eloped? Ran off to Cuba or Venezuela or even Cartagena and are living happily ever after? Believe me, nothing would make me happier. But I quit believing in fairy tales a thousand years ago, Reilly."
"You're absolutely right, Danners. I shouldn’t have come. Do me a solid and forget I said anything."
"Come with us to Mexico, Reilly. We could use the help."
"Liza! We don't need him and you know it."
"Well, yes we do, Danners. You know it too. Don't be such a beached whale."
"I do have some vacation time saved, Liza. Tell me again about the nude beaches in Baja?"
"They're off limits to queers and steers, Reilly. Sorry."
"Well then, Danners... I guess me and Liza'll have to leave you at the motel room while we take a naked saunter on the sand together. Get sand up our cracks. What say you, precious? Care to trip the light Fandango with Reilly Cooper?"
"There's only one man who gets to see these triple D's, Reilly... and he ain't you."
"Oh... so there's someone new in your life, Liza?"
"I wouldn’t say that, Reilly... he's actually sort of old. But enough of the snark. Listen. I want to see that case file. Would it hurt if you sort of left it lying on my desk for an hour or so? Danners will take you out for coffee and donuts. He's buying."
"No I'm not."
"Oh, go on you two. Make up, for Christ's sake. Come back in half an hour and you can have your case file back, Reilly. I promise I won't make copies. I'll only read it."
Was it a set up to get him back together with Danners? Probably. But hell, what did it matter if Liza got a gander at the file. And besides, she was right. If he was ever going to work with McNairy and Forthright again, then they had to get past the breakup part of their relationship. Christ. If only he didn’t need the money so goddamned bad.
"Come on, Danners. Don't fret it... I'll buy."
"Liza... you go with Reilly. Let me stay and read the file. I might pick up some things that could elude a regular person. You know how I get."
"Jesus, Danners... I won't bite, if that's what you're worried about."
"Let's go, Reilly. Danners is right. He's better at this sort of thing than I am. Besides, I'm starved. I forgot breakfast today. Yesterday too. Danners can fill me in on what he reads later."
"Don't mess with the sequence of the papers, Danners. I want that file back just the way you found it. Shall we, Liza?"
Jesus, here he was getting his panties in a wad over a stupid file no one would see but him anyway. It had to be the stress... the being around Danners Forthright again... the guilt of cutting off their relationship before it really had any opportunity to flower. But he was only doing the old queen a favor... Danners wasn’t his type. It'd been a momentary lapse of reason that ever led him to consider spending time with the man in the first place.
He'd never actually been
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Alone with Liza McNairy, extraordinary. Reilly couldn’t really say he was attracted to her but at the same time she had that sort of appeal that transcended the gender boundaries—man and woman, boy and girl, queer and straight—as he'd come to regard them. Liza had the strength of a man melded with the mystique of a woman. Plus she was hiding something... a great secret. There were times when he almost knew what it was for the briefest of instant but then poof. Gone.
She didn’t drink, otherwise he'd smell it on her. Not only that, alcohol abuse had a way of wearing a person down in foreseeable ways. No. That wasn’t it. Was she a closet pill popper? Possible, but doubtful. That too had its tells. After all, he'd gone through the Academy... been trained in all the fine arts of detecting weaknesses through the subtle body language associated with each. Pill poppers were normally up and down. This one makes you big. That one makes you small. And the one momma gives you doesn’t do anything at all.
Was it something heavier? That's the way he leaned. Not cocaine. That too left its claw marks, and usually an inclination in that direction led the user to progressively greater amounts until they finally blew a valve. That left the opiates. Yeah, that's what he suspected. Had McNairy been in an accident? Got hooked on the old morphine drip? Maybe. No track marks though... at least no visible ones.
What the hell was he doing? This sort of shit could well cost him his job. The Bureau didn’t take kindly to sharing information, even with legitimate law enforcement agencies. And McNairy and fairy were anything but that. How would anyone find out, though? They wouldn’t. These two weren’t going to talk. That'd cost them their in with the Bureau. And he certainly wasn’t getting on the horn advertising his misdeeds.
Say something, Reilly. You're walking next to one of the most beautiful women in Los Angeles and you're acting like she's got malaria or something. Look at you. You're fucking this up, boy. Shut up, mother. I know what I'm doing.
"So how are things, Reilly? The Bureau keeping you busy?"
"Oh, you know, Liza... most days I feel more like an errand boy than a special agent but one has to play the game."
She turned into Presario's, walked past the hostess without saying anything, and sat in a booth in the back. He followed, feeling just slightly sheepish, like he should explain to the girl waiting to seat them that Liza was sorry... that she was temporarily disaffected by work today, and that there'd be a big tip. Instead, he shrugged and said nothing.
"This is where we always sit when we come here."
She said it to him as if she needed to explain her rude behavior but hell, it wasn’t him she'd dissed. It was the hostess. Now the girl was liable to spit in their coffee or rub their food all over her twat. Wait and see. There'd be pussy hair all over their pastry. Never fuck with the help, Liza. I know. I used to work in a dump like this.
She was
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Creeping over something. All the classic symptoms... increased respiration, sweat beading on her forehead and above her upper lip, couldn’t sit still... she kept stacking the cream packets in tiny pyramids as high as they would go and when they fell she'd pile them all over again. Wouldn’t look him in the eye when she spoke to him. Afraid he might see something? Some sign? Maybe.
"What can I get you, hon?"
At least the waitress seemed to know Liza. Things were looking up. And hell... maybe that hostess was like the rest of the girls in California and shaved that wild thing... or at least trimmed around the hedges.
"Hey Bonnie... this is my friend Reilly. I just want some coffee, please, and one of those blueberry muffins I saw when we walked in."
"Reilly, huh? Never saw you around here before."
"No... I work out of the Glendale offices... don't normally get down here to Pomona."
"Bureau, huh? Nice."
"How'd..."
"That ring of yours, boyfriend. My father had one just like it. I'd know it anywhere. You only get that sort of bling by going through the meat grinder."
"Your father's in the FBI?"
"Was... buried him five years ago this spring. His doctor said it was job-related stress. Dropped over while working a treadmill down at Ironkill's gym. They said he was dead before he hit the floor. Massive coronary."
"Oh... I'm sorry, Bonnie..."
"What you gotta be sorry about, Reilly? You didn’t do it. Hey... what can I get you, sweetie?"
"Same as Liza, please."
So they really did come here all the time. Funny. For a moment he could've sworn Liza was lying about that. It was one of those places that'd been around since the 70's... Formica countertops, worn around the edges, white and black floor tiles, signed pictures of weird old movie stars bedecking the walls... hell... there was one of the Godfather himself, Marlon Bra
ndo. I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse.
"I'll be right back, Reilly. Gotta go spend a penny."
Spend a penny? Oh... she meant take a piss. Why couldn’t she just say so? Women. No wonder he could never stand their company for more than a minute. How was Danners coming with his reading? Probably getting more than he bargained for. That folder was some shit. Not fluff, that was sure.
"Here you go, hon... where'd Liza get off to?"
"Oh, she's in the little girl's room, Bonnie. She'll be out in a minute."
"I'll come back later with her coffee, then. Otherwise it'll get cold."
Cold? How long did it take McNairy to shake one out? Maybe she had to go number two. Spend a penny. Yeah. That might've been a code word. He'd have to remember that one. Might come in useful.
Sure enough
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Liza didn’t come out for nearly half an hour. By then, he'd just about given up on waiting and walked back to the office. Maybe she'd slipped out of the place on him. But when she did finally emerge from the shitter, it was the old Liza McNairy he knew and loved... full of vigor, re-energized... like she'd somehow gotten a full night's sleep while sitting on the john. Exuberant. That was the word.
What to make of it? That sudden change? Obviously Liza was doing more inside that john than taking a massive dump. Interesting shit... no pun intended either.
"Oh... there you are, Liza. I waited your coffee. Figured it might get cold by the time you got out."
"What would I do without you, Bonnie?"
So they were in on the secret together. Or were they? Maybe Liza McNairy came into Presario's every day around noon and pinched off a loaf. Or maybe this place was far enough off the beaten path that no one would notice her small eccentricities. Yeah. They all knew her habits. That explained why Liza walked past the hostess without even acknowledging the girl.
He'd read how junkies could sense each other's affliction. Was that the answer? Liza McNairy was shooting the big H? Quite possible. Hell, even big time movie stars dabbled in the habit and no one was ever the wiser. Why not some non-descript private eye working out of one of the poorer sections of Los Angeles? That could go a long ways in confirming his suspicions.
Her eyes were dilated and her voice had a certain languor to it that did not exist prior to her trip to the bathroom. She'd gone in there to spike up. Or maybe she sniffed the shit. Either way, Liza McNairy was higher than a giraffe's ass. Way up there in the stratosphere. It was a wonder she didn’t simply float.
Chapter 10—Father Fletch
(The Old Letch)
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Big deal. So she liked having sex. Was there really something wrong with that? Hell, if she was a guy, they'd all be saying what a fucking stud she was. Instead, they shunned her. Like she was somehow unclean. That the slut disease she carried might spread to them by osmosis.
"If you really need the money, Elena, I'll send it. Give me a few days. The goddamned banking regulations make it hard to transfer that much cash all at one time."
Johnny wasn’t normally so generous. But he knew. And she didn’t even have to remind him. It wasn’t like he'd miss thirty grand anyhow. Not that family. But then again, they hadn’t gotten so wealthy by giving money away either.
He had to have realized how she was when he asked her to marry him. That was all part of the attraction, or so she thought. The sordid sex... the allure of her extensive and pervasive promiscuity... all of it combining to make her irresistible to the big-time banker boy from Boston slumming down in Mexico. But once she'd spit out a of couple kids and traded in her perkies for soccer mom tits, all of a sudden she was supposed to be the Virgin Mary or some such shit.
She was still pretty in a thirtyish sort of way. And she took care of herself. Not like the girls in Santo Tomas... the ones she'd grown up with. Most of them had no teeth, wrinkles on top of creases, and their hair was turning gray. Moving to the States was the best thing she could've done.
Of course all the dreams she had... well, they went by the wayside. No one put too much faith in Mexican girls not even one generation removed from their homeland. You're applying for our journalist opening, Ms. Stamper? I'm sorry, but that position's been filled. We do have something in housekeeping that might pique your interest, however.
And so she was a maid, just like mother. It paid the bills. Along with the alimony check from good old Johnny. Please call me John. Or better yet, Mr. Stamper. Yes, sir, honey sir. Mr. Johnny it is. And how is Daddy Doo tonight, Mr. Johnny? Is he enjoying your new wife as much as he did me?
"Thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money, Elena. Why do you need so much?"
"I'm hiring a pair of private detectives to find out what happened to Eduardo. Can you help me?"
"Detectives?"
"I saw them on television. They solve old cases like Eduardo's. One is a psychic."
"Come on, Elena... you don't believe in that shit."
Yeah, Johnny... oh, I'm sorry... Mr. Stamper... I'm still a soft touch. The two of them are probably going to take my money and then sell me a story on how my brother fell into a well on his way home that day and how there's nothing more they can do. But I have to try... I'm being haunted, for Christ's sake.
"Thanks, Johnny... I knew I could count on you."
And that was the truth. Johnny Stamper rhymes with stealing pampers. Only he did those sorts of things legally, all above board, duly signed and noted, sir. Mr. CEO of a billion dollar corporation that paid its workers in peanuts and popcorn... that was him. He learned his trade well. Daddy Doo was quite the teacher, or so she gathered. The old buzzard had taught her a trick or two and just when Elena was quite sure she'd seen it all.
She loved Johnny. Even now. But the poor man could never hold his own. Hell, maybe in another thirty years he might develop more stamina... take after his daddy in that regard as it were... but now? Every time she was about to really get off, he let go first. And promptly shriveled like a skinny dog turd in the midday Mexican sun.
"Ms. McNairy? It's Elena Stamper."
"Hello, Ms. Stamper. How are you?"
"Wonderful. I want to let you know I'll have the money by the end of the week... just like you requested."
"Great... we've already started working the case, Ms. Stamper. Tell me... were you aware a little girl vanished the same day as your brother?"
"Oh my yes... that's right, Ms. McNairy. Now that you remind me, I do remember that. Alexandria Cervantes... that was her name. How sad. Why?"
"Just a thought... is it possible the two disappearances are in some way related?"
"I suppose anything's possible, sure. Honestly, I never thought to put the two together. Neither did the police. At least not that they said."
"Did you know that family, Ms. Stamper?"
"Yes, of course. You know how small towns are. Everyone knows everybody."
"Did Alexandria and Eduardo play together often?"
"Sometimes. Not often. They were kids, Ms. McNairy. Kids play together."
"What about other playmates? Did your brother have a lot of friends, Ms. Stamper?"
"No... he was pretty independent. A lone wolf. I remember standing at the kitchen window watching him setting up his plastic army men in the sandbox and having wars with them. All by himself. He'd make sounds like gunfire and bombs going off and knock them all down and then start all over again. I used to feel sorry for him. But Eduardo was the kind of boy who could entertain himself for hours. He even played marbles by himself."
"How about television? Did he have any favorite shows?"
"Not that I recall. Why?"
"We're trying to gather a sense of his character, Ms. Stamper. Things he liked and disliked... any peculiar habits he might have had... people he knew and who knew him. It helps to establish patterns that were present at the time of his disappearance."
"Well, I think I already told you about one of his favorite activities... he enjoyed collecting sea shells. And he was meticulous abo
ut it too for a boy that age. Wouldn’t dream of taking a shell that had something living inside of it. They had to be empty."
"What did he do with his sea shells, Ms. Stamper? Do you happen to have any of them?"
"Oh, I wish I did,
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"But no, Ms. McNairy. He never kept any. He'd sell them to people... beach goers, mostly. Americans on vacation. That's how he got his spending money for candy and what not. Oh, and books. Eduardo loved his books."
"Books? What sort of books did he like?"
"Oh, you know... kid's books... Nancy Drew mysteries, The Little House on the Prairie, stuff like that. He used to try and get me to read them too but I never had much time. I had to cook and clean while mother was working."
"And you say he just turned seven?"
"Yep... Eduardo was a precocious boy, Ms. McNairy. He was reading by the time he started kindergarten. Way ahead of the other kids his age. But he was..."
"Was what, Ms. Stamper?"
"As smart as he was, Eduardo was dumb too. I'm not putting him down, Ms. McNairy... that's just how he was."
"Can you give me some examples?"
"Well... I remember walking past this one house... it had a street number etched into the adobe brick... something like 1762. And each time we'd go by it, Eduardo would say, that's a really old house, Elena. It was built in 1762... see? And I'd explain to him that no, that wasn’t when the house was built... that was the address. But the next time we walked by it, he'd say, wow, that's a really old house, Elena. It was built in 1762. So after a while I gave up correcting him."
"Sounds like he may have been exhibiting early signs of some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder, Ms. Stamper... was he ever diagnosed with anything like that?"
"Not that I was aware of, Ms. McNairy. Mother worked a lot. I doubt she had time to take him to a doctor. We just accepted that that was how he was... you know?"
"I can appreciate that, sure. Now you say he'd sell his sea shells to Americans on the beach. Did he ever mention if anyone was sort of overly friendly with him?"