A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery)

by Anna Burke

  Wrapping up her account, Jessica said, “It sounds far-fetched, but the case file backs up aspects of his story. And now Tommy says that Kelly had gone to see someone she referred to as the doc. Tommy doesn’t remember Kelly mentioning a Mr. P or Mr. B, but some L.A. producer she met at the spa who was slipping her hundred dollar bills, gave her that phone number for the doc. So maybe he’s the long-haired mystery man behind the wheel of the Mercedes that night.”

  “That’s it, Jessica! Now I remember where I heard about Mr. P with the long hair. It’s in one of my magazines—un momento.” Bernadette was out of the room, moving at a speed that was remarkable at any age, but all the more stunning for a woman pushing seventy. In a flash, she was back among them, bearing a raggedy old issue of one of her favorite entertainment news magazines in hand.

  “Wow, that was fast, Bernadette,” Peter said, a note of awe suggesting he was beginning to believe Brien’s assertions about her superpowers.

  “I may be old, but I’m bold!” Bernadette flashed him a sassy smile as she handed the article to Jessica. “Mira, mira esto!”

  The title read: “That’s Mr. P to You!” A thin, short man in his fifties, with shoulder length dark hair, streaked with gray, stood smiling broadly among several rock and rap luminaries. He pointed a bandaged finger at the camera. Like one of those vintage “Uncle Sam wants you” posters. Jessica scanned the article quickly, passing along snippets of what she was reading. It announced that “rap artists were not the only ones who used initials instead of their full names.” In this case, for the record producer at the center of attention, it was partly “a matter of expediency,” since his last name was difficult to spell and remember.

  “There’s also the fact that Christopher Pogswich makes him sound like a character out of a Harry Potter story. Not good, since he kind of looks like one too,” Jessica commented, as she zipped through the article.

  He also liked being referred to by the letter “P” because, “p stands for pure platinum,” like the work done at his studio and the name of his label: Pure Platinum Music Group. Acknowledged by many as one of the best producers in the business, he was notoriously difficult to work with at times. Given to fits of frustration in his pursuit of perfection, he sometimes indulged in the studio equivalent of road rage.

  The rage was, perhaps, aggravated by his legendary capacity to go through fifths of expensive vodka between takes and still stand up in the control room. During one such tiff he had shouted the now infamous line, “that’s Mr. P to you,” while pointing his finger repeatedly in the artist’s face. The artist, being as temperamental and no doubt as looped as Mr. P, bit the finger—almost completely through. It took a number of stitches to reattach the offending digit. This was all deemed to be a hilarious mishap, and had since been forgiven. No criminal charges were filed, and all civil suits had been dropped. The producer and artist posed side-by-side. It had been written in 2003, so they would have to look into his whereabouts, before and since.

  “Jerry, we need to figure out if we can place this guy at the spa or casino. Can you get us a clear photo, preferably one taken closer to the time of the hit-and-run in 1999?”

  “I doubt that’ll be a problem. I’ll see if I can get a recent shot, too, so we have a better idea of what he looks like now.”

  “That’s a great idea. Frank, I want to show the photo to Chester Davis, to see if it rings any bells.”

  “It’s certainly worth a try. I’ll see if I can get Art Greenwald to put together a photo lineup with a picture of our Mr. P included. I’ll call and ask him when he gets in on Monday morning.”

  “That’s great, Frank. I have to drive back to L.A. Tuesday, so if Greenwald can put a lineup together, I’ll show it to Chet Wednesday morning.”

  “I’ll take him a photo to include, if he’s willing to go along with this idea. How soon can you get us a photo, Jerry?” Frank asked.

  “It sounds like Mr. P is a media mogul who likes the limelight, so my guess is there are plenty of images on the internet. We have to figure out what pictures were taken when, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Then we can print something off the web tonight. Is your laptop handy and do you have a photo quality printer, Jessica?”

  “Yes and yes. My laptop is down the hall, and there’s a great printer in the study.”

  “If you go get it, Tommy and I can do a search.”

  “The other thing I want to do is visit the hotel, spa and casino. A lot has changed, and it’s not like we haven’t been there before, but I want to see where she was killed. I’m going to call Uncle Don, Jerry, and see if he’s okay meeting us there. I’d like him to do a walk through with us, recounting what he saw that morning when Kelly was found. Then, what it was like when he went back later, closer to the time of night she was killed. Can you go with me on Sunday if he’s willing to do it, Jerry?”

  “No problem, Jessica. I left the weekend kind of open to recover from jet lag.”

  “Sorry about that, Jerry, but I really want to get a jump on this. I’ve already spoken to Paul, so you’re back on the clock with the firm. That’ll be some compensation, at least.”

  “Jerry won’t mind, Jessica. He knows this is important to me. I have scars from Kelly’s death, and he’s already met what’s left of my parents. I’ll not only help do the search for photos online, but I can help track down the people to be interviewed. You don’t even have to pay me.”

  “Tommy, if Jerry has work for you to do, you’ll get paid too. That’s the deal we worked out, and it still stands. In addition to the pictures, let’s find out what we can about where Mr. P lives and works. Let’s see what turns up by digging into Mr. P’s property and business holdings, okay? We’ll follow the money—and assets—and see where that takes us. That includes figuring out what kind of cars Mr. P owns. I’m sure he doesn’t still have a 1999 midnight blue Mercedes S class sedan, but maybe he’s a loyal Mercedes customer with a newer model. If we figure out where he purchased his current car, someone at the dealership may have been around long enough to recall if there ever was such a car in Mr. P’s possession. I also want to know what kind of trouble he’s been in with the law. Vodka and a nasty temper are two things likely to get him attention, not just from the media but also from LAPD.” Jessica was speaking at a good clip. Her mind raced as she considered all they needed to do. Before she could say anything else, Tommy spoke up.

  “Jessica, I vote we all pay a visit to the casino, hotel and spa. You shouldn’t have to go there alone. We’ll make it a field trip—a sleepover! That way, we can get the complete experience going undercover.” A round of groans rolled around the room at Tommy’s play on words. Tommy was back in imp mode. It was a familiar role, but couldn’t disguise the pain in his eyes.

  “Two rooms, Jessica; one for the boys and one for the girls.” Those were the first words Laura had uttered since Frank started talking about Kelly’s death. Still in the throes of dealing with her husband’s death, she hadn’t returned to work yet. She was overseeing repairs to the house where Roger was murdered, anxious to get rid of it. Not easy to do in the desert during the summer months, even if she could get it on the market.

  Once she had the five hundred thousand dollar, double indemnity payout from the insurance company, she could afford to buy another house. Right now, living alone in a house seemed too isolated to a woman widowed by the murder of her husband only a month ago. The thought of an apartment or condo seemed too close, almost claustrophobic. That closed-in feeling might have come from being back under the watchful eye of her parents. After only a couple weeks with them, she was feeling the need to do something, but what?

  Laura was at loose ends, and growing antsy. She wanted to restart her life but she wasn’t sure how. “Tell me about it,” Jessica thought, as she tried to support her friend. Jessica suggested she speak to a financial counselor who could help sort through the financial issues related to her housing options. Figuring out her finances was one thing, dealing with the fear and
loss she felt was another.

  The ever-conscientious Laura was on top of that, too. She had joined a bereavement group at the Eisenhower Medical Center. Mostly older women who had lost husbands to aging or disease, their issues weren’t exactly the same. She found some solace, though, in hearing how others were coping with the loss of a husband. That did not counter the deep sadness on her face as she spoke.

  At the moment, her face bore a stubborn look. Jessica had seen it before, many times. Her determination to go was underscored by arms folded across her chest, as she sat on the couch with her legs stretched out on a cushy ottoman.

  “That means me too, Jessica,” said Bernadette. She moved closer to Laura, mirroring her expression and folding her arms, too.

  Jessica thought about the prospect of taking the whole cat pack to the hotel, spa and casino downtown. They could certainly get the lay of the land quickly that way, covering a lot of ground in a relatively short period of time.

  “With a picture of Mr. P, we could ask around and see if anyone recognizes him. Maybe someone in management or at the front desk or the spa will remember if he was a regular at the time that Kelly was employed. Heck, he might still be a regular, for all we know.”

  “Yeah, we can all ask around, Jessica. Talk to people and get all the gossip. You shouldn’t forget about the housekeeping staff. They have to clean up the mess. I bet they know plenty that goes on. I can talk to them for you, Jessica,” Bernadette offered.

  “That’s awesome Mrs. B. I can talk to the pool guys and the guys who hand out towels and stuff like that. I can tell ‘em about my experiences in the pool business, talk to them pro-to-pro, you know? And I’ll hang with the maintenance workers too and see what they have to say.”

  “Ooh, that’s a great idea, Brien. We can talk to the bartenders, too. We do know our booze, don’t we?” Brien was beaming, nodding his head in agreement as Tommy continued.

  “Bartenders always hear things, Jessica. And we can all take the waters at the spa and get treatments. That Mr. P has a mouth on him. If he was there, he probably spilled his guts to his masseuse or esthetician about all sorts of shit. You can chatter with the women on your side of the spa. Even if they weren’t around back then, Bernadette is right about gossip. I bet there was a lot of talk after they found Kelly dead. Stuff that came up that no one told the cops. Besides, I’m all tensed up from that long flight home. I could use a massage. Why don’t we go tomorrow?” There was that twinge of pain in his eyes again. A quiet desperation hovered beneath his clownishness.

  “Tomorrow? Are you serious?” Jessica asked. He was. She thought about the week ahead. It was either tomorrow or put if off until next weekend. Friday would be her dinner and film noir night with Paul, so that meant next Saturday night at the earliest. “Okay, I guess that actually makes sense. I can’t figure out another night that might work, not this week, anyway.”

  “What about you, Peter, can you join us? Maybe you could find out what sort of security arrangements were in place when Kelly was killed? How could Mr. P, or anyone else, have been in the lot at that time of night? Wouldn’t someone have noticed and spoken to him if he was sitting out there in his car like that?”

  “I was wondering about the same thing. That Chester Davis could come and go as he said he did is a little far-fetched, too. Granted, security wasn’t as tight back in the 90’s, when Indian gaming took in a hundred million a year rather than about 30 billion, like it does now.” Laura gasped.

  “Thirty billion? Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. That’s the total for the entire country, but about a third of that is made right here in California or over the border in Nevada. That’s the hardest thing for me to believe about what this Chester Davis character is saying. Casino operators are absolutely paranoid about cheaters. Surveillance is everywhere. They watch everybody, customers and employees, and the guys doing the watching have guys watching them. No casino wants their players to get robbed in the hotel parking lot after winning a jackpot at the slots. His story seems odd from my point of view.”

  “That bothers me too, Peter. The police did talk to someone in security back then. I can give you a name, if you want it.”

  “Sure, that would be helpful. One of the current security team members at that casino used to work for me. I’m sure he’ll fill me in as much as he can without giving away too many secrets. The other thing I was wondering about is all those comps casinos give out. Casinos climb all over each other to attract and keep the whales coming back. They have to have a system in place to do that. Gaming commissions and casino operators keep an eye on who gets comps, how much, and for what. If he was in their system as a loyal customer or a member of a premium players club, those records might still be around. That’s way more likely than video surveillance or other security records. Those probably got dumped long ago, even if they had them.”

  “That’s great, Peter. So we’ll count you in. How about you, Frank? We’ll even make you an ex officio member of the cat pack if you want to join us.”

  “Thanks for including me, but I have two kids at home. We have plans for tomorrow night. The only reason I got tonight night off is that Jessica was such a big hit at our Fourth of July picnic. I will take the cat pack membership, though, if that’s an option.”

  “What about it, gang?” Tommy scratched the air and let out a round of meows.

  “That is so gay, Tommy,” Jerry said, tousling Tommy’s hair. Tommy pretended to lick his hand before smoothing his hair back into place.

  “I suppose that means you’re in, Frank.” Jessica said, with those in the room nodding in agreement.

  “Okay, thanks. After listening to Peter talk about Chester’s story from the security angle, maybe we should all be more skeptical. As an addict who’s been at it for as long as he has, Chester Davis is a practiced liar. He’s been in and out of jail. He might have picked up what he knows about Kelly’s death from talking to one of the officers or overhearing them talking to each other. I’m going to ask Art Greenwald when I talk to him on Monday to check and see if Chester Davis was arrested anywhere around the time Kelly was killed. Given that the dead girl was a police officer’s family member, there was probably a lot of buzz.” Jessica was a little irritated, not sure if it was Frank’s unwillingness to accompany them to the hotel and spa or the sudden onset of cop skepticism that chafed.

  “Okay, I hear you. One way to sort this out is to follow up on this Mr. P thing. There’s nothing in the police record about a Mr. P, so he couldn’t have gotten that from eavesdropping, right? If it turns out Mr. P was a regular, that’ll add credibility to his tale.”

  “That’s true. I’m not saying we shouldn’t keep digging. We might actually get more out of Bobby, the boyfriend. Maybe he can tell us if Mr. P was a regular back then, by looking at a photo. More important than that is finding out if he can tag him as the ‘whale’ slipping Kelly hundred dollar bills. How about finding Bobby Simmons, Jerry?”

  “If he’s still working for the tribal casino, it’ll be easy to locate him. If not, I presume there’s an address in the police record. There still might be a link to him online related to that old address. A driver’s license number or a social security number would speed things up. He couldn’t have been working as a dealer at the casino if he had a police record back then. If Tommy’s right that Bobby Simmons was up to no good, it’s entirely possible he’s had a run-in with the law since. Has the cold case team run a recent check on him, Frank?.”

  “That’s a good question, but I don’t know. I’ll see where the cold case team is with all of this when I follow up with Art on Monday. I’ll ask specifically about Bobby Simmons, his whereabouts and activities since Kelly’s death.”

  “I need to talk to Art, too, Frank. I have a number of questions from my review of the case file. I’ll give you the first crack at him. If you could call me and let me know what you find out, that would be great. I’ll wait until I hear from you before I contact the
detective myself.”

  “I’m putting out my own query about Bobby-the-slug right now, using my connections to the looser side of life in the valley.” As he spoke, Tommy’s thumbs were flying, rhythmically punching out text messages on his cell phone. “If that guy’s still around, or if he’s been up to something slimy I’ll find out quicker than you will, whether or not he’s been tagged for it by the law. Especially if what he’s been up to has anything to do with drugs, gambling or sex. I’ll hear about it.”

  “Let’s go eat. After dinner, I’ll get out my AMEX card and arrange our field trip. That’s part of the deal, right?” Heads bobbed up and down again. “I’ll go get my laptop, Jerry, so we can print out pictures of Mr. P. I’m sure we can find a couple pics to take with you, Frank, and I’ll make copies for tomorrow night when we start asking around at the casino. There’s a head shot of Kelly in the case file. I’ll scan it so we can take her photo with us, too.”

  Hours later, when the others had left, Jessica was still pent up. Maybe from all the sugar and alcohol she consumed. Jessica slipped out the sliding doors from her bedroom and stood on the patio. The night breeze curled around her, warm and comforting. After dinner, they had made reservations at the hotel and set out plans to make the best use of their time. When the others had gone, she and Frank talked through everything once more. She could tell Frank still had doubts, but was as determined as she was to take the investigation as far as they could. A somber mood had gripped them both, putting a damper on the heat between them. When he stood to leave, she got up to walk him to the door.

  “Jessica, I’m sorry about all of this. I wish we were sitting here doing nothing but watching the sunset and chatting. I’d rather be talking about wine or music, anything but Kelly and a bunch of lowlifes.” He was as burdened as his father had been the night before. She couldn’t ever remember Jim Harper being moved so deeply by such a sense of responsibility for anybody or anything. How could she have missed that about him?