by Kieran York
“His father is my father’s twin. Both are deceased. His mother and his brother ignore him.” I chuckled. “His mother insisted on moving away from here to Washington state, because she didn’t want my lowlife parents to tarnish their standings as churchgoers.”
“If she could see you now?”
We both laughed a chorus. “If she could see my Sapphic partners.” I took a gulp of the delicious cocktail.
“But Boyd is okay with your sexuality?”
“Mandy, he’s fine. He’s a very easy-going guy. I’m certain he didn’t murder anyone. He’s not like me,” I said with a laugh. “He hasn’t got the gumption to pull off a heist. He’s a surfer.”
“You’ll bring Boyd here?”
“If you’re sure. I don’t want to impose.” I gave Mandy a hug.
I left to meet with Boyd. One of Mandy’s martinis translated to two strong black coffees. Immediately after Boyd and I slid into a booth, I ordered those two black coffees. I proceeded to explain about Mandy’s offer. Boyd seemed somewhat skeptical about being put-up in the apartment with an ex-madam in her middle sixties. While I sipped coffee, then made a restroom run, Boyd considered the plan. When I returned, he had convinced himself that he didn’t have a better suggestion.
As my plan was set into place, he went over it in his head. He drove my car and pulled up to his motel room. He unloaded his luggage, and items into my car. I watched from afar, in his car. That would be the car known to the three treasure hunters. If they were spying on the motel, I could then draw them away from Boyd and take them on a chase. Thankfully there was no need for that.
At Mandy’s apartment complex, she quickly opened the entry to security parking spaces. As Mandy ordered, we parked our cars against the wall next to her auto, and her visitor’s space. When we’d parked the cars next to one another, Boyd opened his trunk and the trunk to my Mercedes. I gave him the apartment number. “You go ahead put what is in my car back into yours. And bring what you want up. I’ll see that you get settled, then you can call if you need me for anything. I’ll pick up a parking sticker from Mandy and when I come back down, I’ll slap it on your car. Then take mine. You should be secure with Mandy.”
Mandy and Boyd took to one another instantly. She bragged that she had been in on the last Trevar’s Team caper.
The personality matchup had been taken care of. On my way down to my convertible, I slapped a parking sticker on Boyd’s car.
Then I decided to contact Jill. She had afternoon duty shadowing Donald Ogden. I asked her location, and said I’d be there in ten minutes.
She’d briefed me about Donald and his fellow workers. They had just tucked in to a cozy little upscale bar and grill. There were seven, Jill told me. It appeared to be a two-for-one special combo birthday party of one of the employees. Jill was obviously good at her job. The people at the table hadn’t paid an iota of attention to the great looking African American that was spying on them. I went to the bar to order some ginger ale. I stood beside Jill, as I ordered and waited for my drink. Jill and I made social chat with hidden meanings. Nothing appeared to be suspicious. Nothing remotely like Donald gave a flip about the three women. He talked mostly with one of the men. That man was obviously with one of the women.
Jill had pointed out the man looking bored with the party. He looked as though he might like to bolt and make a run for it. When Jill pointed him out, she called him Dapper Donald. Dressed fashionably in luxury quality attire, his manicured fingers combed through his short, neatly clipped brown hair. His eyes were green, although I couldn’t tell from the distance, I recalled from his driver’s license information. Lips continued to be activated, even though he wasn’t talking. Being cool, yet I sensed he was nervous.
I trekked past them, listening for bits of information. All work, and all about a project schedule for a new strip mall. When the group disbursed, Donald hung back, finishing his drink.
“Hi,” I said as I sat across the large booth from him. I’d activated my pin body camera. I figured I would ask Rachel to weigh in on its credibility. Rachel often picked up some trait that I hadn’t seen or heard. Often, she would close her eyes and listen. Our voices are the event, but the emphasis is often like unpacked luggage. It comes through the second time you listen.
“Hello,” he said softly. “You’re a lovely looking woman, but I’m really not interested. I’m having enough problems with my marriage, so getting hooked up with another woman isn’t even on my radar.”
“I’m Beryl. I understand, I’ve been through a bad love affair. Breaking up is terrible. Look, you don’t know me, so if you’d like to talk, go ahead.”
“Beryl, I’m Donald. My wife and I just don’t communicate. She wants a divorce. I think we need to give it another chance.” He listened to the music playing lowly. “We didn’t even have a song.”
“What song would you select if you did?”
He laughed, a deep uncertain laugh. “I’m not sure. I like Beatles music. That’s what my mother played when I was growing up. If we’re talking romantic Beatles, you might say Mona and my song began with ‘All You Need Is Love,’ and ‘The Long and Winding Road’ is the end of it.”
“Do you still love her?” I pursued as much as I could.
“I want to, but she’s making it difficult. She’s impossible to love at times. She’s demanding. And she’s argumentative. She doesn’t trust me.” He was certainly putting his entire list of offenses on the table. “What about with you?” he queried.
“I fell in love with a woman. I would have given the world to be with her. It didn’t work out.”
I wasn’t certain why I was telling him about the love of my life. I hadn’t thought about the singer Lilia Franco, for weeks.
“What happened to her?” he inquired.
“She became a nun.”
He snickered, “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am. She was a singer and she became a nun.”
“You aren’t happy now,” he noted. “I wonder if she’s happy being a nun.” Another small snicker escaped his lips. “What was your song?”
“After she left, the old Bobby Dylan tune named ‘I’ll Remember You’ was my song.”
He gave a whistle that seemed to be in the tune of solitude. He looked at his watch for more time than he needed. “I’d better get going. Nice talking to you. You know, sometimes guys don’t feel as though they should approach a woman. I wasn’t sure if you were hitting on me or not. Since you love women, that question is probably answered. But look what a good chat we had.”
“I enjoyed it, too. Donald, I hope things go the way they’re supposed to happen for you.”
He grinned. “I hope your nun comes back to you.”
I couldn’t help being somewhat embarrassed. He walked toward the door. He briefly stopped, turned slightly, and gave me a partial grin. It seemed endearing. I would never see Donald Ogden again. Two hours later he was knifed to death. While running on a trail near the palatial ocean home he shared with his estrange wife, he was murdered.
I wasn’t to find out about the crime until the next morning. I spent a quiet evening thinking about my ex-lover. She was dearly loved. Also, I thought about what was going on with the marriage of Mona and Donald. He hadn’t shown me any glaring infractions. Wasn’t a cheater, at least with me. Still, there was some bit of him that, although didn’t appear see-through, existed. Some of the most trusted people in the world are criminals, con men, and serial killers. They are trusted. That was why I always insisted on at least two interviews.
The love of Mona and Donald. The love I felt for Lilia Franco. Missing.
Love runs an unmistakable race. Going toward it, and then going away. Love slips off, sometimes it lingers. My love affair was a memory galloping away.
Thankfully, the night was restful. Although I didn’t have the totally unconscious kind of sleep, I did catch a few catnaps. Something was grinding on my mind. The two cases worried me. But for the time, I continued th
inking everything was as uneventful as it could be. Everyone was safe within the moment. How wrong I was.
Chapter 4
After an invigorating shower, I’d went to the galley for a delicious breakfast. Prepared by Jill, it did wonders for my palate. “Perfect preparation.” I commented as I felt the flavors bursting in my mouth. “And presentation is ten stars. You must have learned to cook at home, they sure don’t know this Gullah cooking at the Police Academy.”
She chuckled. “My granddaddy was a chef. A Gullah cook in New Orleans. He was a descendent of enslaved Africans in Georgia.”
“These are the best grits I’ve ever eaten,” I commented. The shrimp and grits were atop savory Lowcountry gravy. Hot butter topped both the grits and the fresh biscuits. “That savory gravy is perfection. And the shrimp is magnificent. My calorically enhanced body is thanking you.”
“Beryl, you’ve been fixing great breakfasts all week, so I thought you deserved to be treated. This is one of my granddad’s recipes. He and my grandmama helped to raised me. My dad was also a cook. He was killed in a robbery.”
“I’m sorry, Jill.” I stopped eating. I hugged her. “You never told me that. Is that your reason for becoming a cop?”
“Probably.”
The phone rang, and I snagged the call – in real time, without messaging needed. “Trevar Investigators,” I muttered as I chewed.
Mona was screaming. “You’ve got to help me.”
“What’s wrong?” I sat up, reaching for my coffee.
“He’s dead. Donald is dead. He was murdered.”
Spilling my coffee as I set the mug down hard, nearly shattering it. “Donald has been murdered.”
“Beryl, they brought me down to police headquarters for questioning.”
“I’ll be right down.” As I hung up, I glanced at Jill. Summer was coming through the galley and heard the news. Their expressions were shock.
“Donald Ogden?” Summer questioned.
“Yes. And our client is on the short list of suspects. Spouses usually are on the initial list.” Knowing Rachel had been working late, I suspected that she would be sleeping in. “Okay, one of you stay here and get Rachel up to speed. Wait for my call with details, then we’ll plan.”
“I’m only half dressed,” Jill said. “I’ll stay here.”
Summer nodded, but with unexplained anger, her face reddened. I motioned to her. “Let’s roll.”
She was silent on the way to my car. As she plunged her body into the seat next to mine, she sighed. Both plunge and sigh were the brooding kinds. “Fine.”
“Summer, what’s bothering you?”
“Forget it.”
“It has something to do with Jill. Has she done anything to make you upset?”
“I said forget it.”
I mimicked her favorite sulking word, “Fine.” As we drove, the quiet was numbing. I finally said, “Summer, grow up. Stop sulking and flipping grow up. If you’ve got a problem, tell me. We need everyone on board and acting civilly. We’re a team.”
“It seems more like we’re Jill’s employees.”
“Ah ha, so that’s it. You’re upset that Jill is a take charge woman. She is an ex-cop. Most cops don’t have time to choose between hurting your feelings and making a decision. Cut her some slack.”
“Maybe you don’t need me on the Team. It’s getting to be like a dormitory.”
“Your stateroom is scarcely a dorm. It’s pretty damned elegant. And you have all the accoutrements. Spa, exercise room, lounging deck…” I lost my trend of thought as I drove.
“I’ve just had it,” she grumbled.
“Summer, we all agreed to hire Jill. As a team. As you can see, we’ve got two murders. Two cases. We also have our other clients. With three on the Team, we were at peak capacity. We were run ragged with one case. Rachel doesn’t want to go back to being an on-the-street detective. She’s excellent at what she does. Remember when Jill came aboard, you and I had both had close calls. We needed backup. It’s essential for our safety that we have adequate protection. And there’s no one better than Jill for that. She has the right instincts.”
“Meaning I’m not better.” Her sulk was on high burn.
“No one is better than you, either. That’s why you’re both on the Team.”
“Team. Did you notice how she decided who was going with you just now? She comes on as if she’s the director.”
“You were dressed and she wasn’t. I would have needed to wait. Do you want me to drive you back so you can make a decision, and I can pick her up?”
“No, it was a good call. It’s just that she makes every call.”
Driving my vehicle into the headquarters parking lot was hasty. I slammed on the brakes. Through my clenched teeth, I warned, “Summer, we are going to be a Team, as we always have been. She’s probably just trying to impress you. Promise me you’ll attempt to be welcoming and accepting of her.”
“Fine.”
“Maybe you should take your motorcycle out for a spin,” I suggested. “It might improve your mood.”
“It needs a paint job. The paint is junk,” she sulked.
“Have it painted. Summer, I’ll pick up the tab.”
“Putting paint on a motorcycle is like polishing a turd.”
I began to laugh. “One thing you do better than anything else. You make me laugh.”
She laughed for a moment. She always acted as if she had a crater of emotion ready to burst at any time.
Without discussion, we walked into the building.
After sitting in a stale smelling interrogation area for ten minutes, we were led to the small interview room. Mona Ross Ogden was dressed in a chic, fuchsia capelet jacket, with cropped designer jeans. I heard a prosecuting attorney talking about bringing charges against Mona. I realized they often do that as a form of saber rattling. One of the assistance said that Mona had been heard saying that she wanted a divorce from Donald. She wanted him gone.
The interrogating homicide detective sat beside the assistant prosecutor. They were opposite Mona. She had wisely answered no questions whatsoever and wished to speak to an attorney. She seemed relieved when I burst through the door stating that I’d be representing Mona, and she was silence.
I blared out, “Detective, Ms. Ross has nothing to say. If you have the word of someone that she wanted her late husband ‘gone’ – that could have meant anything. Maybe she wanted him to go to Texas. They had been planning to split. That wasn’t a secret.”
The young prosecutor said, “Okay, we won’t be bringing charges. But your client is being ordered to stay in this county’s jurisdiction.”
“This county is her home, so she won’t be going anywhere,” I promised.
I then ushered Mona out to my convertible. Summer jumped in the backseat so that our client could ride in front. “We’ll get you home. Don’t do any interviews or talk with anyone else, unless you decided on a different attorney. Which would probably be best.”
“I won’t say a thing.” She answered. “And I’ll use an attorney from my firm.” She’d shed a few tears, but she was dry-eyed by the time we dropped her off at her office. “I’ll be in touch,” Mona stated. “Until then I’d like for your agency to continue with your own investigation of the murder of Donald. I have an ironclad alibi. I’m not the killer. I don’t want to go to jail by being accused of something I didn’t do.”
“Wise decision, Mona. We’ll continue to investigate and report what we find. Meanwhile, I suggest you don’t mention things like when you’re done with someone, you’re done.”
“We were both done with the marriage,” she argued.
“But he wasn’t skedaddling. So, watch what you say,” I admonished.
“We’re finished with this now,” she announced in her snooty, obnoxious way.
I felt like asking permission to leave. But she was a paying client. It’s an ‘as is’ world. You show up and hope for the best.
As I pulled away from the
curb, Summer squeezed between the front seats. “I hate riding in the backseat.”
“Summer, you’re of legal age of twenty-two, now. I’m only going to say this once. Don’t let the little stuff stomp you. Riding in the backseat, taking orders from the new person in the Team, those are small stuff. If you’re going to hate anything or anyone, hate the people who murder other people. The evil, vicious people on earth. We share the air with them. And there are also prissy-brained clients with which to contend.”
“Do you believe Diva Mona is retaining our service so that she can find out who is the killer of the husband she hated?”
“Maybe she wants to give the murderer of Donald a commendation for taking him out.”
Tickled at the thought, we both laughed. It felt great to be laughing with her again. Then she spoiled the mood by asking, “What if both our clients are killers. What if Boyd killed Simon?”
My face was burning, and I was pretty sure it was stop-sign bright red. “Then I really will need to go into a courtroom again.”
When we arrived back at the yacht, even Pluma was discharging some pretty awful curse words. “Chingda,” Pluma roared. “Ching-ga-da. Ching-ga-daaaa.”
I sighed. “If only Pluma’s Spanish wasn’t pronounced so beautifully.”
I called everyone together in the conference room. Reporting what happened at headquarters was quick, and certainly terse.
Rachel then reported what she’d received from police reports. Donald Ogden had taken his jogging path about a mile from home. On a path, his lifeless body was found early in the morning. The forensics lividity evaluation concluded that he’d died somewhere around sunset. Several stab wounds were recorded. Multiple. A ton of lacerations. Donald had attempting to fight off the assailant. His expensive neck chain and pendant were missing. His slim wallet, with ID, and a few credit cards, was taken.
“It could have been random knifing,” Rachel guessed. Rachel lit up her computer and pulled up the crime scene photos. “These just came in. It was a messy crime. The killer had to have been covered with blood.”
