I’d gone to Monterey to talk to Anthony about our breakup. Not to reconcile, just to talk. I’m not one to get mushy, but we had years under our belt, and I didn’t want to cringe every time I thought of all of the time we had together, good and bad. It ended badly, and in no part due to me. Well, maybe in some part due to me, but I’m not the one who cheated. I got busy, he got busy, we drifted. He drifted into the arms of another, I didn’t. The guy he drifted to was one jealous creature, and while Anthony and I were saying our last goodbyes, making it a good closure, and giving me a chance to have my say (I always have to have my say), he snatched my keys from the table and sprinted out to my car before I knew what was happening. But just like a mama knows her baby’s cry, I knew the sound of my Spyder’s engine. That crazy mofo had stolen my car, my baby. No way on God’s green Earth did I think it’d end in death. Who gave a shit about him? I was talking about my Spyder.
Okay, fine, he didn’t die in the car accident. I want you to think he did, because he broke up my relationship with Anthony, and ruined my personal life, then mangled my car, but he lived. At first, I was glad he was alive, only so I could press charges against him for grand theft auto. In the end, I didn’t even do that, because the guy was going to have a shitty life going forward. That would be punishment enough for his incredibly stupid actions. I didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. He was in pretty bad shape.
Anthony took it hard. Being the prima donna he was, he didn’t want to be with the man anymore. (I’m sorry I don’t mention the guy by name, but I’ve drawn a complete blank, and I’m not about to ask anyone because I don’t really want to remember). Anthony was embarrassed at his lover’s actions, and horrified by the guy’s looks after the accident. (Yes, he’s more shallow than I am). That ol’ boy came crawling back to me. I do mean crawling, literally, on hands and knees, begging. I don’t do begging, so I slammed the door in his face, evicted him from the old house, and had the locks changed on both houses. Since I’m keeping the house in Salinas, I had all of the furniture moved here, and sold the other house within a week. Sadly, I had no idea Anthony was such a weak man. He committed suicide. This was what had prompted all of the funeral talk.
Mimi backed up and stood. “Then I’m going to go out to Bucky Cox’s place and have a look around.”
This got me curious, and made me forget all about my Spyder. “Bucky Cox?”
“We started a new case this morning. Cortnie, Jackie, and I are going out to Bucky’s to talk to him.” Mimi looked smug.
She knew I loved politics. Not so much politics, but the dirt, grime, and underbelly of it all. The smut, smell, and sleaze. Yeah, Bucky Cox was the epitome of politics, and he was my hero, or anti-hero, one and the same. Nick put his Boxster in gear before I could say another word, and reversed out of the parking lot.
“Love you, babe, but we’ve got an errand to run.” Nick rolled up his window before I could get a word in edgewise.
“Damn you, Nick. I wanted to go talk to Bucky.” I pretended to sulk.
Nick looked me up and down. “Sure, you’re going to go out to some horse farm in that…who made your suit?”
I ran my hands over the earthy brown English woolen fabric of my suit pants. Yes, they were flat front pants, with no cuff and very little break at the leg. I wore chocolate brown socks with a pale blue horizontal stripe that picked up the blue in my plaid pinpoint cotton shirt. “I’m still not telling you who makes my suits. Besides, on a cop’s salary, I doubt you can afford him.”
“On a cop’s salary, you think I can afford this car?” Nick gunned the engine and we were on our way to Monterey.
I looked over at his suit. It was definitely not as pricey as mine, but you’d never know it. His tailor did a damn fine job. If the fabric held up well, a $200 suit could look like a $2000 suit, and Nick’s suit fit like a million bucks. We both needed to look that good, because we were headed to Marriotto Imports on Del Monte Avenue in Monterey. I needed him to look like he could afford to be there with me.
“Nick, I think you bought this car when you were a football player, and you baby it like I babied my Spyder. If you had to buy it today, you couldn’t, so if I were you, I wouldn’t leave my keys were some jealous bitch can get a hold of them.”
Nick laughed, “Bingo. Nailed it. But let me ask you, other than the price you paid for that car, why was it so special? I mean, who mourns a car for weeks on end?”
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Nick didn’t take his eyes off the road as he maneuvered along toward Highway 1. “Try me.”
“Are we having a moment?”
“Let’s just say we are.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever shared this with anyone, and I couldn’t believe I was going to share it with Nick. “Did you know James Dean was driving a 1955 Porsche Spyder when he died?”
Nick nodded.
“It was brand new. Well, James Dean was from Marion, Indiana, where my grandparents were from. Bet you didn’t know that?”
Nick smiled. “That I did not.”
“Anyway, he was raised a Quaker. Ever since I first saw Rebel Without a Cause, I was mesmerized by him, and my grandparents said he was raised nearby.”
“Oh, okay.”
He didn’t get it, but no one ever would. I don’t know why I shared it with him. “It was just the closest I ever got to James Dean. He was so cool. When I was a kid, I wasn’t cool. I was that kid, you know? I had to grow into myself, and it takes a while to mold into this kind of greatness.”
“Yeah, that it does.” Nick grinned. He got it. He probably grew into his greatness earlier than I did, but he had lost it along the way, so he knew.
“Funniest thing, and I know you don’t know this, they were on their way to Salinas the day James Dean died. Salinas, of all places. Headed to the races. He was supposed to trailer the car, but it needed some road time, so they decided to drive instead. Some kid named Turnupseed, a student at Cal Poly, crossed the center line, and the rest is history. Turnupseed, what a name. And what a thing to be saddled with for the rest of your life, the guy who killed James Dean.” I was rambling.
“I didn’t know that. Thanks for the history of James Dean.” Nick turned off Highway 1 onto Del Monte Avenue.
“That car was my piece of James Dean.”
Nick looked at me with somber eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I wanted to tell him to screw off, but I think he was serious. I’d already lost Anthony, so when he actually died, the grief didn’t hit so hard, it was only the fact that I’d really never see him again. In the back of my mind, I had dreaded getting the rent check every month, or running into him in the old familiar places. Not that I would be frequenting those places since I’d moved to Salinas, but it could happen. Not now. I’d never see Anthony’s face alive again. It actually hurt worse than losing the car, much worse.
Nick pulled into the lot of Marriotto Imports, and we both got out like we meant business, or like we were cheesy cops, you choose. It looked ridiculous. Thank goodness no one was outside to see us, but within moments, a yummy salesman seemed to be at our service. And I do mean yummy.
The man wore a three-piece suit in gray plaid, with the vest buttoned up to the knot of his tie, then as I looked down, the last button, was… ooh la la, unbuttoned, and had a very nice… uh, pair of flat front slacks in the same gray plaid. His tie was a darker shade of gray with white polka dots that nicely balanced his starched white shirt. But who cared about the suit? It was those squinting eyes that did the trick. Nicely tanned skin wrinkled around deep brown eyes. His perfectly manicured brows told me he either sold a lot of cars, or was smart enough to look like he did. Either way, I liked him immediately, right up to his nearly unruly mop of brown hair that was crisply trimmed around his neck and ears, and kept in check with a perfect cut and just the right amount of hair product. Oh, yes, this man had a barber I wanted to meet.
I was a little put off by the driving gloves, b
ut he removed them, explaining, “I was on my way out. I’m Max Daniels. How can I help you?”
Introductions all around, and I could tell even Nick was impressed.
“Nice Boxster.”
“Thanks, it’s an oldie, but a goodie.” Nick was being modest and it was unbecoming.
Time for me to get this show on the road.
“I’m looking to replace my car that was wrecked a few weeks ago.” Somehow my Charles charm had left my body.
“Totaled?” Max asked.
Then it hit me, and I said, “Did you know James Dean had a dog named Max?”
Max looked at me like I was nuts. “Okay.”
Oh boy, I needed to get back in the car and go home. Maybe I should go hang out with Mimi at Bucky’s place.
Nick saved me. “Sorry, we were discussing James Dean on the way over here. Charles just put his 1955 Porsche Spyder to rest a few weeks ago.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “Big Sur? That was your car?”
“Sadly, yes.” Snap. I had the sympathy card.
“How on earth did you survive that crash? I saw photos of the car. It’s toast.” He crossed himself like a Catholic.
“Actually, it’s a box of metal now.” I put on my best mourning face, but not too good because I still wanted to look my handsomest. “I wasn’t driving, it was stolen.”
“Even worse,” he commiserated. “You obviously have excellent taste in cars, so you’re in the right place.”
I nodded.
“Let’s see what we might have for you.”
We headed toward the showroom, Max walking in front of us.
“Did you look at our website before coming over?” He looked back to see that we were following him into the showroom. “We have a lovely Porsche 911 E, circa 1971.”
Nick looked at me. It was kismet. This had been the car we’d both decided we wanted to test drive. There were two of them, but the 1971 was the real deal.
Once inside, Max made a beeline for the 911 E. It was silver and pristine, and I’m pretty sure it had “Charles” written all over it. I would have asked Nick, but he didn’t seem like the type who would see these things.
“Let me go get the keys.” He turned back, a huge salesman grin on his face. “Got a driver’s license? I just need a copy of it, so you can go for a joy ride.”
I pulled out my money clip and fished the license from the middle. When I handed it to him, I waited for him to look at it for authenticity, and to appreciate the better than average photo, but he just politely accepted it and walked away.
“Joy ride, my ass. This baby is going to be mine. I’m going to drive it like I’d drive the Spyder if it was still alive.”
I may as well have been talking to myself because Nick had wandered off to look at other cars.
I stepped quietly up behind him as he ogled a Bentley. I wasn’t sure what year it was, because the Bentley really wasn’t my sort of car, but it was nice enough. “Buying Mimi a new car?”
Nick flinched. “Right. Like she’d drive this old thing. This is a car for an old man. She’d want a Range Rover, and that’s not happening any time soon.” He nodded toward the empty hallway. “What’s going on?”
“He’s getting the keys. We are about to go for a ride.” I was giddy with delight.
Nick shook his head. “Take Max with you. I’m going to stay here and look around.”
I wanted to be disappointed. I liked Nick’s company. Besides, in my mourning state, we hadn’t gossiped about Mimi nearly enough lately. But then again, I would be cruising down the road with the most handsome man I’d seen in quite some time. It had been years since I’d bothered to really look, but this guy was a looker and worth the drought.
When Max returned, he had the keys dangling from his index finger. He handed me my driver’s license, and pushed a button on the wall. The side door on the showroom wall slowly rolled up, opening the room to the salty air, and refreshing breeze outside.
“Ready to go for the ride of your life?” Max’s demeanor had loosened up a bit.
Oh, was I? “You coming?”
His brows raised. “Let’s go.”
We both got in the 911 E and I maneuvered it out of the showroom and into the fresh new day. I felt a shift in the atmosphere, as I shifted gears and took that baby for a spin.
* * *
Of course, nothing was like my Spyder, but the 911E was pretty damn close. I didn’t want Max to think I was easy, so when we pulled back onto the car lot, I tried not to act like I was interested. But it was one sweet ride.
“I felt like there was a bit of a miss. Not really a miss, but it felt like it. Did you feel that?” There wasn’t shit; it purred like a kitten, but I wanted to see what he said.
“I didn’t feel a thing. Our mechanic is a genius with Porsche engines, and he’s been over this one like it was his own personal vehicle. I promise this car is a machine.” He put his hand on the stick shift.
Mm, mm, wrong stick shift. Oh, goodness, I was sounding like the male version of Mimi. I shook my head.
“Is everything okay?” Max asked.
I put on my best grin. “Perfect. I’m just a bit of a mess. It’s been a rough few weeks.” I pulled out my money clip again and handed Max my business card. “I’m interested, but I’m not buying today. If I miss out because someone buys it before me, then c’est la vie, but I must take care of a few other things before I commit.”
I put the car in park and turned off the engine. I knew I could maneuver the Porsche into the showroom deftly, but I’d leave it to the experts. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I opened the door to get out, and Max touched my arm. Great, the hard sell.
“Look, we don’t hard sell here. I have your card, here’s mine. I don’t usually do this, but here’s my cell phone number.” He pulled out a Monte Blanc pen and wrote his number on the back. “We could enter the info in each other’s phones, but let’s not.” He handed me the card. “Even if you decided not to buy the car, call me. I’ve always wanted to know more about the private dick business.”
During the drive I happened to mention what I did for a living, and how I’d moved from Monterey to Salinas to be closer to work. I didn’t want him to think I lived in Salinas because I was too poor to live on the coast.
I sighed. I was relieved I wasn’t going to have to be a jerk to Max, because I hate the hard sell, but pretty jazzed that I’d be seeing him again. “Cool. I’d be happy to tell you anything you’d like to know about the private dick business.” Or anything else you’d like to know about.
Max came around to the driver’s side and started the car as I walked over to Nick, who leaned against his own Porsche. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Nick put his phone in his pocket. “Okay.”
We got in the car, and as we drove toward Highway 1, I asked him, “Did you know that James Dean was bisexual?”
Nick let out a jolly roar. “No, I did not. Wow, you really did have a thing for him.”
“That car was as close as I’d ever be to James Dean, and now it’s gone,” I said, yet again. My heart ached a little. Okay, a lot.
“Sorry, dude.”
I looked out the passenger window. “Did you also know that he’d been molested by his Methodist pastor when he was in high school?”
108
Mimi
Cortnie was full of surprises. Who the hell knew she’d run a barrel, much less thrown a rope? To me, she was a surveillance genius, but turned out she’s more like Charles everyday. She does a bit of everything, and has secrets in her past that may never be revealed, but may be leaked out at a time when I least expect it.
I’d worked with her directly on a couple of different cases since she’d come to the agency, and even though she’s a tiny package, she’s gigantic in brilliance. I love knowing my employees are so well-rounded.
We weren't two miles from the office when I got a call on my cell phone. Uta had a message from Skinner. He’d called Pam to see if she wa
s home, and said it’d be best if we went by her place first, before talking to Cox. That way we’d have the full story about what Bucky had done to her, too. He wanted us to know just how bad Bucky was.
“I don’t understand why Jackie didn’t want to come with us,” Cortnie said.
“She isn’t a big animal lover. I mean she loves Lola, and could probably handle a dog, but she’s pretty much terrified of horses.” I remembered a case we had on a pony farm, and that was bad enough. A full size horse would send her running for a bottle of Xanax.
“I hear that all the time. I guess it’s not for everyone. Tell the truth, people scare me more than horses. At least if horses hurt you, it’s to protect themselves. They aren’t born mean. They don’t terrorize people for entertainment.” She fiddled with the strap on her black patent leather pump. “Though they probably should, as payback.”
“Are you going to wear those to Pam’s place?” We were headed to a horse farm for goodness sakes. Even I was wearing ballet flats.
If Charles wasn’t going to Anthony’s funeral, we weren’t going. I didn’t know his family at all, and there had been bad blood when Anthony cheated on Charles, so it felt weird to be going at all. We’d all been dressed, ready to support Charles, and he didn’t even bother to tell us he wasn’t going. We’d have been sitting in the funeral home, waiting, looking around as the service progressed, and Charles would have been out with Nick. Good thing they stopped by Gotcha or Nick would’ve been in hot water, and Charles would’ve been blistered because his water would have been boiling. The pity party was over. I’m sure Nick had been on his way into the office to tell me he wasn’t going to the funeral, and we’d walked out in time for him not to have to come in. I wondered if Charles would have given me the same courtesy. He’d been such a douche bag since he and Anthony split up, and the accident that totaled his Spyder.
I wished I’d had time to go home and change clothes before going out to Bucky’s place. I probably did, but then I’d have to wait while Cortnie went home to change, and by then, the day would be half over, and we’d have nothing done.
Gotcha Detective Agency Mystery Box Set Page 82