Kill the Mother!

by Michael Mallory

  “Officer Fillmore already did that, sir,” Baker firmly announced.

  “Oh, okay, all right,” I said, giving her my best Larry Fine capitulation wheedle.

  Now Fillmore arrived back in the kitchen. “I talked to a woman from the house next door and she confirmed that someone has been loitering around the property. She described him as tall, dark haired, bearded, and wearing a long military style coat.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Mendoza sneered.

  “Hector,” Colfax said, “take those game consoles out to the car, and be careful with them.”

  Pulling a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket pocket and stretching them on, Mendoza went in the other room, picked up the Alphas’ gaming devices and dutifully carried them outside and to Colfax’s car.

  “What do you want us to do, detective?” Fillmore asked.

  “You two concentrate on figuring out who our prowler is and keep your eyes and ears open regarding the two boys,” the detective answered. “If we find anything pertinent on those gaming things, I’ll let you know, but you keep me in the loop, too.” Colfax pulled out business cards and handed them to the officers, who then left the house, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the detective. “We need to have a little talk, Beauchamp.”

  “If it’s about the facts of life, detective, I already know,” I said, hoping to lighten the tone.

  It didn’t.

  “Okay, you want to know why I’m here,” I speculated. “Marcy DeBanzi called me this morning to say that Elena Cates hadn’t come back to pick the boys up. She dropped them off last night.”

  “And what did you do when she told you that?”

  Careful. “I tried calling Elena but she didn’t answer. I guess we know why, now.”

  Colfax continued to look at me. “You didn’t go to her house, did you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Like I said, detective, I called her, I got no answer, then I came down to see Marcy because she had mentioned seeing someone who looked like he was casing the joint. Then when I got here, I found her on the floor, injured and the twins gone. I called the locals, and you and Mendoza arrived almost immediately afterwards. God’s honest truth.” It was, too, since I had done all of that. I simply wasn’t including that I had also gone over to Elena’s house and found her body.

  “Are you being one-hundred percent straight with me, Beauchamp?”

  “About what?”

  “About everything?”

  “Of course. What would I be lying about?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking,” Colfax said.

  “Everything I have told you, detective, is the absolute truth.”

  “Uh-huh. But it’s what you haven’t told me that makes me question you.”

  I sighed. “Do I need to go all through it again?”

  “No. Forget it.”

  “Can I leave, then?”

  “Yeah, get out of here. We know where to find you if we need you. But I’m only going to say this once more. I don’t want to see you again unless it’s by my choice.”

  “Just so you know, I’m going to go to the hospital now to check in on Marcy. I don’t consider that to be part of an investigation into Nora’s murder. I’m simply a concerned friend.” I started to leave but was stopped by Colfax’s voice.

  “Is that your car out there?” he asked.

  “I’m parked out front, yes. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. It’s just that one of Elena Cates’ neighbors saw a car pull away from her house this morning, before her body was found. The description she gave kind of matches your car.”

  So someone had seen me, and Colfax was playing cat and mouse. I forced myself to smile at him. “So you think I was there?” I asked.

  “What I think takes second chair to what I can prove, and if I could prove you were there, you’d be in custody already. Now beat it.”

  I did not have to be asked twice. Walking out, I passed Mendoza, who seemed disappointed that I was not in cuffs, and the two uniforms, then jumped in my car and took off. I had no idea where Peninsula Hospital was, but that’s why God gave us cell phones (though He gives GPS to those He likes more). But since my cell was out of juice, I had to stop at a gas station and ask for directions. Even at that it took me a half hour to find the place. Once I had made there, I parked and rushed into the ER to ask after Marcy. She was still in X-ray, I was told, so I waited…and waited…and waited.…

  About two hours later she came back out in a wheelchair, which is the standard way people leave a hospital, whether they are able to walk or not. It has to do with liability.

  “Sheez, they kept you long enough,” I said upon seeing her. “Are you all right?”

  “They took x-rays,” she said. “I hate x-rays.”

  “They had to find out what was wrong.”

  “Fortunately, nothing much is wrong. There are no signs of fracture or concussion, just a bump.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, Miss Fortunate of 2013,” she said grimly. “Any news on the boys?”

  “Nothing yet. At least the cops are taking me seriously this time. They put out an alert. Are you ready to go home?”

  She nodded, and then winced. “Ow, I have to be careful about doing that. I’m still a little sore.”

  The orderly who was pushing her offered to take her all the way out to the curb, while I pulled my car up, but Marcy refused, opting instead to walk. Even so, I took her by the arm, and she did nothing to dissuade me. It felt good, like the warmth of the sun shining down on us. “I have some other news, but I don’t know whether it’s good or bad,” I said.

  “Now what?”

  “You were right about seeing someone hanging around the house. I saw him, too.”

  “I wasn’t lying about it.”

  “I believed you, but now the police are convinced as well.”

  “Did you get enough of a look at the guy to describe him?”

  “Not conclusively, no. He might be a street guy, and possibly a veteran, since he was wearing what looked like a military coat. He had a dark hair and a beard. He was looking over the brick wall in your backyard, looking into the kitchen.”

  “Damn it, Dave. That doesn’t make me feel very comfortable about returning home.”

  We were at my car now. “The police are looking for him,” I said. “Neighbors have seen him, too.” Fishing out my keys, I opened the passenger door and helped her in. Once I was behind the wheel, I started the ignition and pulled out of the lot.

  “Do you think he’s the one who did this to me?” Marcy asked. “Is he the one who took the boys?”

  “If he is, he’d be pretty dumb to loiter around afterwards.”

  “Who does have them, then?”

  “I don’t know.” There was one wild card in this mysterious deck, however, and that was Elena Cates’ gentleman friend. "Did either of the boys happen to say anything about Elena’s boyfriend?”

  “No. You think that’s who’s behind this?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be discounted.”

  “God, I feel so helpless,” she moaned.

  Please let me help, I begged silently.

  I drove her back home, though I almost missed her street, my mind being so preoccupied with fantasies of what might happen once I got her inside her house. “Would you like me to stay for a while?” I asked, hopefully.

  “No thanks,” she answered. “You’ve been really sweet, Dave, but I need to rest. You’d be doing me a bigger favor if you found out what happened to Burton and Taylor.”

  “It’s my top priority,” I said, not adding that I didn’t have any other cases at present to distract me. With cash in the bank and Marcy needing my help, I might actually turn down any come in.

  I showed myself out and went back the car, the plate of which may or may not been written down by Elena’s s
noop sister neighbor, though the fact that Colfax had not arrested me argued that the Gladys Kravitz of Turcott Way had not been able to find a pen. Getting behind the wheel, I realized that, despite what I had told Marcy, I didn’t have a clue as to how to find the trail of the boys. Missing persons, particularly missing children, was not exactly my province, especially when the children in question would delight most of civilization by remaining missing. No, I shouldn’t say things like that. Still, they were only kids…rude, annoying kids…who did not deserve to be terrorized. I needed to think, to try and figure this whole mess out, because I knew whoever had abducted the twins was not going to be so accommodating as to jump out in front of the car.

  That knowledge was why I nearly lost control of my Toyota when the man suddenly stepped out into the street a half-block in front of me, holding out his hands as though ordering me to stop. He was tall, dark haired and bearded, and wearing a long military-style coat, and unless I had suddenly gone nuts, it was the man I had seen through Marcy’s window. He showed no signs of moving, so I had little recourse but to comply, screeching to a halt mere yards in front of him. I got out of the car but stayed behind the opened door, in case I needed to use it as a shield. “Who are you? What do you want?” I shouted.

  “Could ask you the same questions,” the man said. He did not appear crazed or even particularly angry.

  “Okay, I’ll go first. My name is Dave Beauchamp. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really? Like Magnum?”

  “Sort of. Now, who are you? Elena’s boyfriend?”

  “Elena? I don’t know any Elena. I’m Alan Kleinbach.”

  “Okay. What have you to do with Marcy DeBanzi?”

  “I don’t know any Marcy DeBanzi. All I know is there were two boys who came to live around here. Twins.”

  "That’s right,” I said. "And what do you know about them?”

  "Turns out, I don’t know anything about them.”

  "Okay, but who are you?”

  "I’m Nora Frost’s husband.”

  I had not been expecting that one. "You’re saying she married again after her husband died in Afghanistan?”

  "No, I’m saying we were married and divorced before she ever took up with G.I. Joe.”

  "Who was the father of the twins,” I said.

  "Like hell.”

  "Mr. Kleinbach, you’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “Nora had twin boys,” he said. "G.I. Joe was killed in Afghanistan. But the father of Nora’s twins is alive and kicking.”

  “Randall Frost was not their father?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then who is?” I asked.

  “You’re looking at him,” Alan Kleinbach said, sticking a dirty hand out for me to come and shake.

  THIRTEEN

  That was when it hit me: Alan Kleinbach was an older, much more street-hardened version of the mysterious man in the photo that Colfax had shown me, the one found in Nora’s house. Seeing that his hand was empty of any kind of weapon except dirt, I walked up and shook it. Kleinbach had a strong grip and clear, non-wino eyes. But what he was telling me made no sense. How could he claim to be the father of the twins and yet not know anything about them? Maybe he and Nora had divorced when the boys were tiny. “You know, Mr. Kleinbach, the cops are looking for you,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “You were spotted prowling around the house and peeking in the windows. I saw you myself out back.”

  “That’s easy to explain.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a siren whined. “We really shouldn’t be seen talking to each other out here,” I suggested.

  “Why not?”

  “You know that Nora’s sister was assaulted, don’t you?”

  His face darkened. “Nora didn’t have a sister. She was adopted.”

  “So was her sister. Nora tracked her down. That’s who’s living here.”

  “You mean that hot babe who lives in that house is Nora’s sister?”

  “Yes. Her name is Marcy DeBanzi.”

  “Shit! Wish I’d found her instead of Nora.”

  The siren was getting louder. “Look, Mr. Kleinbach, whether it’s easy to explain or difficult, I think you need to tell me why you have been snooping around this house.”

  “I wanted to see Ricky and Bobby?”

  “Who are Ricky and Bobby?”

  “The twins. My sons.”

  “You mean Burton and Taylor, don’t you?”

  “Those are their middle names. They were born Richard Burton Kleinbach and Robert Taylor Kleinbach. To me they’re Ricky and Bobby. Nora probably started calling them by their middle names because I called them Ricky and Bobby, and she couldn’t bring herself to do anything in agreement with me. So where are they?”

  “I’m sorry, but they’ve disappeared.”

  His face darkened even further, Meanwhile, the siren was only a couple blocks away.

  “We need to talk, Mr. Kleinbach, but it might be best if we do it somewhere else. If the police come back here right now and find us here just a block away from Marcy’s house, we might both end up in a holding tank for the night.”

  “Cops,” he said, disgustedly.

  “Do you have a car?”

  “No, a motorcycle. It’s over there.”

  “Do you feel safe leaving it behind for a bit?”

  “Got a chain lock on it.”

  “Okay, get in my car. I’ll bring you back to get the cycle.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Restaurant, coffee shop, somewhere we can talk more freely.”

  “Awesome! I haven’t eaten today. Didn’t eat much yesterday, either. Your treat, right?”

  The siren was very close now.

  “Yes, yes, just get in the car, please.”

  Alan Kleinbach hopped into the shotgun seat and I pulled out. “Cops really got you spooked, huh?” he said. “What did you do?”

  “I’m a serial stumbler,” I told him. “I repeatedly stumble over bodies right before the police show up, and they find that interesting.”

  “Like Jessica Fletcher?”

  I had to smile. “I suppose so. But without a hundred years’ worth of residuals.”

  I would have felt a lot more comfortable getting out of San Pedro before stopping for a bite, but circumstances mandated that we pull into the first place that didn’t look like a cop hangout, which was a Mexican restaurant called Gilhooley’s on Gaffney Street (and why so many Mexican restaurants in L.A. have Irish names is something that perhaps only Anthony Quinn could have answered). Kleinbach ordered a combo plate and a beer called Negra Modelo, and when his meal came he regarded it as though it was the first hot food he had seen in a year. “Shit howdy,” he said. “Don’t get chow like this very often.”

  Since I was not particularly hungry for anything except information, I ordered a taco and a Coke, and then tried to open up the man seated across from me. “How can I be sure that you’re really the father of the boys?” I asked.

  “I knew their real names, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t. You could be making it up and I’d have no way of knowing.”

  In between ravenously-consumed mouthfuls he pulled a tattered wallet from his back pocket and withdrew an equally tattered photograph. It showed a clean shaven, slender, widely-grinning man with two blonde toddlers sitting on his lap in front of a Christmas tree. It took a little bit of imagination to see that the man was the same one who sat across the table from me now. “That was their second Christmas,” Kleinbach said. “Ten years ago.”

  “What happened?” I asked, handing the photo back.

  “Nora wasn’t easy to live with, God knows, but I have to share the blame. I fucked up. Nora wanted only one thing out of life: stardom. Her folks were actors.”

  “I know, but I got the impression she didn’t personally want to follow them into the business.”

  Kleinbach chewed and swallowed, and then took a long swig of beer. “That�
�s almost right,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin. “She didn’t want to do what it took to be an actress, she didn’t want to put in the long years of study and work, she just wanted to be famous. When she decided it was too hard for her, she turned to our sons, figuring she’d get her taste of fame through them.”

  “‘Mama Rose’ syndrome,” I said. “You know, from Gypsy?”

  “I know,” he said. “I was in Gypsy in high school. But Nora made Mama Rose look like a Geisha. But it’s not like she had to force it, because if you live in Los Angeles and you have twins, it’s almost guaranteed that they’re going into showbiz, because they use twins all the time on film sets. You cast them in the same part, and each one works only half of the time. That way you don’t have to work any one kid more than the law allows. For babies, you almost have to use twins, because if one kid gets fussy on the set, you just swap him out for the other one and keep shooting.”

  “Did the boys work much?”

  “A little. Not enough for Nora, of course.”

  I finished off my taco and slurped the last of the soda while Kleinbach attacked his chile relleno, which was the last thing on his combo plate. “I take you grew weary of that situation,” I then said.

  “What I grew weary of was Nora,” he said. “Then I fucked up.”

  “How so?”

  “I started drinking a little too much, staying out, gambling, I had an affair…I guess you could say I wasn’t the ideal family man. But I loved my boys. I always came back to them, and Nora couldn’t tolerate that.”

  “Okay, Mr. Kleinbach—”

  “The name’s Alan. Mr. Kleinbach’s my dad, who’s still respectable enough to be called ‘mister.’”

  “Okay, Alan, and I’m Dave. But I’m afraid you just lost me. You’re saying that Nora couldn’t tolerate you coming back to your family?”

  Finished eating now, except for the few remaining tortilla chips in the bowl between us, he looked at me with an expression of infinite regret. “Do you know what the vast majority of child stars have in common?”