The window didn’t break but cracked, with spiderweb fissures branching out from the spot where the blow had landed. A cheer went up from the crowd urging Greg on. Phones were everywhere, recording and snapping photos. No alarm sounded. I went back to the call I was on, changing my story from animal endangerment to vehicle vandalism in progress.
Greg wiped a hand over his sweaty forehead. Raising the crowbar again, he took another big swing. The crowd cheered. More shatter patterns. The safety glass held but started to cave in. The dog inside was going berserk, circling and barking with what little energy it had left. Greg raised the crowbar again. I could see the underarm sweat stains on his T-shirt spreading like spilt water trickling across a tablecloth. Another spread around the neckline of his shirt. “Keep trying to keep the dog back,” he called to me and the guy helping.
We went back to calling to the animal, but the dog was overexcited, confused, and getting more dehydrated by the second. It took him a little bit to be persuaded to our end of the vehicle. When Greg thought the animal was out of the way, he landed a third brutal blow to the window. This time a large hole was created and Greg was able to use the end of the crowbar to punch out glass to make a bigger hole. Still no alarm. I found it odd that the car was locked but had no alarm set, especially on such an expensive car. On both Greg’s van and my car, the alarm was set when we locked it with the fob, and we never left it unlocked.
“Hold on, little fella,” Greg cooed to the dog, trying to calm it down. He tried to reach through the window, but his low profile wouldn’t give him the length he needed. The man who’d been helping came around and reached through to unlock the door. As soon as the door opened, the dog headed for it. Greg picked up the animal and cradled him in his lap. While the crowd went crazy with excitement, I trotted to our van and returned with a bottle of fresh water and one of Wainwright’s portable water dishes we always kept with us. I filled the dish and held it out to the dog, who was still in Greg’s lap. The little animal drank in a frenzy. Again the crowd cheered. I handed the water bottle to Greg, who knocked back a couple of thirsty gulps.
Greg checked the dog’s tags. “According to these, his name’s Maurice.”
“That’s kind of a wimpy name for a cool little dog like that,” said the big guy.
“I’m Greg Stevens, by the way,” Greg informed him. “Thanks for your help.” The two men shook hands. Greg indicated me. “And this is my wife, Odelia.” I shook the man’s hand. His meaty paw was strong and damp with sweat and his skin calloused. This was a man who did physical work every day and probably outside. He was as brown as a pecan shell, and his round face was lined around his dark eyes. His thick moustache was glossy black.
He hesitated, then said to us, “My name’s Burt. Burt Sandoval.”
Greg turned to me. “Sweetheart, can you jot down the other info on the dog tags or reach into my pouch to get my glasses so I can read it?”
“I have a better idea,” I told him. “Hold out the tags.” Greg did so and I snapped a photo with my phone of both sides of the name tag and the license tag, which hung from a blue collar studded with rhinestones. There was a phone number engraved on the flip side of the one bearing the dog’s name.
“Should we call this number, honey?” I asked Greg. “Maybe the owner doesn’t realize how close Maurice came to biting the big one.”
Before Greg could answer me, a shriek came from the edge of the crowd closest to the store. “That’s my car!”
A woman in black short-shorts and a pink tank top wobbled her way to the front on ridiculously high-heeled sandals. She had long streaked blond hair and large designer sunglasses perched on her nose. Bling was splashed across her huge and obviously fake boobs in rhinestones. She leveled a long manicured nail lacquered in bubble-gum pink at Burt. On her wrist dangled a gaggle of thin gold bracelets. Draped on her other arm was a very expensive handbag. She looked mildly familiar to me.
“You. Did you do this?” Her accusation fell from full lips smeared with hot pink lipstick. Her face was heavily made up. Upon closer examination, I upgraded her age from twentysomething to mid-forties. She was of a breed so common in Orange County—a middle-aged woman trying to convince people she was younger and not pulling it off very well, no matter how much money she spent doing it. The idea that I knew the woman nagged at me like a hangnail.
“No, he didn’t,” Greg said, still clutching the dog. “I did. I saved your dog’s life.” Greg had poured some water from the bottle into his hand and had rubbed it over the dog’s head and paws to cool it down faster. The animal looked exhausted from its ordeal, but better, and made no movement to greet its owner. “It’s in the upper 90s today. What were you thinking, leaving a dog locked in a car?” Greg lectured. “And without any water.”
“And what business is that of yours?” the woman yelled back at him.
Greg snarled at her, “Cruelty to animals is everyone’s business.” A big cheer went up from the crowd, along with boos in the woman’s direction.
Burt Sandoval stepped forward. “We’re with him on this, lady.” Another cheer erupted.
The woman considered Burt several seconds, studying him up and down, then swept him aside like a bad queen dismissing a servant. She moved closer to Greg, realizing he was the brains of the rescue operation. She made no movement to get her dog but instead pointed her lethal fingernail in his face. “I want your name. My husband’s going to sue your sorry crippled ass, that’s for sure.” Another chorus of boos went up from the small crowd.
I started to protest her attitude toward my husband, but Greg shot me a look, reminding me that he could fight his own battles—something I well understood, but my loyalty and love for him made me want to tackle her to the hot pavement.
The woman was underestimating my hubby, something a lot of people do to folks in wheelchairs. I’ve never known Greg to back down from a fight when he knew he was in the right. He edged his wheelchair closer to her. “Bring it, lady,” he challenged. “And while your husband’s at it, you can lawyer up to fight animal cruelty charges.”
“I’m calling the police,” the woman countered. She pulled a cell phone from her bag. The case of the cell phone was as covered in rhinestones as the dog’s collar and her boobies, although the wedding ring I noticed on her left hand did not look like rhinestones. The main diamond was huge and the setting heavy with smaller diamonds surrounding it. If I did attack her, that ring could be used as a serious weapon to fend me off.
“Don’t bother,” I told her. “I called them. They’re on their way.”
“You called the police?” she asked, surprised.
“A crime was in progress,” I told her. “Animal cruelty, like my husband said. In California it’s a crime punishable by a hefty fine and/or jail time.”
The crowd murmured their agreement and several chanted, “Lock her up! Lock her up!”
“It’s a much more serious violation than your broken car window,” I continued.
The woman turned her attention to me and took a step in my direction. “Do you have any idea who I am, you fat bitch? Who my husband is?” she asked in a low, menacing voice. “I’m Marla Kingston. I’m married to Kelton Kingston. Ring a bell?”
Immediately four words filled my skull: Shit on a stick!
three
The crowd went quiet, shocked into a stupor by the mere mention of the name of one of the most powerful and feared businessmen in all of Orange County, possibly in all of Southern California and even beyond. Kelton Kingston was admired for his business acumen and hated for his ruthless treatment of both business adversaries and employees. He gobbled up companies, liquidated them, and tossed people out of work as if they were used tissues. He destroyed lives and the environment as thoughtlessly and as thoroughly as a firestorm.
Then it hit me why Marla Kingston seemed so familiar. Before marrying Kelton Kingston several years ago, sh
e’d been Marla Sinclair, one of the women featured on a reality show showcasing wealthy Orange County divorcées. Her last season on the tasteless wallow in unconscionable high-end spending and low-end values had tracked her courtship and eventual marriage to Kingston, who was a couple of decades her senior.
A buzz went through the crowd as they recognized her and her husband’s name. “OMG,” I heard a woman say, “that’s Marla Sinclair Kingston!”
If I had any sense, I’d write the woman a hefty check for her broken window, grab Greg, and drive off. But I had zero sense and zero tolerance for people like Kelton Kingston and his wife. He was the kind of man who, when he showed up on TV in interviews, prompted Greg and I to shout expletives at the screen; our middle fingers got a workout in the same direction.
It’s really a good thing we don’t have impressionable kids.
Kelton Kingston is also a client of Templin and Tobin, the law firm at which I’m employed as a paralegal, although Kingston only deals with the firm’s main office in Los Angeles, not us peons toiling away at the small Orange County outpost. I glanced down at Greg. He was staring at Marla with even more contempt now that he knew her connection to Kelton Kingston. Greg didn’t know that he was a client of my firm. For confidentiality reasons, I don’t talk about our clients, not even to my husband. I quickly weighed whether this was a conversation I should have with him once we got home.
I put my hands on my bulky hips and studied the woman in front of me, righteous indignation strong-arming my natural instinct to flee. This overdone, overblown woman was that horror show’s wife, or at least his fourth or fifth wife, depending on which tabloid you glanced at while standing in line at the supermarket. I think there was a scandal about whether or not Kingston was legally married to number three.
Like a boxer meeting her opponent in the center of the ring, I took a step in Marla’s direction. Mrs. Kingston-number-whatever was about five foot nine and probably tipped the scales at 115 pounds tops, although I’d bet her driver’s license listed 102. I stand five foot one at best and tip the scales at about 220 pounds—never mind what my driver’s license says about my weight, except that I’ll admit it’s a lie.
“And do you know who my husband is?” I countered. Instead of waiting for an answer, I pointed at Greg. “That man. That wonderful, smart, caring man who saved your poor dog’s life.” A cheer went up from the crowd. “And I’ll take him over a Kelton Kingston any day.” Another cheer.
She sneered at me and squared her shoulders. It really did look like we might come to blows in the parking lot, and from the way the crowd was hovering, they were probably hoping we would. Scorching heat or not, they were willing to stick around for a good show.
“Odelia,” I heard Greg say in the way of a low warning.
“Odelia,” Marla Kingston repeated with a bigger sneer, making my name sound like a joke. She was about to say something more when a short siren blast broke the tension, making most of us jump. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as a patrol car nosed forward.
“Good,” Marla said. “Now we’ll get somewhere.” She pulled on her shirt bottom, making sure the fabric was tight over her boobs, as two Long Beach patrol cops climbed out of their vehicle.
“What’s going on here?” the cop who’d been driving asked. He was African American, tall and lean, and middle aged. The name tag over his right shirt pocket said J. Baker. The other cop was young, white, and a half foot shorter. He was farther away and I couldn’t read his name tag. Both were wearing mirrored sunglasses.
Before the question was fully voiced, a sea of hands and arms gestured toward Marla and us, and the crowd started addressing the police like a hive of angry bees. After about thirty seconds of the loud babble, Officer Baker raised his right hand, palm out. “Enough.” He didn’t raise his voice. The firm authority of it made his point. The crowd didn’t go silent, but the buzz lessened to a low hum. “You,” he said, pointing at me, “tell me what happened here.”
Marla stepped forward. “They broke into my car.”
Baker slowly turned his head in Marla’s direction. He stared at her in silence, and even though no one could see his eyes, the crowd quieted, and so did Marla. Baker turned back to me and gestured for me to answer.
“My husband and I were on our way into the grocery store when we heard a dog whining. Then we saw this little guy,” I explained, gesturing to the dog now asleep in Greg’s lap, his brush with death long forgotten. “He was panting and suffering in the heat, so my husband rescued him.”
“That’s the truth, Officer,” a man in the crowd confirmed, defying Baker’s orders. “Several of us were here when it happened.” Marla shot him a withering look and he melted back into the crowd.
She pointed at Greg. “He broke my car window and tried to steal my dog. He said Maurice was in danger,” she snapped in a high voice as she pointed to the shattered car window, “but I don’t believe it. They were looking to snatch the dog for ransom, considering who my husband is. Everyone knows I’m devoted to Maurice.” She gestured toward the crowd. “They all saw it. They were all probably in on it. Some sort of stunt to get fifteen minutes of fame on YouTube and make a few bucks.” She curled her lip and turned her head slowly, making sure everyone got the benefit of her vile accusation. I saw a few phones lower, but not many. Most continued filming, happy to catch not only a scene, but a low-level celebrity for their amusement. “I’m Marla Kingston, wife of Kelton Kingston.”
At that announcement, Baker lowered his sunglasses a few inches down his long nose and peered over the top of them at her. From where I was standing, he didn’t look impressed by her revelation. He turned his head in my direction. “And you are?”
“Odelia Grey,” I answered, “and this is my husband, Greg Stevens.” I put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Does it really look like we’re running away with her damn dog? We brought it water. We didn’t drive off with it. I’m the one who called 911.”
Now Baker stared at me over the top of his lowered glasses. Then he stared at Greg, and then back at me. “You’re Odelia Grey?”
Uh-oh.
The crowd went as silent as a mass grave and tilted forward, understanding from Baker’s tone that Marla Kingston might not be the only newsmaker in their midst.
“ID, please,” Baker ordered before I could answer. “All of you.” And just to make sure we understood, he pointedly looked at Greg and me, then at Marla Kingston.
“You know who I am,” Marla protested while I pulled my ID out of my purse and Greg produced his from his wallet. I took Greg’s from him and handed them both to Baker while the officer and Marla had a stare-down. Seconds later, Marla Kingston rooted around in her purse and pulled out her wallet. She made a big deal out of it, heaving big bored sighs between each deliberate movement until Baker had all three of our IDs in hand.
After looking over the IDs, Baker turned to his partner and waved him over. Now I could read his name tag—M. Patterson. Baker whispered something in the younger cop’s ear, who in turn stared at me. “Seriously?” he asked. “That’s her?”
I felt my face grow hot under the scrutiny, and it had nothing to do with the stifling heat of the day.
“Check them out,” Baker ordered Patterson, “then take a few statements.” As the crowd heard this, several slowly peeled away, disbursing in several directions, returning to their business, most unwilling to be stuck answering police questions. Had this been a murder, I knew the police would never let them go. But this was hardly a murder, and the handful of gawkers that remained seemed determined to get juicy gossip even if it meant being held up with annoying questions.
While we waited on our IDs being checked, Baker asked Greg to explain how and why our crowbar was put to use. When Marla tried to interrupt she was halted with another steely look from Baker, who had taken off his sunglasses and hooked them in his shirt’s neckline. Greg recited everything accurat
ely, from the moment we parked the van, right up until the moment Marla Kingston had shown up screaming.
“That’s not true,” Marla snapped once Greg was done. “They were trying to steal Maurice.”
“Oh, puleeeze,” I said with exaggerated sarcasm, one of my better talents. “Not only can everyone here confirm Greg’s story, but most got video of it.” I swept my hand in the direction of the now smaller crowd. As soon as I did, phones started disappearing.
“You,” Baker barked in the direction of a young guy wearing bright blue sunglasses. He was in his late teens or early twenties, wearing saggy board shorts covered with a tropical print and a faded green T-shirt. Under his arm was a skateboard. “Let me see your phone.”
“You ain’t taking my phone, man,” the kid shot back. “I know my rights.” He jutted out his chin, from which a tuft of fine light hair sprouted like that on a billy goat. Other than that puff of hair, his skin was smooth as a baby’s and golden from the sun. The hair on his head was sun-bleached to a very pale yellow.
Baker sighed deeply, then said, “I just want to see the video. Did you get it?”
“Yeah, man, I did,” the kid replied, still clutching his phone in a death grip. “The dude in the chair is telling you the truth. He smashed the bitch’s ride to save the mutt.”
I could see that Baker was weighing his options carefully, like any seasoned veteran. He obviously wanted to get to the bottom of things but didn’t want to cause an incident. Police were treading carefully these days with all the negative publicity, some warranted, some not. Baker addressed the crowd. “Anyone get the video who is willing to let me watch it? I won’t take your phone.”
A murmur went up from the crowd, but no one came forward. Instead, the small crowd started to move backwards until Patterson stopped them. “Folks, we just want to see the video, that’s all,” assured the younger cop. “As soon as we do, we can resolve this and all go on our way.”
Too Big to Die Page 2