The Mystery of Jessica Benson

by Laurence, C. K.

  “Now this is odd. He usually has his meshuganah music blasting. Says it keeps his mood aligned with his body or the moon or some such nonsense. So what’s it to me? If it makes him happy, fine. He’s a good tenant, and today that’s a difficult commodity to find. Aw, truth is, I like the kid. He’s got a good heart.”

  “You got a key?” Karen asked.

  “You got a warrant?” Mazie shot back.

  “No, I don’t want to search his place. I just thought maybe you could go in there and make sure everything’s okay. I think something’s off.”

  “All right. I know what you mean. He’d almost have to be dead not to have his music blaring.” She lit yet another cigarette and sucked in a chest full of smoke, which threw her into another coughing spell. When it ended she gasped, “Sometimes I think my cousin might be right.”

  “Well, um, that a pretty nasty cough you have there.”

  “Yeah, really. Honey, I hear that so many times a day I should write a book about it. Let’s go. I’ll get my key and we can make sure everything’s cop esthetic with my boy here.” She looked at her watch and said, “Damn. I’m going to have to call Toy and tell her I’m running late.”

  Mazie told the Karen to wait in the living room, where she tried to make herself comfortable on a Jean Harlow lounger. But the detective’s mind was racing and none of her thoughts were good. Her sixth sense had kicked in and she was anxious to get into that back house to allay her fears.

  “Okay, doll face. Let’s go see what’s going on at Feyzi’s.”

  It took a moment to adjust to the darkness in the guest house. The silence was deafening and it smelled like pot with an overlay of incense. Patchouli, Karen thought. She remembered the scent from her early years. Her mother was a flower child in the 1960s and people were always teasing that she got timewarped and never made the transition to the conservative world of today. Karen couldn’t remember when, if ever, her mother had been without a cause to champion.

  Mazie’s gravelly voice snapped her from her musings. “Feyzi! Hey! You got company.” There was no response.

  “His bedroom’s just upstairs, I’ll check on him.” Then she stopped and looked back at Karen. “You know what? You should come with me. The exercise’ll do you good.”

  “I’m right behind you.” Karen stayed close. Even in the guest house the appointments were exceptional. A sleek wood banister led up a graceful curve of heavily carpeted stairs.

  Mazie walked into one of the bedrooms without announcing herself. There was a short silence and then she bolted back out and grabbed Karen.

  “Oh my God, no!” She burst into a retching cough and Karen thought for a moment the poor woman was going to vomit. Then she got it together and gasped, “Karen! Come! It’s Feyzi!” And then started to cough again.

  Gunpowder. The smell of cordite accosted Karen’s senses. Mazie stood there with her mouth hanging open, her eyes the size of tennis balls. She reached out toward the body. Karen blurted, “Don’t touch anything!”

  The Turk was slumped forward on his bed, blood and brains all over the wall behind him. A gun lay next to his right hand. Karen reached into one of the compartments on her utility belt, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. She picked up the phone on the night table beside the bed and punched in Will’s cell phone number.

  “Will? Karen. I’m at the trainer’s house. I need you over here, fast!”

  “What the fuck? I thought he wasn’t talking to me.”

  “He’s not talking to anyone. He’s dead. I’ll fill you in when you get here. Get the lab boys over here and some uniforms in case there’s a crowd.”

  “Be there in ten.”

  Three hours later Karen watched as Feyzi’s body was loaded into an ambulance. Mazie Rose stood next to her, smoking and spewing. She was a tough lady, and although she was obviously devastated, Karen knew it would not be long before she put this episode behind her and got on with the business of life.

  “I don’t understand why he would kill himself. He had a pretty good life going here. Lot’s of money, plenty of women, and so good looking. I don’t know what’s in kids’ heads anymore? It’s never enough.” She took a deep drag on her umpteenth cigarette of the afternoon and blew the smoke out in a long, steady stream.

  “I’d like some answers myself,” Karen said. “It just doesn’t add up. He seemed so anxious to speak with me, so why would he kill himself before I got to him? And no note. It just doesn’t play right for me.”

  “Well, if you find out anything, I want you to keep me posted, please,” Mazie insisted. “I’m going to have to call his mother and grandmother in Turkey. They’ve stayed here a couple of times. Such nice people. Now they’ve got this tzuris to live with.”

  Karen looked at the heavyset woman and realized what a toll this had taken on her. Her black mascara had smudged from tears and her short hair lay flat against her head. The color in her face still hadn’t returned from when she discovered the body. She’d aged ten years in an afternoon.

  “Is there someone who can come and stay the night with you?” Karen asked. “I really don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’ll have one of my friends come over. I’m capable of handling this myself, though. I’m a pretty tough broad.”

  “I know. You’ve really been a brick today. It must have seemed like we’d never get out of here.” “So many questions. First this guy, then the next, like I’d come up with something between rounds.”

  “Listen. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, anything at all that might shed some light on this, give me a call.”

  “You’re a sweetie. Got a boyfriend?”

  “I’m working on it,” Karen smiled.

  “Well bring him around. I’ll set him straight!”

  “I just bet you would. Sorry about your nail appointment.”

  “Yeah. But I’ve got such stuff to tell the girls next time.” She winked at Karen and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned toward the house. Suddenly she stopped and looked back at Karen. “Come by for coffee sometime,” and then continued back up the pathway to her door.

  Will came trudging up the driveway and shouted, “Coffee klatch over or were you planning to stay the night?”

  “You’re real funny. This case just gets weirder and weirder. We have two dead bodies now and absolutely no clues. Tell me, oh great lead detective, what’s your take on this? What was so bad he would’ve killed himself over it?”

  Her partner shook his head and grimaced. “Hell if I know, Karen. Hell if I know.”

  The two remaining uniforms approached the detectives. One of them was Rojas, the cop from Jessica Benson’s.

  Karen said hello and asked if they needed anything from her or Will.

  Rojas shrugged. “No, everything’s okay. The crowd of look-sees is gone, except for the reporters who’ll never give anyone any peace. Is it alright if we get outta here?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Karen answered. Then, to Will “He’s right about the media hounds. I better go make sure Ms. Rose locks her gate up.”

  “Okay. You want to get a bite to eat? Run this through a little?” Will asked.

  “Nah, I’m beat. Tomorrow’s the Demons game. We still on for that?”

  “Shit yes! We got ourselves front row seats.”

  “Look, Will. I spoke to Kyle Sands. He’s apparently been talking around on his own and he threw out a couple of other leads.”

  “Sands called you? The smarmy little bastard. I intimidated him, too, huh? Maybe he’ll turn up dead next.” Will’s color had risen and Karen could see a small tic beating under his right eye.

  “Calm down. I just spoke with him this morning, for Christ’s sake. Then the burglary at Fraga’s office, then this came up and, well, what do you want from me? This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you about it.”

  “Oh, and since it’s a tip from lover boy we better follow it up, right?”

  “Will, dam
mit! Take a break. I’m exhausted here and I’m just not up for another go around about the same thing, for God’s sake. He told me that Gloria DiAngelo, the team trainer — I’m sure you remember her, Will? The one you couldn’t take your eyes off during questioning? — told him she’d seen Arnold, the security guard, arguing with Jessica the night before she was killed.”

  “How very fucking convenient that must be for the quarterback, hmm?”

  “Will, stop. Just hear me out. He and his pal Lundy went to Arnold about it, and Arnold, in turn, had lots to say about DiAngelo. You’ll appreciate this. His story is that he caught her and Jessica in a lovers tryst.”

  “Ha! had to be a smack to Sand’s ego. Doesn’t say much for him as a lover does it?” Will snickered.

  “Right. Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that the game tomorrow is the perfect time to catch up with both of them. Maybe we can get a break. God knows we need one.”

  Will nodded and started toward his car. He called back to Karen, “I’ll buzz you early and pick you up. We might as well ride together. Game traffic’s a mess.”

  “Sure,” she said. Then to herself, together, and headed back toward the house to remind Mazie to lock the gate.

  Mazie opened the door, before Karen could ring the bell. “Oh, there you are, honey. Good. I was hoping to catch you. Listen. Something’s been eating me since I saw poor Feyzi laying there this afternoon. I got so faklempt from the blood and guts — what a mess —I couldn’t catch my thoughts. But a little while ago, I lifted my paintbrush to work out my kinks and it hit me! I know this is really important.”

  “Go ahead,” Karen prompted.

  “Feyzi was left-handed.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  G ame Day. A lifetime of football and still his gut knotted like a rookie’s with every game. Today it was far more complicated than ever before. Kyle felt as though he was playing for his life. As this season drew to a close, so it seemed did his career. And if he had to go, he wanted to go out on top, not as a has-been who didn’t know when to quit.

  South Florida football fans are a very fickle group. When the team is winning, the stadium is sold out and support is solid. One wrong move, and they’ll boo the players off the field and leave before the fourth quarter. Kyle Sands heard plenty of boos throughout his career, but they were always short-lived, often just until the next play. But today he feared the fans’ anger would be directed at him as a person, not as the quarterback. It was killing him.

  The ringing phone startled him. Most everyone knew what a basket case he was before a game, so people rarely called. He stared at the phone, considering whether or not to answer it. The caller ID read PRIVATE. No clues there. The ringing stopped but whoever it was called back again. Curiosity won him over.

  “Yeah, hello?”

  “Yeah, hello? Nice way to answer the phone. Kyle, it’s Karen.”

  His stomach flopped over and he caught his breath. “Hey. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this

  morning.” He was apprehensive and it came through in his tone. He swallowed hard. “There’s a problem?” “No. Oh, ! I am so sorry, I should clear that up before anything else when I call you. No new problems, relax. I guess this is a bad time, huh?”

  “Pre-game is pretty tough on me. I’m not much of a conversationalist when my guts are controlling my brain—which is pretty often these days.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’m not helping you with that, am I?” “God, Karen. Stop apologizing. You’re the only one who is helping me. Just by being you, you help me.”

  “Wow,” she drawled. “Way cool.”

  “You sound like a teenager.”

  “I don’t know,” she chuckled. “You make me feel like a teenager, I guess.”

  “Wow,” he responded. “Way cool.”

  She laughed out loud, and told him she had just called to let him know that she’d be at the stadium cheering for him.

  “That means a lot to me. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I try to do my part.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung between them for a few seconds—neither quite sure where to go from here. Kyle finally said, “Will I be able to see you later tonight?”

  “I can give you a definite maybe to that. We’ve got some sleuthing to do after the game and I don’t know how long it’ll take. Call me around seven, I’ll know better then.”

  He hung up and was surprised at how relaxed he now felt. It had been too long since a woman had soothed his soul. Kyle liked the feeling.

  He parked outside the stadium and jogged over toward the players’ entrance. Dark sunglasses, a generic baseball cap pulled low on his face, yet people still recognized him and shouted encouragement. Someone yelled to him as he ducked into the entrance, “Hey Sands! Get out there and kick some ass today!” He tossed the fan a backward wave and breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. It was early but he headed for the locker room to change.

  Only a handful of players had arrived before him. They were in various stages of undress and most were sitting or standing by their lockers alone. A couple of them were engrossed in a conversation about another so-called terrorist who had been captured last night. Kyle smiled to himself. He had half-forgotten there was life outside of his problems and football.

  The atmosphere was tense, as it always was before a big game. But there were some days you could feel the crackle of electricity, an intensity that buoyed the players’ level of confidence to a height where they just knew the game was going in the ‘W’ column. This was one of those days.

  Kyle waited in the hallway under the stadium until he heard “and at quarterback, Miami’s own number 13, KYLE SANDS.” He took off at a full gallop through the tunnel and onto the field. The sell-out crowd was on its feet chanting his name. Banners hung from every level of the stadium proclaiming approval, while the fans stood for an unprecedented three minutes roaring in support of the beleaguered quarterback. On the field, Kyle’s teammates high-fived and bumped helmets. As usual, there was the obligatory butt-patting, and some of the players even broke form and hugged him as he ran past.

  “You feel it?” Lundy shouted trying to get on top of the crowd noise.

  “Shit yes, I feel it! This game is ours.”

  “Yeah, baby, and you da man!”

  “You’re damn fuckin’ right I am, James. Let’s move it.”

  The coin toss went for the Demons. Kyle looked at the flags at the top of the stadium and chose to open on defense. This put the Rockets against the wind in the second half. The crowd roared its approval.

  On the first series, right tackle Jake Jackson forced the Rockets’ running back to fumble. The Demons recovered the ball, and on the next play Kyle put it up long, scoring the first six points of the game. The extra point was good, and from there on it was a non-stop trip downhill for the Rockets. The Demons scored every way possible — offensively, defensively, passing, running, two field goals and even a safety.

  Kyle hit five separate receivers for twenty-two of twenty-five passes, four of which were touchdowns. Three hundred twelve yards in the air, one hundred three on the ground. He felt invincible by the time it was over. His teammates surrounded him, whooping and hollering, while the stadium remained full of noisy, grateful fans long after the game ended. Having beaten the top rival in their division, they moved into first place. If they won next week’s game, they would earn the division title and a bye during the first week of the playoffs. If certain other teams lost games, the Demons might even get home field advantage.

  It’s all good , Kyle thought to himself. He was buoyed by the crowd’s thunderous response and overwhelmed by the support. “Hit the Road Jack” blared from the speakers, ricocheting throughout the stadium. It was hard not to smile.

  He wondered whether Karen was still out there or if she and her partner had left earlier. She told him they had some sleuthing to do, and he sorely hoped it would turn up something positive, although that was a long shot as l
ong as that partner of hers was involved.

  But even Kaufman’s nasty attitude couldn’t slap him down today. The reporters were starting to corner him, so he gave his best photo-op grin, and was immediately lost in the jumble of questions from every direction.

  Detectives Brandt and Kaufman watched the game from the Coach’s box. They sat with several of the team VIPs as well as some retired players. Karen was uncomfortable and wished she could be outside with the real fans cheering, rather than feeling intimidated by this group of dead heads. Will, however, looked content sucking down draught beer and shrimp cocktails.

  “After all,” he rationalized to Karen, “this is in the line of duty. Ain’t it the fuckin’ life though?” Then he leaned close to Karen and whispered, “They treat those players like big time movie stars. They make more in one season than we’ll make in our whole life times. How disgusting is that?”

  Karen pulled back and said “Get over it. They get that money to entertain assholes like you, for crying out loud. Most of them are cripples by the end of their careers—if that makes you feel any better!”

  Will snorted. “So what? They’re compensated for it. I’d rather live rich as a cripple than poor with good legs.” Karen frowned and shook her head. “Just don’t talk, Will. Then no one will know how warped you really are.”

  “Aw, what difference does it make anyway? This game sucks. The Rockets never even showed up, none of them Demons’ll be cripples from this romp in the park. Just what I was looking forward to — Kyle Sands playing hero. There’s just a couple of minutes left now. Why don’t we start down and try to beat the crowds, huh? I told that moose Arnold that we’d be looking for him after the game. He said he’d stay put in his office once the players are safely out of the stadium. That guy’s a glorified babysitter.”

  “What about the trainer? Gloria? Did you ever get a hold of her?”

  “Nah, but she oughta be down there for awhile. I’m thinking those players are looking for a massage after a game, and the good Lord knows that little lady can probably give a fine one.” He shot an evil wink at Karen.