Royal Flush

by Stephanie Caffrey

  The woman behind the counter made the call, apologizing profusely to Mike for the interruption, an unsubtle jibe at me for causing the whole mess, and then handed the phone over to me. I uttered a few nonsensical things to Mike and then handed it back to the skeptical clerk. Apparently I had passed the Mike test, because he vouched for me and the clerk busied herself printing me out a new card, as though this part of the job were beneath her dignity. With a deliberate sigh, she handed the card over to me and wished me better luck holding on to this one.

  Mike was waiting outside my door when I got back, a barely detectable smirk of satisfaction glinting in his eyes.

  "It's called schadenfraude," I said.

  "Huh?"

  "You know, when you, like, are taking pleasure in the bad things that happen to someone else."

  "Oh. I'm not taking any pleasure in this. You woke me up," he said.

  I wasn't drunk enough to explain to him how my afternoon had been much worse than his, so I let it drop. "I'm starving. I don't suppose you're ready to eat again, are you?"

  He shrugged. "I'll come along if you need company, but I'm going to take it easy for the rest of the day."

  I considered it. Did I really need company? Did I really want company, especially company who would not be occupied with his own meal and who would therefore be likely to pay extra attention to how much I was eating? I chugged the rest of the blue concoction, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and told Mike no thanks.

  "You been drinking?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

  "I had a bad afternoon," I said cryptically.

  "Okay," he said, "let's meet up in the morning. Gym, six o'clock?"

  I guffawed. "Dream on."

  We parted ways, but I ended up chasing after him.

  "My new key won't work," I said.

  He fixed me with a patient look, the sort of look a kindly kindergarten teacher gives to a child who can't quite zip his own coat, and then followed me back to my room. I demonstrated by putting the key into the slot and then pulling it out, and the door again flashed an annoyed red light at me to indicate failure.

  Mike smiled down at me. "Here," he said. "Let me try."

  He repeated the motion himself, but this time a green light flashed, accompanied by a friendly little chirp.

  "What the…" I muttered, puzzled.

  "You had it upside-down," he said softly. "See you tomorrow."

  I slouched over and stared down at my feet, embarrassed once again. I plopped down on the bed, rolled over to pick up the phone, and dialed room service.

  Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, a margherita pizza arrived, accompanied by a side of curly French fries, which the hotel menu claimed was its special.

  "Did you bring the drinks?" I asked the delivery guy.

  "Ahh, yes," he said. "Right here." He bent over and produced two tall glasses of blue potion from a tray on the bottom of the pushcart. I gave him forty bucks and told him to have a nice evening. He smiled stupidly at me for a second.

  "Ma'am," he said, using my least favorite word. "The total is $44.79."

  I grimaced. Thinking I was giving him a generous tip, I had completely spaced on the two drinks, which turned out to be eleven bucks apiece. I smiled sheepishly and forked over another twenty, sincerely hoping that this would be the last human contact I'd have for the day.

  What happened next needs no elaboration. Suffice it to say that after twenty minutes, I was stuffed to the gills with junk food, and just enough of the blue concoction was coursing through my veins to postpone the inevitable self-loathing for another eight to ten hours.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There are some sights, like the Grand Canyon or the Eiffel Tower, that are undeniably and inherently beautiful without any elaboration or explanation. And there are others that need more context to appreciate their beauty. In this case, a bolt of sunlight was beaming through the hotel window onto a full glass of blue liquid sitting on the table next to my bed. The glass was not inherently beautiful, of course, but to me it represented a whole universe of pain and agony I would not be experiencing today because I had fallen asleep before quaffing it. In the right context, a vision like that can be more wonderful than Niagara Falls.

  It was just after seven o'clock, meaning I had probably been sleeping nearly eleven hours. Apart from being parched and a little foggy, I actually felt pretty good. Feeling good and looking good are two separate things, though, and the escaped mental patient who greeted me in the mirror was a strange and scary preview of what I would probably look like in a decade. After a long, hot shower and loads of cream and makeup, I felt ready to face Mike, and the world at-large. The funeral wasn't until eleven, so I still had plenty of time.

  I assumed he had already hit the gym, and a visit to the gym was something that interested me about as much as a root canal, so I found my way downstairs and ordered a cheesy omelet and large coffee at the hotel restaurant. Mike called my cell just as I was about to take my first bite.

  Mike admitted that he was really hoping to leave the night before, but my "state" (as he put it) made it impossible, or at least he had no appetite for sitting in a car with me for five hours and getting high off of the gin fumes on my breath. Now that we were still here, though, I pressed to go to the funeral. It couldn't hurt anything, and LA's high society would be on full display. Mike reluctantly agreed to meet me in the lobby at 10:15. I sensed he wasn't happy about blowing another day on my non-investigation, but what he didn't know was that I was planning to split Melanie's fee with him.

  I unpacked my most conservative outfit, a very light, gray sweater and black pants, and met Mike in the lobby, where we checked out of our rooms. Given his taste in clothing, Mike had a whole closetful of clothes appropriate for a funeral, and he was sporting a gray shirt with a black tie, a dark gray sport coat, and black slacks to match mine.

  I let Mike drive while I navigated. The church was called St. Edmond's and was nestled into a narrow lot on a tree-lined street in the Hollywood Hills. We had made good time and managed to get there twenty minutes early. But it wasn't early enough, judging by the queue of cars cramming the intersection in front of the church.

  "Screw it," Mike muttered. He took the car into a Y-turn and then swung it around the corner, finding a spot about two blocks from the church.

  "Nice move," I said.

  He smiled. "That line wasn't going anywhere."

  When we arrived at the church, it became clear that the line was for valet parking.

  "That's a nice touch," I said. "I'm sure when I croak, there's going to be valet parking too. Maybe even limo service."

  "And probably a national day of mourning," Mike added. "Flags flying at half-mast, lots of speeches, bank holiday, all that kind of stuff."

  I chuckled aloud, and then caught myself. We had just crossed into the business end of the church, and most people were looking appropriately somber, even though most of the well-dressed crowd was standing around and schmoozing. Since very few people had committed themselves to a seat in a pew, we were able to find spots in about the tenth pew on the left side.

  "Is this anything like your church?" I whispered to Mike.

  "Kind of. Except I don't really go to church much. So to me they all look about the same."

  I cocked my head, surprised. We had never really talked about it, but for some reason I had pegged Mike for a faithful, practicing Mormon. I remained silent, and my gaze eventually drifted over to the coffin that lay in front of the right side of the altar. I wasn't a big fan of dead bodies, so the view from fifty feet away was good enough. My first reaction, which I'm sure was shared by everyone else, was that she looked so young and delicate. The mortician had done a good job of not making her look like what you'd expect a drug overdose victim to look like, which in some way made her an even more tragic figure.

  Eventually people started filing in and finding spots for themselves, and then the family started to trickle in, populating the first two rows on the
right side. At three minutes after eleven, the organ piped to life and the entrance procession began. Over the course of the next fifty minutes, most of the eyes in the church had become dampened at least once, and mine had shed more than a few tears. Even though I didn't know her much at all, it was the idea of dying so young that got the waterworks going.

  The organ announced the final procession, and the family lined up behind a group of pallbearers, all eight of whom shared the same stern-faced expression reflecting their solemn duty. As they passed us, I noticed there was no sign of Kent.

  I elbowed Mike. "His highness is not here," I whispered.

  Mike nodded but remained silent. After everyone in front of us had proceeded out, we joined in the slow, mournful shuffle toward the back of the church. The blinding daylight of high noon did not seem to fit the grim circumstances, but nobody seemed to mind. Gaggles of people were milling around continuing their networking and schmoozing, with the exception of a clump of family members huddled together near the coffin, which was being moved into the back of a navy blue hearse.

  Melanie's famous father was instantly recognizable, and I assumed that the middle-aged platinum blonde with tear-smeared makeup was her mother. Melanie's younger sister stood stone-faced, apparently still in shock. Next to them a man of about twenty-five was standing, hands in pockets, looking at the ground and slouched in sorrow.

  I looked around for someone who wasn't deeply engrossed in conversation, and eventually I tapped an older woman on the shoulder.

  "Did Melanie have a brother, too?" I asked.

  The woman turned to face me squarely. "No, she didn't. Just Mel and her sister Caroline."

  "Oh," I muttered, confused. "Then who's that man standing next to the family?"

  The woman turned and looked. "That's Melanie's husband. Kent, he goes by. Never met him, though. None of us have, actually."

  My eyebrows must have shot up, because the woman fixed me with a confused stare of her own. The man standing next to the family was definitely not the Kent I had followed around Las Vegas.

  "Okay, thank you so much," I said. "And you are?"

  "I am Helen, a cousin. Melanie's mother's cousin, actually."

  I smiled sympathetically. "Sorry for your loss," I said. I was still reeling from the strange news, so I didn't have any more small talk in me. I gave Helen a mini-hug and moved over to where Mike was standing.

  "She said that is Melanie's husband. And that his name is Kent!" I tried to keep my voice down, but it came out louder than I expected.

  "And who's she?" Mike asked.

  "One of the mom's cousins. So she must know what she's talking about."

  We both turned to face the man who called himself Kent. From a hundred feet away, I could tell that he looked a little like Kent, with a well-cropped head of brown hair and a rugged face that looked as if it was more comfortable with a trace of stubble rather than in its present, clean-shaven form.

  "He seems really upset," Mike said. "The body language, the look on his face. I feel bad for the guy, whoever the hell he is."

  "Yeah, that's the question, isn't it? Who is that guy? And who was the guy we tailed around Vegas?"

  "Let's get a little closer," he said. "I wonder if he's got the British accent."

  We stepped down a few steps away from the church and toward the hearse, where the family was still lingering. It looked as if they were making plans to head to the cemetery and trying to decide who should go in which car.

  We tagged along behind another group of mourners, trying to stay unobtrusive. Mike apparently had better hearing than I did.

  "There it is," he whispered.

  "I didn't hear anything."

  "I just heard him tell someone that the grief would take time to process, with a long 'o' in process."

  "Okay," I said. "Pro-cess?"

  "Exactly. That's how they say it across the pond."

  "If you say so," I muttered, backing away from the immediate family. "So what do you think this means?"

  "It means we should talk to Detective Weakland again. I wonder what he'd say about all of this."

  I nodded, fishing around in my pocket for Weakland's card.

  While I was dialing, Mike whipped out his phone and discreetly took a snapshot of the man who was posing as Henry John Kent.

  Detective Weakland answered and agreed to meet us again. He suggested In-N-Out Burger, which I found amusing, but I demurred and asked him to name his second choice. No sense reliving the drama of yesterday. Weakland was at a crime scene but thought he could meet us in about a half hour. Mike and I eased our way out of the crowd and walked back to our car. The service had been shorter than I feared, so it wasn't even noon yet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We beat Detective Weakland to the restaurant and got ourselves seated. The more I studied the menu, the more appealing Detective Weakland's original suggestion of In-N-Out Burger was becoming. We were at a hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant that touted its halal offerings as its specialty. Mike's face looked as puzzled as mine was.

  "Anything look good?" I asked.

  He smiled nervously. "How bad can it be? This one here seems like it would be similar to Indian food." He was pointing at something called alicha wat, which the menu described as chopped beef and ribs with garlic and herb sauce.

  I shrugged. "Doesn't sound too bad."

  We both ordered glasses of water, after which Weakland joined us.

  "What's good here?" I asked.

  "Yes it is," he said, grinning.

  "Huh?" I asked.

  "Wat's good here," he explained, a little too enamored of his inane pun.

  "And who's on first?" Mike asked.

  I kicked him under the table. "Let's not encourage this any further."

  Weakland looked disappointed. "Seriously, I always order a wat. They have a meat one and a lot of vegetarian and vegan ones. It's like a big curry stew you'd get at an Indian place, but a little earthier, with different spices."

  "Fine with me," I said.

  Weakland ordered for all of us, adding an Ethiopian beer called Bati for himself. And then he got right down to business.

  "So, what's this amazing new development you want to run past me?"

  Mike took out his phone and pulled up the photo. "This guy look familiar to you?"

  Weakland moved the phone an arm's length from his face and peered down at it, reminding me of my nearsighted aunts and uncles. "Never seen him before. Who's he?"

  "He was at Melanie's funeral today. As her husband."

  Weakland closed his eyes and rubbed his nose. "I met her husband, as I told you. His name was something short, English, started with a—"

  "Kent," I interjected.

  "Yeah, that's it. Thin guy, light brown hair, kind of a carefree, playboy vibe to him. You're saying he wasn't there?"

  "Exactly," Mike said. "Henry John Kent. We followed him around Las Vegas for awhile, assuming he was Melanie's boyfriend. She never told us they were married."

  "So who the hell is the guy in your picture?" Weakland asked, shaking his head. His beer arrived, which seemed to cheer him up.

  Mike shot me a look.

  "What?" Weakland asked. "A guy can't have a beer at lunch anymore? Here's a little nugget for you that I bet you didn't know. The chief justice of the United States used to drink a beer at lunch every day, and he was in charge of the whole court system. And that was very recently. You know, of course, that the founding fathers were wasted when they drew up the Constitution. I think that means a lowly detective like me can enjoy a beverage now and again, don't you?"

  I nodded vigorously. "Your logic is impeccable."

  "Anyway," Weakland continued, "so your Kent was the same as my Kent. Which leaves us again with the same question. Who the hell is this guy?" He was holding Mike's phone at arm's length, still studying the photo.

  I filled in some of the gaps. "I talked to Melanie's mom's cousin, and she said the family had just recently found o
ut about the wedding, which was a private affair, and none of them had ever met her husband until the funeral."

  Weakland leaned back and rubbed his temples. "So nobody around here will be able to answer that question, either. They never even laid eyes on the guy until now. He could have been some guy who walked in off the street, and they'd just nod their heads and say 'Hi, nice to meet you, sorry for your loss.'"

  Mike nodded. "It's not as if they'd check ID. If the guy says he's the husband, they'd have no reason to doubt him."

  I perked up. "So, Detective Weakland, did you check Kent's ID when you talked to him?"

  He paused for a minute and slurped some beer. "I don't remember specifically, but it would have been part of our standard procedure when taking a witness statement."

  "But he wasn't a witness," Mike noted. "He was just the husband. The guy who called it in. My guess is you don't check the ID of family members of drug overdose victims. There'd be no reason to."

  Weakland grimaced and rubbed at his temples. "It's fifty-fifty, I guess. Maybe we did, maybe we didn't. I'll check when I get back to the office."

  Our food arrived, steaming hot bowls of a multicolored stew that glistened from the oil and fats oozing around in the sauce. It smelled delicious, so I dug in without hesitation.

  "See what I mean?" Weakland asked. "Not bad, huh?"

  I nodded, sucking air into my mouth to cool off the piping hot concoction. Weakland was right: it was delicious and more nourishingly wholesome than a giant cheeseburger could ever be.

  I took another bite, then tried to keep us on track. "So we know even less today than we did yesterday. We don't even know if the guy we thought was Kent is Kent. Or whether the new Kent is the real Kent."

  "Or whether either of them is the real Kent," Mike muttered.

  "Does it really matter?" I asked. "I mean, it's very strange, but does it make it any more likely that Melanie's death was not an accident?"