by Nick Keller
“Glyco …” Mark said.
“Proteins,” Dilfer said. “They’re what ultimately create immune reactions within the blood. Very healthy, but all things in moderation, right? Hers were off the chart at her time of death, not even legible.”
“What’s it mean?”
“It’s complicated. The simple version: this is her blood sugar count.”
“Blood sugar?”
“That’s right. So, I checked for sugar in the urine and other fluids. It was present in abnormally high quantities. This girl probably had sugar in her ocular juices. Detectives, I’ve never seen this before.” She paused, let it sink in.
“Why sugar?”
“That’s your job,” she said with a grin.
Olday said, “Nevertheless, this woman didn’t have blood in her veins. It was more like …”
“Syrup,” Dilfer completed his sentence.
Mark balked at this information. “What does that mean?”
Nia said, “It’s sugar shock.”
“That’s right,” Dilfer said.
“Can you die of that?” Mark asked.
Dilfer said, “It’s uncommon in healthy people, which she seemed to be. But let’s face it, in the right quantities, or the wrong, anything’s deadly. Even, too much water in the blood stream can thin it out until the heart stops. In fact one time, there was a young kid came in, eighteen years old, went through a hazing ritual in which he was force-fed water by the gallon—and bam. Stopped his heart. When he arrived, I had to …”
“Doctor,” Mark said, interrupting her. “Could this be what damaged her heart?”
“No. If anything this would have caused renal failure or pancreatic hemorrhaging first.”
“What was the source of the sugar, have you been able to tell?”
“My best guess—medical glucose.”
Mark said, “Jesus.”
“I thought glucose was the good sugar,” Nia said.
Dilfer said, “Glucose isn’t as good as good old blood. When the levels are this high, even glucose is toxic.”
“Where’d they get medical glucose?””
Dilfer looked at Olday who said, “Amazon. Medical carriers. Anywhere but the local drugstore.”
“So, is this what killed her?”
Olday said, “It would have killed her, for sure. Just like heart failure, strangulation, overdose. The question is, what killed her last? That’s the cause of death.”
Mark brushed through the exit door and out into the parking lot with Nia quick on his heels. He thumbed the car fob unlocking both doors, but he stopped at the driver door looking at her over the car. “What’re your thoughts?”
She crooked her lips, squinted. “Restrained. Resuscitated. Can you imagine that?”
“No.”
“Sadistic.”
“True that. It doesn’t particularly reveal a motive.”
Nia made a curious expression. “It’s strange though, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“She obviously had money. She was living pretty high, or so it seemed.”
Mark added, “Yeah—young, hot. Probably had a high-dollar crowd.”
“I’d throw it down, she was an escort,” Nia said.
“Mmm—no history,” he said doubtful, then coming to a thought, “but I’d bet you ten to one she was a career socialite.”
“Probably knew a lot of L.A. one percenters,” Nia said.
“And I’m sure they were all friends,” Mark said, the innuendo clear in his tone.
“So, what would put a socialite with a lot of money on an autopsy table with so many COD’s?”
Mark stroked his chin, thinking. “Maybe we shouldn’t assume the money was her money.”
“You thinking it was someone else’s, like an agent?”
“An agent—not in a million. Probably more like a sponsor. An interested party.”
“She was being bankrolled,” Nia said, putting it together.
Mark snapped his fingers, said, “I bet she had a sugar daddy.”
Nia pointed at him, her eyes brightening. “We follow the money.”
“Exactly.”
10
On The Trail
The L.A.P.D. had already cordoned off Angela Newman’s apartment—The Luxor at Wilshire. Mark pulled up next to a pair of squad cars on the street and got out looking up, removing his sunglasses. The building was eight stories of unilateral architecture and simplistic, contemporary design. Balconies looked out over the boulevard. It was the kind of place that listed in magazines as Call for pricing. He whistled, said, “Nice place.”
The passenger door shut as Nia got out and said, “Pretentious.”
It made him chuckle. “What do you think, about four grand a month?”
“You’re the Angelino,” she said.
“Not like Bump Town, eh?”
“No, we’re not in Bump Town anymore, Toto.”
Mark laughed, they headed up.
Upstairs, they flashed their badges to an uninterested looking Blue and stepped inside the victim’s apartment, each looking around. The place was all fifteen-foot ceilings, top-shelf accoutrements, high-dollar furniture. An officer came in from the balcony and met them.
“Detectives,” he said, “I’m Rooney.”
“Neiman. Helms. What’s the story?” Mark said.
“Been here an hour. Had some curious neighbors. Everything’s secured up.”
“Place is clean,” Nia said, checking out the living room.
“Apartment has a cleaning service.” Rooney looked at them with apologetic eyes and said, “They’ve already been; here before we were.”
“Goddammit,” Mark said. “There goes our evidence.”
A guy wearing a three-piece hurried in through the front door looking like a man who’d had his mother’s funeral rain-delayed halfway through the prayer session. “Oh thank God, Detectives!” he said.
They spun around, hands on side arms. “Who’re you?”
“Donald Talbot. I’m the apartment manager. Oh, Jesus, I can’t have the police here, standing in the hallway like this. We have guests to the building, uh, visitors, you know, potential renters.”
“Calm down,” Mark said, putting a hand toward him. He shifted his gaze to Rooney and said, “Has he been informed?”
“Yes, sir. He’s been very insistent.”
“Okay. Look, Mr. Talbot, one of your residents was murdered. We’re here to investigate the victim’s homestead.”
The man hurriedly said, “Yeah, okay, fine, uh-huh—but your presence can be misconstrued. The Luxor at Wilshire is the standard in high-end luxury living for Los Angeles residents. We take the utmost pride in maintaining a lifestyle for the most discerning …”
Mark shushed him with a hand wave again and said, “I don’t care if you are the Taj-ma-fucking-hal, Mr. Talbot, so please stop spitting your mission statement at me.”
Talbot gave him an insulting smile, faking patience. “Detective …”
“Neiman.”
“Yes, Neiman, I simply cannot have your officer standing in the hall. And the yellow, uh …”
“Crime scene tape,” Mark said.
“Yes, crime scene tape—it must be removed, sir.”
Mark gave him an acute look, on the verge of anger, and said, “I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”
Mr. Talbot went stiff as a board. “Me?”
“That’s right. Step outside and wait for me. The officer will attend.”
“But sir!”
Neiman motioned to Rooney and said, “Okay, cuff this guy, get him outside.”
“My pleasure, Detective,” Rooney said, and spun Talbot around shoving him out into the hallway.
Nia’s voice came from the far end of the living room, over by the balcony. “Detective Neiman.” Mark turned around. She stood by the sliding rear door pointing at a glass corner table with a phone. The v-mail light blinked. “Landline,” she said.
Mark
gave a disbelieving grunt. “You’re kidding. Give it a try.”
She pushed the button. “You have one message.” Click.
“Yo, yo! What’s up, my bitch? This is Corey T., baby, but you already knew all that. So you gonna be there Saturday? It’s going to be fly as shit. But yo, leave Spanky at home, babe. You don’t need that chump. I’m yo real man & shit.” There was a pause as if this Corey T. was placing his next words in his head, coming up with something classy, smooth. Then he said, “Bitch, you so fly, you be making me spank my own shit. Damn! I want you humming on my jock, know what I’m saying? Yeah—you know. Aiight, holla!” Click. End of message.
Nia gave Mark a sour look and said, “What the hell was that?”
Mark said matter-of-factly, but with a seasoning of trepidation, “Our next stop.”
Nia brought up a Corey T. on the onboard computer while Mark drove. “It’s an alias,” she said.
“Surprise, surprise.”
“His name is Scott Goldman. Twenty-six. Local boy. Lives in Santa Monica.”
“Goldman.” Mark flinched. “A white boy?”
“He looks white to me. Well, kind of.” She spun the monitor on its arm to face him. Mark glanced at it. Scott Goldman had a thug life grin on his face, more snarl than smile, lips pulled open, teeth exposed, all covered in a bejeweled mouth grille. Underneath it all, he was perfect Jewish academy white boy. Mark shook his head pathetically. Nia spun the monitor back. “Has a rap sheet. Loitering, public intox, criminal mischief. Nothing big time. Looks like he’s a musician.”
“Let me guess, he’s a rapper.”
She gave him a look. “And I thought they were all producers.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Nia grunted with humor. “Here’s one of his songs. Get this: Got to ride strong, keep my crew holding on, with them sucka mutha fuckas always sharking my ride, them thick trigga niggas fear my gap tooth grin and the gat on my side.” She laughed sardonically. “Want more?”
“Heh—no thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Says he was signed by Motor City Sounds.”
“Detroit?” he said shocked.
“No, they’re local, based out of Santa Monica.”
Mark chuckled in a that figures way. “Wannabes.”
“Otherwise unemployed.”
“This ought to be fun.” He banked the Camaro up onto the on-ramp and headed toward Santa Monica.
The Goldman residence was a two-story stucco job with a low-slung, clay-tile roof over a side garage. A red Ferrari sat in the drive next to a blinged-out Caddy SUV and a black Mercedes on fat rims and tiny tires. Somebody was in debt to the max. The whole scene stunk like thirty-thousand dollar millionaires to Mark. He and Nia exchanged a look as they pulled up to the street and got out, moving to the big, ornate door. Mark knocked girding himself for a confrontation. A black dude opened the door with what looked like five pounds of gold chain and a nasty reputation.
“What,” he said.
Mark looked at Nia, said, “He ain’t white.”
“And he ain’t Jewish,” Nia said, eyeing the guy at the door.
Mark flashed his badge. “Goldman.”
“You mean Cory T.,” the guy said. “He out back,” and stood there in the door.
“Show me,” Mark said. The guy flapped his lips, turned, and led them through a tiled living room and out into a covered back patio. A couple dudes were lounging by the pool like a pack of dogs in the shade.
One of them, a white guy dressed head to toe in a red, velour jogging suit with white racing stripes at the shoulders looked over. “Yo, DubDub, who’s that?”
The black dude, apparently DubDub, carelessly said, “I don’t know. Cops or something,” and moved off leaving Mark and Nia standing under a gazebo style covering.
Mark said, “You Scott Goldman?”
Jogging Suit Guy got up from his Barco lounger showing too much chest under an unzipped jacket. The hair on his head was tall up top, short at bottom. Gold chains dangled from his neck. Very Vanilla Ice. “Yo, Scott who?” he said.
“Yeah, Scott you,” Mark responded.
One of the other guys said as if offended, “This is Cory T., dog.” It seemed the whole world was supposed to know who Cory T. was. Mark didn’t. Neither did Nia.
“Okay—Cory T. I’m Neiman, this is Helms. We have some questions.”
Cory T. strutted over to them in exaggerated strides, all loose in the shoulders, dragging his feet like a street side homey. “Man, I didn’t do nothing.”
“Uh-huh,” Nia said, looking on ridiculously, “so how’d you get all this cha-ching?”
“That’s what I do, baby. I hustle.”
She looked at Mark and said, “Oh, he hustle.”
Mark said, “Is that like an Eminem thing?”
The guys around the pool who were trying not to look interested all chuckled. Cory T. flicked his hand at him and said, “Eminem—that dude’s dead ain’t he?”
“Dead?” Mark said, pivoting toward their objective. “Don’t think so, but speaking of which, how did you know Angela Newman?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who?”
“It means, like, I don’t know what person you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do. You left a message on her machine a few hours ago.”
Cory T. gave him a smirky look, said, “Man, I leave messages for bitches all the time.”
“Okay,” Nia said, thumbing through her smart phone. She showed it to him. “Ring a bell?” There was a video playing on it—a girl in a bikini moving in slow motion, evocative digitized music playing along, low angles, ass cheeks highlighted, a pair of thunder tits squished into a bikini top. “Hell of a Twitter account,” Nia said. “I mean, just look at all that booty.”
Cory T. made a familiar grin. He said, “You mean A-New?”
“A-New?” Mark asked. “What is it with you people and names?”
Cory T. blinked in shock. “What you mean dead?” Now he sounded more inconvenienced than shocked.
Mark said, “It means, like, deceased, you know, departed. She gone.”
Drawn by the conversation, the other dudes started perking up, listening. One by one, they got to their feet, started moving toward them—Cory T.’s entourage emerging in flanking position.
“She’s dead?” Cory T. said. “How’d she die?”
“You tell us,” Nia said, stuffing her phone back into a pocket.
“I don’t know,” Cory T. rebuked. “I ain’t seen her in a minute.”
“What’s a minute?”
“Couple weeks.”
Nia looked at Mark, said, “I thought a minute was a minute.”
Mark played along. “I thought a week was a week.”
“Look man, I don’t know nothing about no dead girl,” Cory T. shouted.
“But you know something about A-New,” Mark said.
“Yeah, so.”
“How’d you know her?”
“Yo, she was a big fan of mine.”
“You’re kidding. So, what was your relationship?”
“I saw her at parties. They were up in the Hills, you know. Pad parties and shit.”
“You were talking?”
“Talking?” Cory T. scoffed with understatement and chortled with his crew. “Yeah, we were talking.”
Nia made a woman’s knowing grin. “Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cory T. asked, insulted.
“Were you two dating?” Mark asked.
“Please—I don’t date.”
“Just talk, huh?”
Cory T. shared an aggravated look with his boys and admitted, “Look, I was trying to get with her. Bitch was fly, man. What—you blame me?”
“How long you been trying?” Mark asked.
“What’s that matter?”
Mark and Nia glanced at each other, both grinning. He said, “You think she was refusing the booty?”
“Oh—she was de
finitely refusing the booty,” Nia said.
“Man, I can get booty any time,” Cory T. said, almost desperately.
“Yeah,” Nia said, “I hear they’re all up and down Lankershim Boulevard.”
Now Cory T. showed real anger. “I don’t need no skanks, ho.”
One of the other dudes yelled, “Yo, this is Corey T., bitch.”
Mark yelled back in equal measure, “We don’t care if it was Corey Haim back from God and Jesus! She was giving up the booty to someone, apparently not you. So, who was it?”
Cory T. didn’t answer, just gave him a defeated, pissed off look.
Nia said, “You think it was Spanky?”
Mark said, “It was probably Spanky.”
Nia said, “Yeah—bet it was Spanky.”
Cory T. said, “Who the fuck is Spanky?”
Mark said, “The chump. You know who we’re talking about. Who is he?”
“Man, I don’t know no chump.”
Mark’s eyes went to Nia with a doubtful look. “What do you think?”
She shrugged. “I say we book his ass in for questioning. Probably sing like a canary. It’ll be his number one hit.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mark said, and grabbed Cory T. by the shoulder. “Let’s go, dog.”
The entourage started to encroach but Nia spun on them with her hand on her pistol, and threatened, “Which one of you wants to be a cowboy?” They each froze.
Cory T. shouted, “He was some white boy up in the Hills or something, alright! He had her all G’ed out, man, putting her up and shit.”
“Hey asshole,” Nia barked over her shoulder, her hand still on her gun, “what was his name?”
“Bitch can’t talk to me like that, this is my house.”
Mark manhandled him, jerking him around by the shoulder. “Bitch can talk to you like that. Bitch will talk to you like that.”