“Mike, you and I are thirty-six, each with fifteen years clocked at the agency. Ten more years and we can collect our full pensions, so how about we keep our noses clean and get through the next decade without pissing off upper management.”
Mike smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“Now, get outta here and have a good road trip. And while you’re at it, try to meet a nice lady—one you can take on vacations in the future. And you know I was kidding about buying me two bottles of Lagavulin, right?”
“Right. You prefer Bowmore single malt.”
Harley gave two thumbs up.
* * *
Chapter 4
Mike stood at the white-tiled kitchen counter, slicing the skin off a salmon steak he’d picked up after his meeting with Harley. The upbeat Vince Gill song “Give Me One More Chance” played on the smartphone in his shirt pocket. He liked to listen to music when he cooked, especially country music, and take in the ocean breezes fluttering through the kitchen window.
When he rented this two-bedroom bedroom Santa Monica apartment eight years ago, the kitchen had been his least favorite room. Didn’t like the faux-wood cabinets, yellowish geometric-patterned linoleum floor, and especially the rattling of the old double-hung window when winds picked up. But over time, that window became his favorite spot in the place. Nothing cleared his head better than to look out at the distant sparkle of the Pacific Ocean and breathe in the salty ocean air.
As another ocean breeze wafted in, Vince Gill started singing the gut-wrenching, remorseful ballad, “I Still Believe in You.” That title summed up how he felt about Maggie. The lyrics about a man’s regrets for breaking a woman’s heart jabbed at his guilt over Paula. If his hands weren’t slick with salmon skin, he’d turn this song off.
“Maggie, screw ATF for not believing in you.”
He looked over at Maggie, his black Labrador arson dog, curled up on her pink doggie bed in the adjoining TV-dining room. She cocked her head at him, listening, watching, ready to take action at a moment’s notice.
I know it’s tough to lose a partner, Mike. At least she’s alive...she’ll still be around.
A sobering thought, one he took to heart. Over the years he’d consoled families over loved ones’ deaths, and personally grieved over firefighters and agents who died while battling or investigating fires. He almost became a statistic in that last category, too.
Ten years ago, a serial arsonist named Charlie Newton, fearful Mike might find evidence of his identity at an arson scene, triggered Mike’s car to blow up at the time he normally headed to the location. Mike was inside his condo on a conference call when the explosion blew out his front window and slammed him against a wall. Luckily he walked away with a slight concussion and some bruising.
Charlie Newton was right—Mike had discovered his identity along with evidence linking him to seven arsons that resulted in four deaths. Charlie now sat in the Federal Correctional Institution in Victorville on back-to-back life sentences.
A few months after the car bomb, Mike moved to this two-bedroom apartment for its safer location. He beefed up security in his car and home and applied to be an ATF dog handler, which he’d been thinking about doing for a while anyway.
The soft creaking of wheels announced the arrival of his eighty-four-year-old grandfather, Archie Day. A moment later, he pushed the walker into the TV-dining room, pausing to pat Maggie.
They were both six-one, but Archie’s slight stoop made him appear shorter. He parted his short silvery-white hair with authority (It’s all in how you tip the comb), and owned more plaid shirts than anyone on the planet—flannel for winter and cotton for summer—but stuck with two kinds of shoes: Moccasins at home and white leather slip-ons with Velcro straps for dressier occasions.
The wheels softly clattered as he crossed the parquet flooring of TV-dining room. When he reached the kitchen door, he paused. “Sounds like funeral music in here! Are you cooking that fish or laying it to rest?”
Mike half smiled. “I forgot about the sad songs on this album. Please, take the phone from my pocket and turn off the music.”
“Semper Fi.” Archie pushed his walker toward his grandson. “Roommate to the rescue.”
Semper Fi, Always Faithful, was the motto for the US Marine Corps, which Archibald Monte Day proudly served during the Korean War from 1950 to 1953. Semper Fi represented loyalty not only to their comrades, but also to their country, family, friends, even roommates.
Mike’s loyalty to family was unconditional. Until it came to being roommates.
A year ago his grandfather fractured a rib after a fall at his apartment and was bedridden for several weeks, during which time friends and family took turns staying with him. One day Archie confided to Catarina that he didn’t want to impose on people like this again, and maybe it was time he stopped living alone. “She started insisting I move into her and Kenneth’s Pacific Palisades home,” he later told Mike. “I said no, and she wanted to know why, so I said I wanted to move into your bachelor pad in Santa Monica because it was close to my book reading group.”
Which Mike learned about one Saturday when his mother dropped by with his favorite pasta sauce, “Sunday gravy,” a thick, garlic-y tomato sauce laden with Italian sausage and meatballs the size of baseballs. As a boy, Mike looked forward all week to Sunday gravy.
“Nonno is moving out of his apartment and wants to live with you,” she announced, carrying the pot to his kitchen. “The movers are available next Friday.”
Mike had always gotten along with Nonno, Italian for Grandfather, but roommates? Mike had his fill of smoke by the time he got home, and Archie’s after-dinner ritual was a few puffs of his pipe. The apartment laundry room was down two flights of stairs. Plus Mike hadn’t lived with anyone since college and had no desire to change that.
All of which was reported to Archie via the Italian-Mama Hotline, instigating a one-on-one over beers that kicked off with his grandfather’s apology. “I’m sorry, Grandson. I felt steamrolled into a life I didn’t want, remembered your empty room and made up the book group story. Was afraid if I moved in with Kenneth and Catarina, it’d only be a matter of time before I became one of those cranky old farts who forget to pull up their zippers and live for the early bird special at Arnie’s Buffet.”
His grandfather came from the school of Never Complain, Never Show Pain: Always look forward, problem solve and endure, even if it kills you. So of course he’d make a joke about being afraid. Had to be scary as hell to lose control of your independence, although lots of people would jump at the chance to live in the Palisades, a community of stately homes, manicured lawns and people who exuded a quiet sophistication. That attitude had always grated on Mike, as if exhibitions of gleefulness were a class three (doesn’t get lower) five misdemeanor.
Of course, his Italian mother didn’t fit that mold, and she enjoyed her Palisades home where Archie would have a choice of several bedrooms—his, Christine’s, or Beatrice’s. His mom had redecorated his sisters’ rooms, but his looked pretty much the same, minus the teenage clutter. His mom said seeing his old room made her happy. Mike felt just the opposite.
He didn’t want Archie moving into that glee-less neighborhood and possibly his old bedroom. His granddad needed a place to build a new life, and Mike had an empty room that needed filling.
Working out the rest was easy. Archie said he’d step outside to smoke his evening pipe, a senior service would pick up his laundry, and he hadn’t lived with anyone since Reagan was President so get over it.
“Now that I turned off that damn funeral music,” Archie said, setting aside Mike’s phone. “Shall I make my famous tartar sauce?”
“Absolutely. There’s a new jar of relish in the fridge.”
Archie swiveled his walker and opened the refrigerator door. “Beatrice called. Said you’re upset with her over a call she made to your old phone company.”
“Does she keep anything to herself?” Mike gave his head a disbeliev
ing shake. “Yes, I was upset with her.”
Archie retrieved the jar of mayonnaise and relish, set them in is walker basket and swiveled back to the counter. “I need to steal some of your lemon juice.” He accepted Mike’s cut half lemon. “She also said Maggie was fired.”
Mike felt a jab of sadness. “That’s right. She’ll miss the work, and God knows I’ll miss her, but maybe it’s time to take her off the front lines.”
“Happens to the best. If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.”
Mike sliced the skin off a second piece of salmon and told him about his afternoon meeting with Harley, the Timepiece Arsonist news, and how Beatrice’s meddling resulted in his boss pulling the subpoena request for Mike’s old phone records. While at the fish store he called Beatrice, repeated everything Harley said, and told her to mind her own business.
Archie made a thoughtful noise. “That girl’s fervor could drive a saint to drink. On the other hand, sometimes Beatrice moves mountains. Like when she saved the store.”
Twelve years ago at a family dinner, a glum Archie announced Day’s Groceries would soon be closing. Nobody shops anymore at corner grocery stores, they prefer those big stores with lots of selections and cheaper prices. I can understand that. What hurts is I wanted to pass on the business to the next generation, as my father and grandfather did...instead I’ll be closing the doors and, with my son’s help, find a buyer for the place.
Catarina tearily reminisced about her father and uncle’s deli, Viotto Brothers, once located down the block from Day’s Groceries, where at fifteen she met “her Kenny.” Then Kenneth Day, Archie’s only child, paid tribute to his grandfather, Monte Elias Day, who built the store with his own hands, brick by brick, after the Great Depression.
Irritated Mike then, just as it did today, that his dad gave such speeches as if he cared so deeply about the family. Caring men didn’t leave their families for a twenty-something waitress, as Mike’s had when he was fifteen.
As the family mourned the passing of Day’s Groceries, Beatrice, then twenty and majoring in business at college, proclaimed she knew how to fix this. Citing her business studies research, she believed a gourmet sandwich shop at that location would be a moneymaker. And she was right. Today Beatrice and her partner Alice ran Day’s Gourmet Sandwiches, a trendy eatery with a successful retail business selling a line of Day’s Gourmet Condiments and jars of “Catarina’s Marinara.”
“In all seriousness, I’m impressed with Beatrice’s business savvy. My sister can indeed move mountains.” The salmon sizzled as Mike set it in the hot frying pan. “Wish I could move just one.”
“Paula,” his grandfather said gently.
Mike nodded. “No one deserves to be murdered and have it written off as accidental.” He squeezed lemon on the salmon, the drops of juice sputtering on the heated pan as the citrusy scent filled the air.
As the fish cooked, Mike chopped lettuce and tomatoes for a salad while his grandfather finished making the tartar sauce. From the other room, Maggie snored softly, sacked out on her doggie bed.
“Beer?” Archie asked.
“Sounds good.”
He pivoted his walker to the fridge, retrieved a couple of brews and handed one to Mike. Two bottle caps popped in succession.
Archie took a swig, swallowed. “My birthday’s in a few weeks.”
“Mom said she’s planning a family dinner.”
“God bless her, yes she is. Think she’ll be too upset if I’m not there?”
Mike took a long pull on his beer, wondering where this conversation was headed.
“You know,” Archie continued, “I’ve always wanted to celebrate a birthday in Sin City. Let’s face it…” He got a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. “When a man turns eighty-five, that birthday just might be his last.”
“You’re gonna outlive all of us. Anyway, I never said I’m going to Vegas.”
“Didn’t have to.”
Mike drizzled olive oil on the tomatoes. Despite the risks, he knew he was going to Vegas before he even left Harley’s office. As long as he played it smart, ATF would never know. His plans didn’t include taking his grandfather along, though.
“This isn’t a fun vacation,” Mike said. “It’s a working vacation.”
“All the more reason to take me along. I’m your cover. People might question why a young, good looking guy like you is alone in Vegas. But a guy taking his elderly grandfather to Vegas for his birthday? Twenty-four carat alibi.”
Archie played the elderly card when it worked in his favor, otherwise he hated the label because it carried the stigma of being “a feeble-minded old coot.” Mike respected that, but age was an issue nevertheless, although he wouldn’t say so directly.
“I’ll be gone a lot,” he said. “Don’t like leaving you alone.”
Archie gave him an is-that-so? look. “Need I remind you I’m alone here every day while you’re at work? And maybe I’m not as physically tough as I once was, but I’m mentally tough. That goes a long way in life.”
Archie was awarded the Purple Heart in the Korean War for a daring one-man raid to pinpoint enemy positions, hurling grenades while exposing himself to enemy fire. Mike knew a lot of gutsy ATF agents, but none came close to his grandfather’s heroic act.
“When you’re working,” Archie continued, “I’ll keep Maggie company and take her outside when she needs to do her business.”
Mike couldn’t take Maggie everywhere, such as into courthouses when he needed to look up records, so it would be good to have Archie looking after her. Taking his granddad to Vegas was an excellent cover, too. But he still wasn’t sold on the idea.
“We’ve already made arrangements for Tony to stay with you,” Mike said. Tony was the nineteen-year-old grandson of one of Archie’s friends.
“Let’s let him stay here anyway. He can pick up the mail and deal with Catarina if she drops by.”
“Can’t tell him we’re going to Vegas.”
“Course not. We’re driving up the coast.”
“And no parties.”
“Parties? Mike, he’s a computer nerd with acne. If you dropped him off at the Playboy Mansion, he’d think he was there to fix a router.” He paused. “What you’re really worried about is failing...and your grandfather won’t let that happen.”
Mike almost laughed, but the look on the old man’s face, fierce with love and courage, tore him up more than a dozen Vince Gill songs. Not trusting himself to speak, he gave a small salute of thanks.
Archie clicked his bottle against Mike’s. “Let’s go move that mountain, kid.”
* * *
Joanne reached into the packing box and lifted a bubble-wrapped package. She peeled and popped off the top part of the bubble-wrap, revealing a bronze female head, her eyes blindfolded. Lady Justice.
Stung by bittersweet memories, she set the Lady on a box and looked over her new office, filled with boxes and furniture, and out the far window at the palm trees and traffic along Graces Avenue.
The last day of November, but it looked like spring with sunny skies and temperatures in the low seventies. Which was one reason Gloria called in sick to work today, the other being her “undying devotion to my bestie.” She wore navy shorts and a pink tank top as she planned to take a jog later.
Joanne, whose plans included never leaving this room, wore dirty sneakers, faded jeans, and a baggy nightshirt that read You Snooze, You Lose. Her other tops were all dress blouses as her casual clothes were still at Roger’s.
She looked back at the bronze figure, feeling more wistful than sad as she remembered the night he gave her Lady Justice, the personification of the ancient goddess of justice. Two years ago the public defenders threw a party for Joanne to celebrate her winning a first-degree murder case that nobody thought was winnable. Roger gave a slightly drunken speech about “his brilliant Amanda” and a future “Montgomery and Montgomery,” and handed her the Lady Justice, which turned into a kiss while everyone clapped
and whistled. A testimony to their love, partnership and future as Montgomery and Montgomery.
After that Lady Justice had a permanent spot on her desk.
Who now lay half-wrapped in cheap, half-popped plastic on a battered cardboard box with Fragile stenciled on two sides and Bathroom scrawled in black marker on its top.
Not on my ranch, sister.
Joanne gingerly picked her up and respectfully peeled off the bubble-wrap, until the foot-high, solid bronze goddess of justice emerged, the scales of justice in one hand, a sword in the other.
Gloria stopped wiping down the bookshelf and turned around, a rag in her hand. “I’ll polish the desk next.” She ran her hand over the deep-red sheen of the cherry wood. “Cool of Kimmie to loan you this beauty and its matching swivel chair.”
“There wasn’t room for them in her new home or the agency, so I lucked out.” Joanne held up the Lady, imagining it sitting on the desk. The bronze glinted dark pink and gold in sunlight from the far window.
“Ah, Jo.” Gloria shook her head sadly. “You don’t need memories of Jamoke in your new office.”
A spark of anger flared past her brain and shot straight out of her mouth. “Is that all she is? Memories of Jamoke?”
Gloria raised her eyebrows in surprise and pursed her red-slicked lips in a pronounced “no.” Then held the dramatic look to ensure Joanne got the are-you-really-gonna-dump-that-displaced-Jamoke-shit on me?
“Sorry. You didn’t deserve that. That was my inner stupid talking.”
Her friend held up her palms in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. “It’s okay. You’re going through a lot right now.”
She looked at Lady Justice. “You’re right, she brings back some memories of Jamoke...but other times she reminds me of one of the best wins I’ve ever had as a lawyer. When I think of that, I start to believe in my ability again.”
Mistletoe and Murder in Las Vegas Page 5