Murder With Sarcastic Intent

by Dani Amore

  MURDER WITH SARCASTIC INTENT

  (The Second Mary Cooper Mystery)

  by

  Dani Amore

  MURDER WITH SARCASTIC INTENT is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  Copyright ©2012 by Dani Amore

  All rights reserved.

  PRAISE FOR DEATH BY SARCASM

  WINNER OF THE 2011 INDEPENDENT BOOK AWARD FOR CRIME FICTION

  “Mary Cooper is tougher than Stephanie Plum, smarter, and would reduce her to tears in under 30 seconds with her sharp tongue.”

  —St. Augustine Record

  “A welcome shot of estrogen into the private eye genre.”

  —Bluffton Today

  “For those who like a mystery with twists and turns, Death By Sarcasm is a breath of fresh air.”

  —author Jerry Gentry

  “Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot.”

  —Jacksonville News

  “Death By Sarcasm cuts like a knife.”

  —Savannah Morning News

  MURDER WITH SARCASTIC INTENT

  (The Second Mary Cooper Mystery)

  by

  Dani Amore

  “What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time, which may well make sarcasm the condition of truth.”

  ~~ Roland Barthes ~~

  Prologue

  She awoke in darkness.

  And pain.

  Her head felt like it had been split open. Her neck throbbed, her jaws ached. The blindfold pressed into her eyes. She gagged on the cloth that was jammed into her mouth. With her hands tied behind her back, she sat on a cold floor leaning against a wall. Her butt was numb, and her legs ached with cramps.

  She closed her eyes. How long had it been? She remembered her bed, a vague dream about dancing with a movie star, a man in black crashing into her room, an incredible weight on her chest, and a horrible, chemical smell burning her nose.

  Her bladder throbbed.

  She needed to go to the bathroom.

  The tears came—they felt hot on her face. She had been crying off and on for hours. Each time her blindfold dried, she cried again, turning it soggy.

  Her nose dripped and pooled on her upper lip in a depression caused by the binding of the gag.

  The same thought kept popping into her head, try as she might to stop herself from asking it over and over again.

  What were they going to do to her?

  The unknown answer caused her heart to hammer in her chest. A beating? Rape? Murder?

  She leaned back and pushed against the wall, struggled to use her legs for leverage to stand up. She started to slide to her left, caught herself, and slowly pushed upwards. It took all of her effort, the muscles in her thighs burned.

  But she made it all the way up.

  She stood, feeling dizzy and shaky.

  And then from what seemed less than five feet away, she heard a sound that made her freeze.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  One

  Mary Cooper spread her hand across the manila envelope on the desk. She eyed the woman sitting opposite her.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I have to tell you your husband is sleeping with his surfing instructor,” Mary said.

  Mrs. Randolph Jenkins III raised her head, as if she wanted the next punch to land right on her chin. She was a regal woman, with an elegant face and small lips.

  “I am not surprised,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Betrayed, yes. Surprised, no.”

  Mary said, “I have photographic evidence if you are interested.” Indeed, the photos were some of Mary’s finest work. She’d spent hours climbing the bluff behind the surf instructor’s home to get into range for the zoom lens.

  The woman stared at a distant spot somewhere outside the window, into the haze of a Los Angeles morning.

  “Yes, I believe I would like to see the evidence,” she said, her voice dry and crisp, like the twenty one-hundred-dollar bills she’d paid Mary a week ago.

  The sigh that nearly escaped Mary’s lips was stifled before it could make any noise. They always wanted to see the pictures, she thought. Always, always, always. Salt in the wound.

  Mary slid a finger beneath the envelope’s clasp, popped it open, and pulled out the stack of eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossies.

  She turned the photos toward the woman. The first image, Mary knew, was of Mr. Randolph Jenkins III straddling his male surf instructor’s very large erection.

  “He does like the longboard,” Mary said. She immediately cursed herself. Dammit! She was really working on her customer service skills and that comment was the exact opposite of the behavior she needed to exhibit.

  Mrs. Randolph Jenkins III flipped through the rest of the photos before pushing them back toward Mary.

  “I had no idea,” she said.

  Mary suspected otherwise, but bit her tongue.

  “Well, your husband was good at hiding the truth,” Mary said, and then, before she could stop herself, added “along with the salami.”

  Shit! Another one!

  What good was holding your tongue, if when you unleashed it, the damn thing had a mind of its own?

  The older woman blanched at the comment.

  “Your private investigator skills are clearly well-developed,” the woman said. “More so than your tact.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  The woman held up her hand. Then she scratched out a check and handed it to Mary.

  The older woman picked up the stack of photographs, slid them back into the envelope, and put it into her purse.

  “Your notes and case details will be available should you be called to appear in court, am I correct?” she said.

  Mary nodded. “Absolutely.”

  The woman went to the door.

  “We’ll really nail him in court,” Mary said. “Totally bend him over.”

  As soon as the words passed her lips, Mary winced and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, the woman was gone … along with any shot at a referral, Mary noted with confidence.

  Two

  “Goddammit, where’s that new fucking PA?”

  LAPD Homicide Detective Jacob Cornell dropped the stack of apple crates he was carrying and hurried toward the director. In film production, “PA” stood for Production Assistant—the lowest of the low, but perhaps the most essential workers on a film crew. They were glorified gophers.

  “Right here!” Jake called out.

  “Quit standing around with your thumb up your ass and bring me the lens case,” the director said. His name was Morrison. “NOW!” he added.

  Morrison—just the one name of course—was one of the top pornography directors in Los Angeles, and he was a little guy. He had short, stunted legs, with a muscular upper body and a big, blocky, square head. Jake thought he probably had a touch of dwarfism, combined with plenty of weightlifter’s steroids. And he had a personality to match: sort of a Napoleonic Complex with a side of ‘Roid Rage.

  “Motherfucker, hurry up!” Morrison yelled.

  “Little shit,” Jake mumbled under his breath. He had hated the idea of going undercover on a porn film crew, but he had been temporarily assigned to Vice, and as the new guy, he’d gotten the short straw.

  Short straw, all r
ight, Jake thought, as he hurried up to Morrison.

  “What’s your name again?” Morrison asked.

  “It’s—” Jake started to say, ready to give his undercover name, which was Gary Mazier.

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” the director interrupted him. “It’s Drag Ass. Because you’re too fucking slow, Drag Ass.”

  Jake’s hand inadvertently went to where his gun holster would be, the idea of shooting this little man-child blossoming in his mind.

  Unfortunately, Jake didn’t find the gun. He handed the case of lenses to Morrison resisting the urge to clobber the Keebler elf over the head with them.

  The little man snatched it from Jake’s hand and turned to the camera.

  “Go away, Drag Ass,” Morrison said.

  Jake walked back to his pile of light reflectors and stands and thought how glad he was Mary Cooper wasn’t around to hear this crap. God, she’d have a field day with it.

  The thought of Mary made him smile. She was a handful. A smartass to end all smartasses. But she was his smartass, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  A lot of people failed to see through her shield of sarcasm, but he could. And he liked what he saw.

  Jake opened the door to a storage room and was met by a big security guard. He put his hand on Jake’s chest and pushed him back out the door.

  “No, no, no …” the guard said.

  “What—” Jake said.

  “Never mind. Nothing here for you to see.” Jake looked at the man’s T-shirt. It said “Venice Security.” Under that, was the name “Paolo.” Jake thought about it. He was here to ostensibly find out if this production company, which was really a compendium of different companies, might be using minors as on-camera talent.

  Whatever might be behind storage door number one, he decided to let it go for now.

  “Fine, Paolo,” Jake said.

  “Any time, Drag Ass,” the security guard said with a smirk.

  Jake walked back to his gear. He was really starting to hate this assignment.

  Three

  Mary tried Jake’s cell phone number again. No answer.

  “Dammit!” she said.

  He had told her he was going on a special assignment and that communication would be sporadic, but this was ridiculous. They hadn’t talked or texted in a week, and that was almost unheard of for Jake. He contacted her every day. And who could blame him? After all, she was pure sugar to men, highly addictive.

  Yeah, right, Mary.

  She set her phone back in the cup holder. She didn’t necessarily want to admit it, but she was worried. He was the responsible one. Always keeping his phone charged, his clothes folded and put away, paying his bills on time. Now that she thought about it, his fastidiousness was downright fucking obnoxious.

  And yet at the same time, it was so damned cute.

  She pushed away worries about Jake, closed the files on the Jenkins case, and left the office.

  She left Venice and in a few minutes was in Santa Monica, pulling her Honda Accord into the driveway of the house where her Aunt Alice lived. It was a nice home, a little bigger than average for most houses in this part of Santa Monica. Alice Parthum had bought the house back in the 1950s with her husband and had kept it after he died. It was a neat little Mediterranean number with a tile roof and wood shutters painted green.

  Aunt Alice had raised Mary after her parents died, and now that the woman was getting up there in years, Mary made a point to stop by every few days.

  When Mary let herself into the house, she found her aunt in purple spandex, bent over, while a thin, dark-skinned man in tight shorts and no shirt stood behind her. He had long, black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  His hands were on her hips.

  “And open yourself, Alice, wide open,” the man said with a thick Indian accent.

  Mary raised an eyebrow as she watched the man stand fearlessly directly behind her aunt’s buttocks.

  “Careful there, buddy, you’re in the blast zone,” Mary said.

  From her bent position, Alice glanced up at Mary.

  “If you want to make my pain go away, Sanji,” Alice said, her face red and voice straining. “Get rid of her.”

  The man stepped back from Alice—a bit warily, Mary thought.

  “I think we are done for today,” he said. “We seem to have lost our concentration.”

  He picked up his yoga mat and walked past Mary, nodding to her. He let himself out through the front door.

  “Nice going,” Alice said, slowly rising to a standing position. “You can even stress out a yoga instructor.”

  Alice Parthum was around seventy years old, a short, solid woman with naturally curly, gray hair and bright-green eyes. She was in pretty good shape for a woman her age, and the tight-fitting yoga outfit actually flattered her.

  “Since when do you do yoga?” Mary said. “You’re about as flexible as plywood. I haven’t seen you bent over that far since you saw a nickel under the couch.”

  Alice plopped into a wingback chair and took a sip from a water bottle.

  “Oh, I just wanted to hire a man to help me out physically,” Alice said. “You know, like you do for sex.”

  She took a longer drink from her water bottle, and Mary heard the ice cubes rattle inside.

  “Speaking of men, I can’t get a hold of Jake,” Mary said, taking a seat on the couch next to Alice. “He’s not returning my calls.”

  “Maybe he considers you a phone solicitor,” Alice said. “Everyone hates those people.”

  “I thought yoga was supposed to make you more peaceful,” Mary said. “Nonviolent.”

  “Once Sanji starts instructing me in more than yoga, then I’ll be very relaxed, trust me,” Alice said. She shot a wink at Mary.

  “Way too much information,” Mary said. “No, Jake said he was on some sort of investigation and that he wouldn’t be in touch for a while. But still, I’m a little worried.”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair.

  “So what the hell do you think he’s doing?” Alice said. “Or should we be asking who Jake is doing?”

  “Your sensitivity is admirable,” Mary said. “He could be in a ditch somewhere with a closed-head injury, and you’ve got him in a condo in Vegas with a stripper.”

  “He’s got a condo in Vegas?” Alice said.

  “Figure of speech.”

  Mary saw movement out of the corner of her eye and looked out the living room’s picture window as a guy on an old-fashioned cruiser bicycle rode by the front of the house.

  “Look, Mary. Jake is a homicide cop with LAPD,” Alice said. “He carries a badge and a gun. I seriously doubt anything has happened to him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

  She looked at Mary.

  “Except when it comes to women.”

  Four

  The official office of a private investigator was a place prospective clients feared. Mary guessed, if she had to put a number to it, about seventy-five percent of new clients requested an initial meeting somewhere other than her office.

  Which sort of pissed her off. After all, she paid monthly rent on the little office in a swanky building that also housed a law firm, an editorial house, and some mystery businesses that had to be tax dodges because Mary never saw anyone coming or going from them.

  So, seventy-five percent of consultations involving a new client led Mary to the Coffee Bean, just across the street and down a few blocks from her office.

  Today, there were only two homeless guys in the coffee shop. One of them was playing chess, the other was staring at a pile of newspapers stacked next to the garbage can. Waiting for breaking news.

  She got herself a low-fat cappuccino and saved the receipt for tax purposes. She thought of adding a “one” before the $4.50 price: $14.50 for a cappuccino in Los Angeles wasn’t out of the question. But she held back. No need to commit tax fraud. Yet.

  Mary’s client walked in the door and made a beeline for
the counter. Even though she’d never met her in person, Mary knew it was the woman who had called her. She was a strikingly beautiful Latina woman with long, black hair, beautiful eyes, and a figure Mary would kill for.

  Armed now with a small black coffee, the woman turned and scanned the room, caught Mary’s eye, then approached her.

  “Ms. Cooper?” she said.

  Mary stood and shook her hand. “Elyse?” she said.

  “Thank you for meeting me here,” said the woman, who Mary knew to be Elyse Ramirez.

  “No problem,” Mary said. “I was having my office fumigated anyway. It always smells like bacon—not that that’s a bad thing.”

  Mary watched as the woman pulled a folder and an envelope from her purse.

  “How do we start?” she said. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Neither have I,” Mary said. She saw a brief flash of surprise on the woman’s face. “I’m kidding. Let’s start by talking about—if you are considering hiring a private investigator, namely me—what is it you want me to investigate?”

  Elyse Ramirez let out a long breath. Mary caught the scent of coffee and mint.

  “I called you about my daughter. She’s missing,” Ramirez said. “Her name is Nina. She’s seventeen years old.” She slid a photograph from a folder across the table to Mary.

  “What did the police say?” Mary said, already knowing the answer. She looked at the photograph. Nina Ramirez was beautiful, like her mother, but in a softer way.

  “The police will not be involved,” Elyse Ramirez said. “My husband is a very important businessman; he will not allow our daughter to shame our family.”

  “So she wasn’t taken, she ran away?” Mary said, catching the meaning in the woman’s carefully chosen words.

  “We don’t know. Maybe a little bit of both,” Ramirez said. “She has been dating a man involved in the pornography industry. She may have run away with him.”