Murder With Sarcastic Intent

by Dani Amore

  “Let me get the boss,” he said. He set the weedwhacker on the table and went into the building.

  Mary studied the back of the building. There was only one story, and next to the back door were several bright-red gas cans.

  The sound of wheels spinning and an engine roaring reached Mary’s ears. She ran back to the front of the building and saw a small, red Hyundai barrel onto the dirt alley, the baseball cap-wearing driver not even looking back at her.

  Let me get the boss, Mary thought. Yeah, at 100 mph.

  She dashed to her car, flung herself inside, and followed the Hyundai, now totally obscured by the cloud of dust.

  It was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, driving way too fast with visibility about two feet in front of you. Mary thought of her high-school driver’s ed teacher: a notorious drunk who used to fall asleep during the students’ test drives.

  Even he would have disapproved of her decision to race forward at a ridiculously fast rate of speed, totally blind.

  She burst from the dust cloud and swerved onto LaBrea, throwing the car to the right side of the road. She nearly collided with a guy in an Audi convertible, who shot her the bird.

  Yeah, fuck you too, pal.

  Mary had no way of knowing if her fleeing landscaper had turned right onto LaBrea, but she figured it was a safe bet. Turning left would have required crossing traffic, and if he’d tried that, she probably would have heard the sound of metal on metal.

  As it was, she floored it and soon saw smoke at an intersection ahead.

  She reached it in seconds and immediately spotted the red Hyundai, now with a crumpled front end and the driver’s door open, hanging askew.

  Mary drove up onto the grass media, shut off her car, and walked to the Hyundai.

  It was empty.

  The driver of the other vehicle, a Nissan pickup truck, was on his cell phone. He looked at Mary, and he was visibly pissed.

  “Which way did he go?” Mary asked.

  The guy pointed to the right, into a small shopping center with a hardware store and a Trader Joe’s.

  “If you find him tell him he’s an asshole,” the truck owner said.

  “Happy to pass that along,” she said.

  Mary got back into her car, negotiated her way through the intersection, and turned into the mall’s parking lot.

  “Shit,” she said. The mall was simply a few storefronts, with a second set of stores behind the main entrance.

  She pulled into an empty space and thought about it. She got out, searched through all of the stores and the adjoining parking lots with no luck.

  She heard sirens probably on the way to the accident back at LaBrea.

  The jackass had gotten away.

  Mary imagined taking a weedwhacker to the pissant’s face.

  Twenty-one

  Mary walked into her office to find a man with short, bleached-blond hair, an expensive suit, and the obvious bulge of a gun in a shoulder holster sitting in the client’s chair across from her desk. She often thought of how common it is for men with a bulge from their shoulder holster to lack a bulge in their crotch region.

  “Hello Ms. Cooper, I’m—” the man started to say.

  “Breaking and entering?” Mary responded, cutting him off.

  She left the door open and had her cell phone in her hand.

  “Shall we call 911 together?” she said. “Or just put it on speaker?”

  He held his hands out in mock surrender.

  “Whoa, whoa, the door was unlocked, so I just took a seat. I swear,” he said. His voice was deep with a rough edge, and his teeth were a brilliant white, obviously capped.

  “So you break, you enter, and you lie,” Mary said. “I never leave a door unlocked. Try again.”

  Again with the hands.

  “Let me just explain why I’m here,” he said. Mary noted the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist, the expensive suit, the well-coiffed hair. Not exactly the typical burglar/rapist.

  She walked around her desk and plopped into her desk chair, then snatched a bottle of Point Beer from the little fridge under her desk. She didn’t offer her uninvited guest a beverage.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “My name is Derek Jarvis,” he said, his voice now smooth and cultured. He had left in just a hint of a rasp to let you know if things got uncomfortable, he could change his demeanor to match.

  “I work private security for various people around LA, including celebrities,” he said.

  Mary took a pull from her beer, glanced down at her desk. There was a Victoria’s Secret catalog sitting there in all its black-lace glory. Good Lord. She needed to have magazines like Soldiers of Fortune and Hair Trigger Shooters Illustrated. They would do a better job of setting the tone for her guests, both the invited and uninvited kind.

  “Am I boring you, Ms. Cooper?” Jarvis said.

  “I’m not paying enough attention to actually be bored,” Mary said, visibly stifling a yawn.

  Damn, she loved this beer. Had it imported all the way from northern Wisconsin. It was expensive but well worth it.

  Mary could drink to that.

  “Then I’ll be as brief as possible,” Jarvis said.

  “Better late than never.”

  “You’ve been investigating the disappearance of a girl named Nina Ramirez.”

  Mary put the beer on her desk and looked at Mr. Derek Jarvis.

  “Ah, now I see I have your attention,” he said.

  “Yeah, but it’s not a good kind of attention,” Mary said. “It’s like when you notice one too many carpenter ants, so you go ahead and destroy them all.”

  Jarvis nodded in complete, totally false agreement.

  “My client is also interested in locating Nina Ramirez,” he said.

  “And who is this client?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge my employer’s identity.”

  “The good news is you are at full liberty to leave my office,” Mary said. She tipped the bottle toward the door. “Please exercise that freedom, pronto.”

  Mary drained the rest of her beer in one long pull.

  “I was hoping we could cooperate on the investigation,” Jarvis said. “My involvement could benefit you in more ways than one.”

  This time, he flashed a smile that truly made Mary cringe.

  She thought about his offer for a nanosecond, at the most. The guy didn’t know shit. And he certainly didn’t know that Mary’s client was now deceased. Unless that was what had prompted his visit.

  In any event, she knew that if this guy wasn’t even willing to say what his client’s name was, he certainly wasn’t going to give her any other kind of information.

  He was fishing. Plain and simple.

  “I believe sharing is overrated,” Mary said. “Both personally and professionally. Just ask my exes.”

  The man reached inside his suit jacket, and for just a moment, Mary considered going for her .45. When Jarvis pulled out a checkbook, she was glad she hadn’t shot him.

  “We are willing to pay for your cooperation,” he said.

  Mary spent more than a nanosecond on this one. A blank check always intrigued her. They were so beautiful. Works of art, in fact, just waiting for her signature.

  But the mere thought of linking herself to this guy, Derek Jarvis, gave her a bad feeling. Like sticking your hand in the garbage disposal, with that feeling that it could suddenly turn on and your hand would resemble a pulled-pork sandwich.

  Mary put her empty beer bottle in the recycling bin and stood.

  “As much as I appreciate the offer,” she said. “I’m going to have to pass. I’m a lone wolf. An alpha female, as it were. I work alone. Teammates slow me down. There’s no ‘we’ in Mary. I think you get the idea.”

  Jarvis put his checkbook back into his pocket, and once again Mary had the inkling that she wouldn’t be all that surprised if the hand came back out with a gun.

  But no. The hand reappeared, with only five very
nicely manicured fingernails attached.

  “Maybe we’ll cross paths again, when you’re a bit more open-minded,” he said.

  “I’m very close-minded,” Mary said. “I dislike most people, and the few I do like, I certainly don’t trust one single bit. So don’t get your hopes up.”

  Jarvis walked out the door, and Mary shut it after him. Turned the deadbolt.

  She plopped back into her office chair, grabbed another beer, twisted off the cap, and sat back. Mary took another long drink of beer, then wondered: how the hell had that slick ratface gotten in here?

  Twenty-two

  Mary fired up her computer, logged onto the bank account for Cooper Investigations, and checked the balance.

  She wouldn’t be buying Richard Branson’s private island just yet, but still, the total wasn’t too bad.

  She could afford to work a few more days on a case that appeared to have no financial incentive for her personally.

  Mary debated about opening another beer, then made the wise decision and twisted the cap off another one.

  She put her feet up on the desk and held the beer in both hands.

  Something was bothering her, other than the strange and abrupt appearance of Mr. Derek Jarvis.

  The murder of Elyse Ramirez weighed heavily on her. She often had a cavalier relationship with booze, but when she did feel the need for multiple drinks, there was usually something bothering her, even if it wasn’t obviously on the surface.

  But it wasn’t just the murder.

  Heck, Mary had seen all kinds of dead bodies. Including the ones that had been alive until she’d made them dead.

  No, this time it was the woman’s face. She had been such a beautiful woman. That beautiful skin, fine features. Mary raised her beer toward the ceiling.

  “Here’s to you, Elyse,” she said. “Or whatever your name was.”

  That face. What was it about that face?

  Mary drummed her fingernails along the side of the beer bottle.

  She thought of Nina’s face. Granted, it was only a photograph, and the images were from her Facebook page.

  But still …

  It occurred to Mary that Nina didn’t look all that much like Elyse.

  And then it her. What was bothering her.

  Elyse Ramirez might not be Nina’s mother.

  Which raised two entirely new questions in Mary’s mind.

  Who in the good goddamn was Elyse Ramirez?

  And if Elyse wasn’t really Nina’s mother, then who was?

  Twenty-three

  Mary locked up her office and drove through the small downtown area of Venice. She noticed a black Chevy Tahoe behind her and something about it bothered her. Had she seen it before? Whoever was driving wasn’t tailgating her, but for some reason, she felt like the bastard was too close.

  When she was within two blocks of Alice’s house, the Tahoe turned off, and Mary figured she was imagining things. Paranoia.

  Add it to her list of mental issues.

  Mary got to Alice’s house, parked, and rang the bell, but there was no answer. Mary had already seen Alice’s car in the driveway. She took out her key, unlocked the door, and went inside.

  The smell of body sweat and curry hit her nostrils, while the sound of rock music assailed her ears.

  A man walked out of the kitchen wearing a pink bathrobe. Sanji the yoga instructor appeared to have no other clothing on beneath the robe.

  A martini glass was in his hand.

  “Hello,” he said, a thick Indian accent giving his words a soft lilt.

  Mary tried to avert her eyes.

  “What kind of yoga involves martinis and nudity?” Mary said. “Doesn’t sound like Bikram.”

  Alice emerged from the kitchen. She had on a bathrobe and black stockings, with six-inch stiletto heels. She wobbled a bit coming from the kitchen.

  “How’s the escort service?” Mary said.

  “Business is booming! Or should I say ‘banging?’” Alice said with a big grin on her face. She reached out, lifted up the back of Sanji’s bathrobe, and slapped his bare ass. Mary could tell Alice had enjoyed more than one drink. And her face was flushed. Either from the curry or something else. Mary didn’t want to think about it.

  “We had a very good session today,” Sanji said. He giggled a little after he said it.

  “I definitely feel a lot more loose,” Alice said. She winked at Mary and slipped an arm around Sanji’s waist. “A lot more.”

  Mary closed her eyes and winced.

  “Please stop,” she said. “And where did you get those shoes? Your old KISS costume? Does Gene Simmons know you’re impersonating him?”

  Sanji walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. His robe popped open, and Mary tried to quickly look away.

  Too late.

  “Put your King Cobra away, Sanji,” Alice said. “You’re making Mary jealous.”

  Sanji pulled his robe closed. “I am sorry,” he said, taking a pull from his martini. He turned on the television. Mary saw that a pay-per-view porn movie was still playing.

  What was going on? Porn was everywhere.

  “Tell you what,” Mary said. “I’ll come back after you’re done with your session.”

  “Yes, we only got through a couple of poses in this session,” Alice said, giggling. She used the air quotes gesture when she said poses and let out a high-pitched laugh. “Round Two will be a bit more creative, I suspect.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled again.

  Mary looked at her. “You know what, I just stopped by to make sure everything was okay,” she said. “Didn’t know I was going to interrupt some kind of yoga sex party.”

  “Oh, Mary, you’re always welcome,” Alice said. “Except now.”

  Mary got to the door, but before she opened it, she saw through the living room window a black Chevy Tahoe go around the corner.

  “Fuck me,” Mary said. Someone was following her.

  “She’s not talking to you, Sanji,” Alice said behind her. “But she took the words right out of my mouth.”

  Mary slammed the door shut behind her.

  Twenty-four

  Mary hoped she would catch a break. And she did.

  “Yes, I’m in the office,” Oscar Freedham said to her over the phone. “No, I don’t feel like doing you a favor.”

  Mary sighed. Why was it always so difficult to get men to do what she wanted? Didn’t they understand she always got what she wanted anyway? Such a time-waster!

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” Mary said. “Give me the name and address of the owner of a red Hyundai found yesterday crashed and abandoned at the corner of LaBrea and San Vicente, or a puppy dies.”

  “I hate dogs,” Freedham said. “The fewer the better.”

  “It’s not a dog puppy, it’s a wolf pup. You like wolves?” Mary said.

  “The original ancestor of the dog? If I hate dogs, why would I like wolves?”

  Mary sighed again.

  “What do you want, Oscar? Another half-dozen drinks? Lunch? Moonlight stroll through the garden?”

  “I want you to understand that I work in Vice, not Traffic,” he said. “Don’t you have someone else you can bum a favor from?”

  “Let me be blunt, Oscar. My police department bitch, your pal Jake Cornell, isn’t returning my calls. So until he comes to his senses, I’m asking you.”

  Now it was Oscar’s turn to let out a frustrated sigh.

  “You owe me, Cooper. I’ll text you what I find out.”

  “Thanks—” but she heard the click of the phone.

  “People just don’t take the time to say goodbye anymore,” she said.

  Mary took Oscar at his word and assumed he would come back with some sort of information on the car. A name and an address, hopefully. Which meant she might have another face-to-face meeting with Mr. Fleeing Weedwhacker.

  This time, she intended to be a bit more prepared.

  Mary drove back to her apartmen
t, changed into jeans, black running shoes, and a black T-shirt.

  She went to the gun safe in her bedroom closet, opened it, and took out her prized possession. The Para-Ordnance high-capacity .45 held fourteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. She slid on her nylon shoulder holster, holstered the gun, and put two extra magazines in a pouch on the strap of the holster.

  To her ankle, she strapped a smaller holster, and from the gun safe, she brought out a Ruger LCR, loaded with five rounds of .357 Magnum hollow-points. She left the speedloaders in the gun safe. If she burned through fifteen rounds of .45 ammo and five rounds of .357 hollow-points, more bullets would probably be the least of her problems.

  She closed and locked the gun safe, went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottled water, then checked her phone.

  There was a text from Oscar Freedham with an address, followed by a name.

  Lonzo Vega.

  And one additional message.

  He’s bad news.

  Twenty-five

  The address was in Ladera Heights, a less-than-spectacular area east of the 405.

  Mary’s GPS led her to a single-story brick house built by someone without any concerns other than shelter. And even then, their idea of basic shelter was very, very basic.

  The front of the house included a dented front door, two small, filthy windows, and a crumbling cement step that had enough holes to guarantee a rat’s nest.

  The roof was falling apart, a gutter hung all the way down to the ground on one side, and one-car garage, also falling apart, stood off to the side of the house.

  There was no sign of anyone. In fact, Mary thought, there wasn’t sign that anyone had been there in, what, maybe years?

  No sign of a Beautification Award in the front yard—how had the committee missed this place?

  Mary already had her doubts that this was the supposed home of Lonzo Vega, proud owner of a red Hyundai and possible owner/employee of Sol Landscaping. Most small business owners she knew avoided living in homes that should be condemned. Didn’t reflect well on their brand identity.

  Well, let’s just see if this is indeed the Vega residence, she thought.