by Zoe Burke
I let my mouth fall open. “You’re kidding me, Mickey. How can cops be this stupid, to try a harebrained plan like this?”
He tried his little smile again. “Brad was never the brightest guy at the academy, and Detective Mellon, well, who knew she was a worse actress than Andie McDowell?”
“You heard me tell her that?”
“Tell her what?”
“The Andie McDowell thing? You said that on your own?”
He wrinkled his forehead. “I wasn’t hooked up to any listening device.”
“Oh jeez. How can it be that I have found this man who likes Silverado and doesn’t like Andie McDowell, and whose pants are basically a great fit, only to find out that he’s a big fat liar?” I sprang off the ottoman.
“I’m with you in this thing. Really, I am.”
“I don’t want you in this thing anymore.”
“That doesn’t matter too much at this point.”
“ExCUSE me?” I was ready to punch him now.
“I’m basically assigned to you. I promised Brad I’d stick with you. Otherwise, he’ll bring you into the station for a long spell of questioning, and you won’t make it up to Tall Oaks.”
It was a face off. Sergio Leone’s theme music from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly would have provided the perfect backdrop.
“Mickey, where do you live?”
“New York. I told you, I didn’t lie about anything else.”
“How come you have so much money?”
“Parents. Had a lot. Died young, left me with, well, a small fortune.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
“You told me that your dad was a plumber and your mom a hair stylist.”
“That wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. Dad was an inventor of sorts, too. Came up with a new pipe sealant, sold the patent to WaterWorks Tools for a pile of dough.”
“Fuck you, Mickey. How much else have you told me that’s ‘just not the whole truth’?” My voice had risen, and Kevin started walking toward us again, but I half waved at him and mouthed that I was sorry, making the motion of zipping my lips. He leaned against a bamboo secretary—a desk, not a person—and stayed there, keeping an eye on us.
“I know. Fuck me. I know. I handled this badly. I was trying to keep my cover, I had to try to figure out what was happening in Las Vegas, I had to figure you out, I…”
“Why were you looking through papers on my desk this morning?”
He paused. “Bad habit. Murder scene. Papers all over your desk. I’m a detective. I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Do you think I’m involved in this? Do you think I’m one of the bad guys?”
He didn’t smile. “I know you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw you tie up a guy with dental floss. I caught you when you collapsed when you heard about Cassie. I met your parents. I met your cat.” He paused. “I made love with you.” He paused again. “I’m in love with you.”
“Really.” Then I punched in him in the face. My fist didn’t land squarely—I haven’t practiced punching in a long time, basically since my eleven-year-old attack on the kid next door—and he dodged it, but I got the side of his nose well enough that he yelled “Ow!”
I turned on my heel and marched toward the stairs. “Kevin, we’re leaving. My husband would like to purchase that cheetah bench there. Cost is no issue. In fact, he wants ten of them. Charge his VISA. I mean his American Express.”
“Have a wonderful day,” replied Kevin, while Mickey followed me out, holding his nose with one hand and apologetically waving at Kevin with his other, his credit cards safe in his wallet.
Chapter Nineteen
On the drive up to Santa Rosa, Mickey couldn’t seem to shut up. Not that I wanted him to, particularly. I was driving, even though he told me at least four times that I wasn’t on the rental car agreement and this meant we would be in big trouble if I got into an accident. I reminded him of the mountain lion fetish I had in my pocket, and how it had protected me so well up until now, and surely it would take care of me on this drive. He didn’t respond to that. He held his sleeve against the little cut on his cheek that was bleeding a lot more than its size would indicate it could. One of my rings sliced him when I punched him. Good.
So, I drove and he talked. He apologized again about not telling me he was a cop. He confirmed what I had already figured out. He had sworn Luis and Brad to secrecy, until he could tell me “at the right time.” I guffawed at that.
There wasn’t a lot of traffic on Highway 101 midday on a Thursday, so speeding was easy. I was going eighty-five before I finally listened to Mickey and slowed down. He was right—the last thing I needed was to meet another cop.
Mickey was recapping where things stood. While part of me didn’t want to listen to Mickey the Liar anymore, it was kind of helpful.
Mary: disappeared in Vegas and had two fake cops looking for her. She was probably a bad guy.
Jake: bad guy cop in Vegas, looking for me. Knew I was there with Mickey. Was going to take us where? Or anywhere?
Luis: good guy, helping out in Vegas somehow.
Cassie: murdered. By Georgia?
Georgia: could be connected to Jake, so probably a bad guy.
Nana: knew Mary, and at least had met Georgia. Murdered?
Hatpin: somebody stuck it in Nana’s glasses case. Mickey paused. “Then there’s the rapist guy that might be holding a grudge. Jerry Walbon.”
I sped up again, gripping the steering wheel.
He touched my shoulder. “Slow down, Annabelle.” I did.
I punched the radio on. We were far enough north to get reception for my favorite station, the Krush. They play new rock, old rock, singer-songwriters, unusual stuff, well-known stuff. Always mix it up. And right then the Subdudes were on—“You’ll Be Satisfied,” one of my most favorite songs in the world. Good music relaxes me, so I turned up the volume. Mickey started tapping his hand against his knee, while he was looking out the side of the car. I started singing along. And then, goddammit, he joined in.
I whipped my head around toward him. “The SUBDUDES? You know the SUBDUDES?”
“Annabelle! Drive the car! Watch the road!” I did turn back, but I was flustered. “MICKEY!”
“Shit, yes, they’re my favorite band. What’s your problem?”
I was in the lane second from the right, and after checking behind me, I swerved over to the far right, pulled up on the shoulder of the road, and came to a stop. I put the car in park and engaged the emergency brake, so I could turn and face him.
“Annabelle! For chrissakes! This is not smart at all. We could get hit sitting here!”
I just stared at him agape. “The SUBDUDES??? Aren’t you from New York City? Are you telling me they played there? They are so NOT a New York City band!”
“I happen to have eclectic tastes, and yes, actually, they played at a little club on the Lower East Side several years ago, and I went to see them, and I now have all of their albums, and I sure hope that’s okay with you! Jesus!”
I was speechless. My favorite band, his favorite band. He didn’t like Andie McDowell. He was gorgeous. He was great in bed. He didn’t seem to mind my ears. He told me that he was in love with me. This was all tooooo much.
“Tommy Malone…” I started.
“Unbelievably great guitar player, soulful singer. Johnny Magiore or whatever his name is on accordion and keyboards. And whatshisface on percussion, using mostly a tambourine and a mallet. Okay? You believe me?”
I nodded. “Steve Amadée. He’s the percussionist. But they broke up.”
“I know. Too bad for us.” He paused. “All right, now, be careful pulling back out onto the freeway.” He turned to look out behind us at the oncoming traffic. I didn’t move. “Annabelle?”
/> I looked straight ahead and started to cry. Lots of tears, snot starting to run out of my nose. “Kleenex in my purse,” I mumbled, and Mickey dug it out for me. I gave a hearty blow, and calmed down after a few moments.
“You okay?” he asked. He stroked my arm lightly. I let him.
“Wow, Mickey. I’m so far from okay it’s ridiculous. And here you are, just about perfect in every way. But you lied to me, this huge, huge, ginormous lie, and I really want to love you, I do, and I want to trust you, I mean, we both love Tommy Malone? Are you kidding me?” I blew my nose again.
Mickey was patting my knee now. “It’s going to work out. I don’t know how, but it is. And I’ll prove that you can trust me. I will. I promise.” He looked behind us again. “Do you want me to drive?”
I released the emergency brake and put the car into gear. “No,” I said. “I want you to be quiet.” I floored it onto the highway, some dust kicked up behind us. I couldn’t help but think of Steve McQueen in Bullitt, even though his Mustang was a green fastback.
Chapter Twenty
Tall Oaks is tucked into a residential neighborhood of Santa Rosa. Four one-story buildings are connected by walkways and halfway-decent landscaping. I can’t say it’s exactly feng-shui-ish, but it’s pleasant. I parked in the visitors’ lot. Mickey followed me into the main building. We hadn’t talked for the rest of the drive. I had turned the radio back off, too, not wanting to know anything more about Mickey’s musical tastes…not wanting to know anything more about Mickey, actually.
At the lobby entrance, I saw Martha Davis, one of the administrators, behind the welcoming desk. We smiled at each other. “Bea! How are you, sweetie?” She stood up and came to greet me with a warm hug.
I stiffened. Bea. I had forgotten that Martha always called me that. Mickey raised his eyebrows at me and said, “Bea?”
I raised my eyebrows back at him and returned Martha’s hug. “Good to see you, too. Meet Mickey Paxton. Be careful what you say. He’s official po-leece.”
Mickey ignored me and shook her hand. “Martha.”
She smiled at him and then moved back a step from both of us. “Mary Rosen?”
I jerked in response. “How in the world did you know that?”
“Sergeant Franklin of the San Francisco police called and told me to expect you. Let’s sit down in the office and I’ll tell you what I know.”
She knew quite a bit. Mary had been missing since Monday. Martha had called her son to let him know. “We were especially worried because she hasn’t been that steady on her feet, ever since she broke her foot.”
So Mary hadn’t lied about her broken foot, anyway. “She was in rehab for a while, right? Bad break? She fell?”
“Yes, in fact she was in your grandmother’s room when she fell. You remember, she used to visit the Alzheimer’s wing, and Nana was one of her favorites. She had climbed up on a chair…” Martha paused. “She said she was getting something down for Nana, but the only things up there were that old clock and a framed picture, I think, so that excuse never made any sense to me. I suppose Nana could have asked to see the picture, but she was ill at that point.…
Anyway, Mary fell and was in rehab for many weeks. She got back here not that long ago.”
“Nana died while she was away.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So, when you realized Mary was missing and you called her son, what did he say?” Mickey asked.
“He figured she had gone on another one of her gambling sprees and told me he’d start looking for her in Las Vegas.”
I leaned forward. “Does her son live in Las Vegas?”
“Yes, indeed. He’s a policeman, a detective, I think. A bit rough around the edges, but a solid individual. Treats his mother like a queen.”
I grabbed Mickey’s hand and squeezed it.
Mickey gave me a quick nod and then asked Martha, “What about Georgia Browning? Has she been here today, or yesterday evening?”
Martha looked confused. “Georgia? Why, no, she hasn’t been here for a few weeks. She has done pro bono work for us, making sure that our residents and their families have their affairs in order, from wills to end-of-life preferences. But she had signed on to help us for six months, and that term finished, like I said, oh, around a month or two ago.” Martha turned to me. “What does Georgia have to do with this?”
I shook my head. “We’re not sure.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the hatpin, careful not to stab myself, and showed it to her. “Ever seen this?”
Mary started. Her eyes got big. She squirmed in her chair. “Oh my goodness.”
Mickey and I did a double-take. “What?!” we said in unison.
“That’s Mary’s hatpin.” Martha took it from me and turned it over and over in her hands. “She used to wear it now and then. You might remember, Bea, that Mary is a great lover of very stylish hats?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I asked her a few days before she broke her foot what had happened to the hatpin, because I hadn’t seen her wearing it. She was vague about it and said that maybe she lost it. I thought she would have been devastated…”
Mickey interrupted again. “Devastated? Why? I mean, it is just a hatpin. It’s pretty, and all that, but why would you think it was so important to her?”
Martha gazed at the pin and then looked up at Mickey. “Ah, Mr. Paxton, this is no simple hatpin. When Georgia was helping the residents here, she suggested that they have their jewelry appraised, so that after they die, their families would know the worth of individual pieces. Mary had this appraised. It’s worth about $100,000.”
“Jeez!” I jumped in my chair.
Martha nodded. “That’s why I thought it was odd, when I asked her if she wanted to report it missing, that she shook her head and walked away from me.” She paused. “I have to ask, how is it that you have the hatpin?”
“It was with Nana’s things.”
“Nana? Nana took it?”
I stood up. “Hey! No! You know better than that, Martha! I don’t know how it got there!”
Martha stood up, too, and reached a hand out to me. “Dear, I don’t mean any insult to Nana. It’s just that Alzheimer’s patients often don’t know what’s theirs and what isn’t, and they take things, but it’s not really stealing. It’s part of their confusion.” She patted my arm. We both sat back down.
Mickey took the hatpin from Martha. “So, it’s worth a lot because of the one diamond? The diamond isn’t that big, is it?”
Martha shook her head. “Well, actually, it’s a good-sized diamond. Probably a carat. It could be worth a few thousand dollars, I would think.” She folded her hands on her desk. “But apparently the pin is valued so highly because of who it used to belong to.” We waited while she paused for effect. Martha had always had a flair for the dramatic. “No guesses, eh?”
“Martha, please,” I said.
“Look on the back of it again, closely. Do you see any initials?”
Mickey and I examined it together. “Just ‘Tarcelloni’ and a zigzag line.”
“Mm.” She said. “Turn it around so that the line reads the other way.”
Mickey did, and then showed it to me. MM. I gasped,”Marilyn MonROE??” at the same time that Mickey said, “Mike MEYers?” We looked at each other. “Mike Meyers? Are you crazy?”
Martha’s smile was positively angelic. “That’s what Mary told me.”
We shook our heads. “What? What did she tell you?”
“That this belonged to Marilyn Monroe. That Joe DiMaggio bought it for her. And that Mary got it from an estate sale. She did some research and found a picture of Marilyn wearing a white hat and this pin was stuck in it.”
“Did she show you the picture?” Mickey asked.
“No. But like I said, Georgia was the one who had it appraised for her, an
d that’s the figure I remember. One hundred thousand smackeroos.” Martha settled back in her chair and folded her arms, very satisfied with the sound of that last word sailing out of her mouth.
Mickey handed me the hatpin, pulled a notebook out of his sport coat pocket, and flipped it open. A pen from his inside front pocket followed.
I stared at him. “You have a notebook? You’re going to take cop notes?”
He ignored me again, focusing on Martha. “When did you say that you noticed the pin was missing?”
Martha scrolled through her memory banks, eyes closed. “Shortly before your Nana died, Bea. We had a staff meeting to review patient care. I remember coming out into the hallway after that meeting and seeing Mary talking with Georgia and wearing her hat, sans pin.” She preened, enjoying the sound of “sans” as much as “smackeroos.”
Mickey snapped his notebook shut. “She was in Nana’s room when she broke her foot. Maybe she had left the pin in there and was looking for it. ”
I chewed the inside of my right cheek. “We need to talk to Georgia Browning again. We need to verify the story behind this pin. And we need to know where Jake is.” I put the pin in my pocket.
“Do you mean Mary’s son?” Martha pointed. “He’s over in the common area, having some coffee.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Remembering that moment, I realize that this was it, when it all fell together for me. Not what was going on—that was still going to take a little time. No, but who Mickey Paxton really was. Is. Whatever.
When we looked at each other after hearing that Jake was in the next room, it only took two seconds for me to jump up and say, “Let’s go,” while it took Mickey two seconds to jump up at the same time and say, “You stay here. I’ll take a look.”
Usually I wouldn’t go for that. I’d say, what the hell, mister, I’ve got every right to confront this guy and don’t treat me like your little lady, you overblown piece of macho hoo-ha.