Jex Malone

by C. L. Gaber

  Gold stiletto Manolos (hers) tap nervously under the table.

  Even the menu divides us. When we order, I go for enchiladas with extra cheese, he orders a huge steak burrito, and Sandy asks for a dinner salad with oil and vinegar.

  On the side.

  Yes. That. Would. Be. All.

  “You would do well in a Pilates class,” Sandy babbles on. “At your age, it would take absolutely no time to get rid of that baby fat.”

  Ouch. Can my dad arrest her for body harassment? Or perhaps this is a full-body assault. Even my mom the vegan doesn’t comment on my thigh meat.

  But there is no time to arrest her because out of the corner of my left eye, I notice a middle-aged woman swinging a serious dirty-blonde power bob, and she’s coolly sauntering up to our table. Spotting her from a few yards away, I zero in because people-watching is so much better than listening to Sandy go on about the war against cellulite.

  Everyone in the restaurant seems to know the power bob. A few nervous people call out a quick hello, and she even stops at one table to … sign an autograph. Warning lights go off when the woman zeroes in on my father with a laser stare as she makes her way past another gaggle of admirers.

  Old girlfriend?

  Too hard edged.

  The woman is dressed in what looks like an extremely expensive black pantsuit that must have one of the major designer labels tucked inside. Her nails are long and ruby red. I note the seriously tall black pumps, Chanel purse, and the cell phone permanently clutched in her right hand.

  “Well, well, well … Detective Malone,” the woman says in a low, powerful voice when she finally reaches her destination. “I’m sure you’re thrilled to see Katt.”

  It’s like someone flipped an invisible switch, because Dad matches the woman for intensity. In a matter of seconds, he goes from nervous father to dead-serious cop. He looks like he could kill, and the way his eyes narrow forces me into a rare double take. A quick chill slips down my spine.

  Dad means business.

  “Katt,” he says in his hard cop tone. “We can skip the BS. What do you want?”

  “Not happy to see your favorite Katt woman?” She pretends to purr, but she’s not good at being girly. “Katt is so happy to see you because, of course, and I will cut to the chase, the anniversary of poor Patty Matthews’s disappearance is in a few weeks.”

  It’s like fireworks are going off in my head! Patty freaking Matthews! Maybe she is a ghost who is haunting me now.

  “Any thoughts on the case? Any idea where she’s buried? We’re doing a three-part special,” Katt announces. “I’m calling the three-parter: ‘Teen Queen—Thirteen Years Gone, But Never Forgotten. Where Is the Body Buried? And Are Your Kids Really Safe?’”

  My eyes pop and under the table, I begin to work on another cuticle.

  Now, this is getting interesting.

  “You know, young girl. Vanished. Lived around the block from you, Mr. Robocop. Case never solved. Ring any bells, handsome?” Katt continues to prod. It’s like poking a stick into a raging bull. Dad just continues to sneer in her direction.

  Katt feigns the biggest fake smile I have ever seen—including the one that Sandy just bestowed on my father when he ordered low-fat guacamole. Accompanying that gash of red lipstick are the straightest teeth on the planet. I figure this woman is either on TV or works for an orthodontist.

  Dad is stonefaced now, and Sandy has pasted on her usual look of confusion, which I don’t think is necessarily an act. So, Katt pounces in another direction. It happens so suddenly that I almost spill my delightfully sugary soda. Who knew a Mexican soda actually had extra sugar in it?

  “Katt Kaetan,” the woman says, holding out those talons for me—me!—to shake.

  I offer my hand because I was raised to be polite, right? Katt grasps it as she continues to talk. “I’m an investigative reporter for KTNK-TV. And true to my name, when I see a story I pounce.

  “Are you … the daughter?” Katt directs her laser-beam stare into my face and I lean forward to loudly sip what remains of that drink. I need this soda. For energy. Katt is not grossed out and keeps asking questions as I avoid chewing the ice out of nerves.

  Be cool. You’re on a case now. You’re part of a freaking girl detective agency. You’re a Drew-Id. You are Nancy for a new age. Don’t let her see you sweat. Bad. For. Business.

  “Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around. Did your mom think your father’s neighborhood was just too unsafe for a young girl? You live right around the corner from the Teen Queen. That’s what I dubbed tragic Patty Matthews. A gorgeous little girl whose reign on earth ended so sadly when she … expired,” Katt continues in machine-gun fashion.

  “That’s more than enough, Katt,” Dad says in a low voice that sounds absolutely lethal now. “Two more seconds and this restaurant won’t be safe. For you.”

  “Well, I’ve never,” Katt begins.

  “I’m sure you have,” he interjects, standing up and hovering now like a grizzly bear. “This conversation is over.”

  “Detective Malone, you never change,” she says, merrily blowing him a little kiss. “Anyhow, Katt knows when she’s not wanted, but don’t be surprised if you see me and my crew in your neighborhood for our anniversary piece. Pouncing—just like I said.

  “Toodles,” Katt tosses out, turning on her high heels.

  “Toodles?” Sandy repeats a few seconds later. “What does that even mean?”

  Dad stands for a few seconds longer than necessary to be intimidating, never taking his gaze off this reporter woman. Then he sits down again and takes a big swig of beer. I almost feel sorry for him—emphasis on almost.

  “Where is that guacamole made at the table?” I insert, trying to break the tension. “And clearly, I’m going to need another soda here. Throat. Very dry. De-hydration.”

  No one seems interested in my medical diagnosis.

  Clearing the rage out of his throat, Dad says, “That was unfortunate, girls, but we won’t let it ruin our evening. Now … Sandy, you were saying something about giving Jex a few free gym passes. Maybe we could all work out together. I could stand a few hours in the weight room.”

  Nice way of flipping your emotions on a dime, Dad.

  “Heavens!” Sandy purrs and rubs his muscular arm like she’s in a forest trying to rub one thin piece of wood and a large one together to create fire. She earns a broad grin and a little arm tap, which is more than someone else on this Titanic ride known as our big night on the town.

  “Hey, Detective,” I suddenly call out to my father, whose head snaps my way because it is a weird way to address him.

  “Hey, what?” he retorts with a cautious smile, carefully modulating his voice back to normal.

  “Hey, do you think I’m actually safe home alone all day long?” I toss out, trying to sound casually concerned. “I mean, the girls were telling me that it’s not always such a safe neighborhood—and now this woman with her dead-girl report is making me a little nervous.”

  “It’s very safe,” interrupts my father, narrowing his eyes. “The neighborhood is on my beat, so it’s virtually a crime-free zone. We haven’t had anything happen, let alone a major crime, in years.

  “Why do you ask?” he demands.

  I gulp some air for courage.

  “I ask because the girls were telling me about Patty Matthews, too. I guess the neighborhood wasn’t so virtually safe for her,” I pose.

  Then I wait.

  For him to react.

  But he doesn’t even flinch. He’s good, too.

  “Is that the major crime you’re talking about?” I add, nervously clutching my fingers under the table because I’m pushing it pretty far. And where the heck is that soda for courage?

  Dad shoots me a hard stare. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he states, locking me in his hard-edge cop gaze. “And by the way, that girl isn’t missing. She’s dead. Gone. Her own drunken father probably tossed her down a staircase an
d then buried her in the desert.”

  I snap my new taco chip and then let the pieces fall to the table.

  “How can you be sure she’s dead?” I demand, lasering in on my dad in just the same way he did to me. Like father, like daughter.

  Like it. Or not.

  “My friends inform me that nobody exactly found a body, you know,” I say. “No body. No murder victim.”

  “I watch CSI,” I gulp, chugging my water now.

  Looking like he might just reach over and strangle me, Dad keeps his voice lethally low and his fists balled up on top of the table.

  “No, we didn’t find a body floating in Lake Mead or buried in her front yard under a grapefruit tree, but there was evidence that … ” he bites out and then a female shriek stops him mid-sentence.

  “Oh my God! All this talk of death! I can’t take it anymore. I will have a breakdown,” Sandy interrupts, desperately trying to change the subject.

  We ignore her.

  “So, you really think she’s dead, like as in dead-dead?” I say, leaning closer.

  He is clearly furious, but won’t unleash it.

  “I really think that’s none of your … concern,” he states in a blunt tone as we continue to lock eyes in our own game of father-daughter chicken. When he leans in, it takes everything in me not to retreat, but I hold my ground. So does he. And then it happens when we least expect it.

  “Everyone, freeze!” shouts a female voice. “Look at Sandy right now. Eyes on me.”

  I glance at Sandy for one reason, which is that she’s so freakin’ weird.

  “I’m going to the little girl’s room,” Sandy announces in an easy-breezy voice that’s so annoying I want to throw the entire basket of chips at her … and these are damn good chips.

  “When I come back, I don’t want any of this scary talk. In fact, Jexy doll, you should come with me to the bathroom because us girly girls always do that together,” Sandy chirps, winking at my so-called father.

  I’m not even sure what makes my strappy sandals rise to the standing position, but suddenly I’m following the powder puff to the powder room, chips in my mouth and crunching loudly as I clomp along wondering why my mother couldn’t have raised me to be a rude brat who just told off her father’s love interests.

  The bathroom looks like a little trip to Mexico complete with hand painted tiles on the sink and maps of Cabo and Acapulco on the walls.

  “I’ll just wash my hands and wait for you out here,” I say in a glum voice and earn, yes, an actual minihug from the prom queen. No one told me that there would be actual touching.

  A few minutes and two washes later, I can’t decide if I should abandon Sandy and go back to my seat to face Mad Dad or wait for Sandy to give birth to something in that stall.

  The question becomes moot when I hear the tap-tap of stiletto heels making their clacking sound across the hand painted tile floor.

  Katt Kaetan chooses the sink next to me on the Cabo side and looks in the mirror while slowly washing her hands like she’s about to do surgery, which in a way she is. It takes her at least six tries at the water, but I learn she’s patient. Very patient.

  “So, you’re the daughter. Do you live here? Why are you here now?” Katt asks, not skipping a beat. Her voice is so pleasantly smooth and calm and contains such authority that she sounds like a high school principal.

  At that moment, something inside me just snaps.

  “That’s a great question, Katt. Why am I even here?” I say to the older woman. “I’ve been wondering that myself, although by here do you mean this dumb restaurant or here as in the stupid, overheated state of Nevada?”

  Instantly, Katt’s brows furrow. That wasn’t the answer she expected.

  “You seem … unhappy with your father,” Katt lobs. “I mean, I totally sympathize. Your dad is a really intense guy.”

  I just nod, praying that I won’t lose it.

  Katt continues, “So, how is your summer going? I’m sure it isn’t fun to eat out with Daddy’s girlfriend. If I were in your shoes, I’d be climbing the walls.

  “Bimbo,” Katt mouths so Sandy can’t hear her.

  That makes me almost laugh. Maybe this woman does understand me. She certainly has a line on Sandy. For some reason, I really feel like talking to her.

  “I barely know my dad,” I say in a low voice.

  “How is that even possible?” Katt asks, putting down her hand sanitizer to place one hand gently on my shoulder. The look of concern in her eyes is warm, protective, and even motherly. God, I really miss my mom.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just never saw him much over the years,” I respond.

  “That’s terrible,” Katt replies. “But maybe that’s because of the big case. Is that the reason your parents’ marriage broke up? There is always a personal cost of murder. For everyone involved.”

  “Yes,” I blurt. “They broke up because he was so obsessed. My mom couldn’t take it anymore. We even moved across the country to get away from it all.”

  “And then he started dating Patty’s teacher, Miss Sandy,” Katt offers. “Another helping of terrible.”

  “I sort of didn’t know that Sandy was her teacher until this summer,” I state, eyes wide with shock. Katt even looks a little bit surprised.

  “PE. Not a real class that mattered,” Katt shares. “Anyway, you were saying that your dad was obsessed. Maybe that’s why he really bungled the case. Do you know anything about the case?”

  In one horrible moment, I know that I’ve said too much. It dawns on me that saying anything is too much. Even worse, I just said it to the wrong person who could probably really hurt my father. I’m not his biggest fan, but I don’t want to actually harm him.

  It’s not my fault! This woman has a magical way of making me say much more than I ever wanted to say. Suddenly, I just can’t shut up. And I keep on talking almost against my will!

  “I know a little bit about the case. Maybe … I don’t know,” I ramble on. “Actually, I know nothing. And I shouldn’t say anything more.”

  At just the right moment: a loud flush. I can hear Sandy in the stall breathing hard and adjusting that tight skirt before she comes out. She’s probably even breaking a sweat while she rolls her outfit back on.

  Katt puts a hand on my shoulders.

  “My parents were divorced. I know how hard it is,” she says in that kind voice. “Why don’t you come to my station later this week and we can talk more? We can get to know each other better—and I’ll give you a tour of a real TV station. It will be fun.”

  And with that, she clacks across the floor and out of the bathroom just in time for Sandy to emerge from a bathroom trip that took so long that I probably sunk my father while she was having a kidney transplant in there.

  “Sorry, baby,” Sandy says to me. “Lactose issues.”

  Sandy then hears the clacking.

  “OMG! Was that woman in here?” she demands. “Jex, don’t ever talk to that woman. She’s a word that rhymes with witch … and she hates your father’s guts.”

  At 3 A.M. with my eyes still wide open, I toss and turn in the dark under my Strawberry Shortcake comforter, which isn’t very comforting.

  And I worry, which is something I’m getting better at by the day.

  Chapter 14

  Famous Girl Detective Quote:

  “It’s hard to pin down. Little things. A small glance. An attitude. The unsaid things.”

  —Eve Whitfield, Ironside

  The girls wait until they see my dad race out of the driveway before they make a beeline to my house. This routine is actually becoming a habit—but today, morning can’t come soon enough.

  Not even knocking, Deva whips open the front door and yells, “Hey, Jersey Girl. Get out the Oreos and Evian. We’re here with the notebook!”

  I pop out of the kitchen, my frizzy red hair in a ponytail on the top of my head. I’m wearing my best girl-detective uniform, which is a white tank top and comfortable grunge gr
een cotton shorts from the five-dollar bin.

  “What took you so long? My father left a full five seconds ago,” I huff at Nat and Cissy, who are already in their designated seats at the kitchen table breaking into a fresh box of strawberry Pop-Tarts. The way the Pop-Tarts are going in this house, Dad must think I’m a real pig.

  Deva plops down next to me. Before we can even start, I tell her I have some big news courtesy of the grand drama that was dinner out with Daddy.

  “Katt Kaetan is a very big deal in this town,” Deva informs me in an authoritative tone, adjusting her black formfitting, shorty-short skirt.

  “She’s been voted three times the most influential woman in broadcasting in the Las Vegas media market and once was considered a frontrunner for the legal correspondent’s role on The Today Show until supposedly she didn’t test well with a national audience focus group after that unfortunate episode where she got one woman to confess on the air to her husband’s murder,” Deva continues. “Except she didn’t do it. The woman. She was innocent.”

  “She just wanted Katt to stop asking questions,” she sniffs, adding, “Their loss.”

  “How do you guys know so much about her?” I ask. I mean, what kind of sixteen-year-olds sit around watching the news?

  “Are you kidding?” Deva practically snorts. “Stylistically speaking, she’s my local-news idol. Who was she wearing? Dolce? Chanel? Oh, I bet Fendi. If I were Katt, I would only dress in Fendi, which totally says: ‘Don’t mess with me and stay out of my wide shot.’”

  I shake my head in disbelief and look at Nat, who could not be more bored at this moment in time. I shoot her a pleading glance and she senses a pause in the conversation and perks up.

  “Okay, okay, enough about Katt Kaetan. She’s inconsequential to the investigation anyway,” Nat pipes up, working to get us back on the right track.

  “We know she didn’t kill Patty, and you two seem to have forgotten we’ve got this notebook that no one else has seen. There could be all kinds of clues in there, so we need to keep ourselves focused,” Nat says.