by Gini Koch
Collin Toohey wasn’t living the high life, but he was doing much better than Andy Pfeiffer. He lived in Westchester, near to LAX, in a larger apartment complex than Pfeiffer’s. Sherlock found his parking place—his car was in it, and it wasn’t one of the three we’d seen at the studio.
There was plenty of guest parking available, so that was a plus. We parked nearby, I grabbed the duffel as a matter of course for this day, and we went to Toohey’s door. I knocked. There was no reply and no sound from inside. Sherlock rang the bell. Nothing.
We looked at each other. “What are the odds he’s out taking a walk instead of trying to rewrite a script from memory?” she asked quietly.
“No bet, honestly.”
“I’ll stay here. You go around and see what you can from the other side.”
I nodded and headed off. Toohey’s apartment was on the ground floor, so I wouldn’t have to climb up or over anything. There were small patios in the back of each apartment, however, and since the walls were six-footers, that was going to make seeing in a bit of a problem.
As I looked around for something to stand on, thinking that I should have stayed at the door and sent Sherlock to look over the wall, I felt rather than heard someone nearby.
I spun around to see a young teenaged girl looking at me over a nearby wall. “What are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.
“Ah... my... friend isn’t answering his door. I’m trying to see if he’s at home.”
“Some people use the phone.”
“I have,” I lied. “He hasn’t picked up.”
“I think I should report you as a creeper.”
“You can. And, frankly, that would be wise since I’m a strange man sneaking around the place where you live.”
She cocked her head at me. “You don’t look like a creeper.”
“I’m not, but I could be. So, you know, go with your instincts.” If she called the police, Sherlock would fix it. Besides, a girl her age should be careful, not chatty, with strange men sneaking about.
“My instincts say you’re not enough of a loser to be friends with Collin.”
“You know him?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. My mom says that he’s nice. I think he’s weird.”
“Weird how?”
“He never goes out.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean? He goes to his job, surely?”
She shook her head. “He hasn’t left the apartment for weeks. He used to, but then,” she shrugged, “he got weird.”
“How does he get food?”
“His friend brings it over. But Collin never leaves.” She made a face. “And I don’t think he ever cleans, either.”
“How so?”
“My room’s next to his. I can’t be near the wall anymore—it stinks. My mom says it’s just me being dramatic, but I have a very sensitive sense of smell and, gag, it’s horrible.”
I had a very bad feeling about this. “Could you go inside? I’m going to contact the police and I think we’re going to need to chat with you more about Collin.”
“I guess.” She dropped behind the wall and I heard a sliding door open and close.
I hurried back to Sherlock and told her what the girl had said. We both pulled on gloves, then Sherlock tried the door. It was locked, so she picked it. Quickly. “Should we enter this way?” I whispered.
“Time is, as always, of the essence. We can always lock it up again if there’s nothing sinister going on inside.”
“And if there is?”
“Then we suspected foul play and shouted out before we entered.” She opened the door slowly and sniffed. “The girl’s right; there’s something rotten in here.”
“Could just be trash.” Not that I thought it was.
We walked in. The place was spotless. It looked like a typical bachelor’s apartment—heavy emphasis on audio-visual, some framed movie posters, a small bookcase, furniture built for wear and tear. Everything was arranged just so, as if this was a model apartment, not a place where someone lived.
Sherlock opened the fridge. “Fully stocked,” she said softly. “Someone’s living here.”
It was a two-bedroom apartment; we could see the living room from the kitchen. Sherlock pulled the gun she wore at the small of her back and we moved to look in the hall closet. Filled with normal things and no person.
We checked the room and bathroom to the right. Nothing, though it was clear someone was sleeping here: the bed was hastily made and the toiletries in the bathroom had been recently used. No one in the closet, though there were some clothes and shoes.
Now we went to the bedroom on the left, first checking what looked like a closet but proved to house the small washer and dryer. There were some clothes with a big red “O” folded on top of the dryer. The smell was getting stronger.
“Brace yourself,” Sherlock said softly. Then she opened the bedroom door.
THERE WAS A body on the bed.
I’d been prepared since I’d spoken to the young girl, but it was still a shock. The body was wrapped in heavy duty clear plastic wrap and, from the looks—and not least the smell—of things, had been decomposing for several days.
There was an inordinate amount of potpourri sprinkled all over the bed and parts of the room. There was also a partially used case of Febreeze near the door.
Sherlock checked the closet and bathroom, which were clear. Then she called Straude.
While we waited, Sherlock searched the apartment and sent me to prep our young witness.
I knocked and she opened the door, still looking at me suspiciously. “Yes?”
“You know, you thought I was a creeper. Should you really open the door the moment I knock on it?”
“You said you weren’t a creeper.”
“A creeper would lie about that.”
“I guess. What’s going on with Collin? Is he dead?”
“You’re morbid. Accurate, but morbid. And why aren’t you in school?”
She shrugged. “I’m home sick.”
“You look fine to me, and I’m a doctor.”
“Not that kind of sick. Girl stuff sick.”
“Oh. Ah, you know, birth control pills can help with that.”
“My mom says that’s just an excuse girls use to get on the pill without their parents realizing they’re doing the deed.”
“Your mother sounds like a smart woman. Look, the police will be here soon. You’re going to need to give them a statement. You might want to call your mother, too. I’m sure they’ll want to ask her about Collin. And his friend.”
“Can I see the body?”
“Not in your delicate condition.”
She grimaced at me, then laughed. “You’re fun. Okay, can I come over there and not see the body?”
I heaved a sigh. “Yes, because my partner wants to talk to you. Call your mother first, though, please. I’ll wait.”
She waved her cell phone at me as she walked out and closed the door. “These are really cool. You should get one. I’ve been texting with her the whole time. She’s on her way home already.”
We joined Sherlock in Toohey’s apartment. She brought out a photograph she’d found on the bedroom dresser, showing an outdoor scene with a lot of people in the background and five men smiling and centered in the shot. “Is Collin one of these people?” she asked without preamble.
The girl nodded and pointed to the one on the end on the left. “That’s him.”
“That’s very interesting,” Sherlock said. “Watson, do you know why that’s so interesting?”
A test, in front of my new friend in sarcasm. Meaning I didn’t want to fail. So I studied the picture. The men were all white, very late teens or early twenties, some beefy, some slender. Four of them were quite tall and one was of average height, measuring them against the background, which was likely a fraternity house, going from the Greek letters Beta Theta Pi over their heads. All of them were wearing jackets with a big red ‘O’ on them.
There were some other people in the picture, hazy and out of focus, off to the sides and behind them. It appeared to be a barbeque or some other kind of party.
The man our witness had pointed out was one of the taller men. He had jet black hair, glasses, and a rather shy smile. The others looked like jocks, even the shorter man, but he looked more scholarly.
I took a closer look at the men in the picture. One was familiar. I’d met him earlier today. “That’s George Benning.” I pointed to the beefy man in the middle, who looked supremely pleased with himself.
“Our very own Campus King himself. Yes. What else?”
“He’s one of Collin’s friends,” the girl said. “He comes over once in a while.”
“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked her.
“Amily. With an ‘a,’ not an ‘e.’ It’s a southern thing, which we aren’t but my dad was.”
“My name is Sherlock, so, believe me, I’m not passing judgment.”
Amily grinned at her. “I like you. And the creeper. Wish you were our neighbors.”
“I’m flattered. Who else from this picture has visited?”
She pointed to the shorter man and another tall one on the other end of the picture. “Both of them. The short guy is the one who brings Collin his food and stuff.”
What Sherlock wanted me to realize hit me. “That man, the shorter one; he’s how everyone on the set described Collin Toohey. No one said tall with black hair.”
“The man on the bed is tall, and his hair appears black. Whether he was murdered or died of natural causes is what needs to be determined, and as quickly as possible.”
“Because the plot has thickened?” I asked.
“No. Because it’s becoming clearer by the minute.”
“Only to you, Sherlock.”
She smiled, then went back into the bedroom and came back with another picture, this one of Toohey and a very pretty young woman with dark hair. They had their arms around each other and looked very happy. It was a more recent picture—he looked older than the other picture and they were standing on the Santa Monica pier. “Do you recognize her?”
Amily nodded. “She’s his girlfriend. Well, she was.” She paused dramatically. “She was murdered.”
“Really?” Sherlock asked. “How?”
“I think it was like a rape at a bar kind of thing. Collin was hazy on it. But my mom probably knows all the details. Collin used to talk to her all the time before he got weird.”
“Amily, I’d like to get a detailed statement from you, if that’s okay.”
“Totally. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened since Christina came back to The Voice.”
“I weep for the youth of America,” I said quietly, as Sherlock’s eyes lit up.
“A fellow enthusiast! Amily, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
STRAUDE AND SAUNDERS had joined us, along with a medical examiner and a host of crime scene officers. Amily’s mother had also arrived, and between the two of them we were able to lock down a possible date of death: Collin Toohey had most likely died or been taken prisoner three weeks before he’d started work at the Glitterazzi set, but after he’d been hired. The ME felt that ‘prisoner’ was a good bet, based on a variety of factors that made sense to me, including the level of decomposition.
Calls to Jackson confirmed that Toohey had been hired via phone and email interviews and that no one had met him before he’d first come to the set. Apparently this was normal, since no one cared what the writer looked like, only that he or she could write well and fast. And Toohey had been finishing up another job, so his not wanting to take the time to meet in person, given the production company was known and established, wasn’t seen as odd.
Amily’s mother, Carol, said that Collin had suffered some tragedies in his life—an automobile accident that claimed a friend’s life, the loss of his fiancée. She’d put his becoming a recluse down to depression and was horrified to realize he’d been held captive five feet away from her.
While Sherlock reassured Carol that there wasn’t anything she could have done, she had Straude run the license plates of the cars parked in the Andenson spaces, but that was a dead end—the cars belonged to Antonelli, Jackson, and Irene. But Sherlock seemed pleased with the information.
The day had been a busy one and it was a shock to realize that we needed to get home so that I could get ready for my date.
“I’m not sure that I’ll make it, even so,” I fretted to Sherlock.
She cocked her head. “You know, Watson, you look fine. You could just go as is.”
“I’ve climbed and almost fallen off a ladder, wrestled a man in an alleyway, and been around two dead bodies, Sherlock. That’s not the look you should present on a first date.”
“Except The Woman already knows what you’ve been doing all day. Besides, if you take my car, I’m sure she’ll forgive you being a tiny bit rumpled.”
“You just want me to see if I can get her to confess as to why and how she got a copy of your key fob.”
“In part, yes. However, traffic is going to be terrible, and Lee can give me a ride home. Or,” she shrugged, “you can be late for your first date. Up to you, really.”
I knew when I was beaten. Besides, she was right: Irene lived in West Hollywood. Getting there from here during rush hour—which in Los Angeles was easily four hours long—wasn’t for the faint-hearted.
Sherlock had me use the duplicate fob, but otherwise simply told me to have a good time and be careful about discussing the case. “What do I say when Irene asks me about her case?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “If that happens, tell her that we’ve recovered the stolen property and see what she does.”
I left Sherlock and Amily talking reality shows and headed for the car. I still had the duffel and put it back into the trunk. The stack of papers, which hadn’t been tied or kept in a box, were now strewn all over Sherlock’s trunk.
I plopped the duffel down on top of the mess, and noticed something bound, in amongst all the loose papers. I grabbed it as I did my phone rang. It was Irene.
I closed the trunk and went to the driver’s door while I answered.
“John, I’m home now so I think we could still try for seven if you’re willing.”
“Willing and able as long as you don’t mind that I can’t get home to change first.”
“Oh, you looked rakish and handsome today. No need to change.”
Considering I was in jeans and a Henley, I hardly considered it a perfect look. But if Irene liked it, that was good enough for me. “Wonderful. Then I’ll be to you as soon as traffic allows.”
I dumped the bound pages onto the floor behind the driver’s seat and put the light jacket I always kept in the car over it, so the wind wouldn’t cause any issues with the paper. Then I headed off to the most terrifying thing I’d faced yet today—the 405 Freeway.
THERE WAS MUCH to be said for driving an Aston Martin, even in the worst traffic in the world. I felt far more attractive and successful when I was behind the wheel than I had a right to. The admiring and envious looks from other drivers didn’t hurt, either.
I tried to focus on the case while driving, but had to give that up; I was getting nowhere and couldn’t afford to get lost in thought. I turned on a classic rock station and just enjoyed being the coolest man on the road. By the time I reached Irene’s apartment building, I felt like a million dollars.
She was dressed in another kimono-style dress, this one a pale yellow with black trim. Clearly they were her signature look, which I couldn’t argue with. Same high heels, which I still approved of.
“What a lovely car,” she cooed as I helped her in.
“Isn’t it, though? I wish I could say it’s mine, but it’s Sherlock’s.”
“How thoughtful of her to let you borrow it.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
Irene beamed at me. “I’d have been happy if you’d picked me up on a bicycle, John,
but I’m flattered that you wanted to impress me.”
I laughed. “Is it working?”
“Oh, definitely.”
Sherlock had made reservations for us at Mr. Chow, which thrilled Irene. For all that she seemed to loathe her, Sherlock had gone out of her way to ensure that Irene and I had a wonderful evening. That was what friends were supposed to do for each other, of course, but I still found it touching.
We had to valet park, but if Irene noticed the key fob I handed to the valet, she didn’t mention it. Instead, we continued the conversation we’d been having, which was what had brought us both to California.
“A degree in medicine from Oxford and here you are, working as a private investigator,” she said as we waited for our table. “How amazing the world is.”
“Private consulting detective. It’s a little different. Not much different, but a little.”
She laughed. “That’s Sherlock’s thinking, isn’t it?”
“It is.” I was about to ask her how she’d found Sherlock, since it was clear that she hadn’t been referred by Andenson Productions, but we were taken to our table and the important business of choosing what to drink and eat claimed my attention.
I was careful to only have one alcoholic drink since I was driving, and Irene wasn’t a big drinker, either. We decided on the Beijing Duck and weren’t disappointed. By the time dessert arrived, I had to admit that this had been the best first date of my entire life.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Irene said as she sipped her coffee.
“Sherlock’s right.”
“About what?”
“I’m smitten.”
Irene smiled slowly, put her cup down, stood up slightly, leaned across, put her finger under my chin, drew me to her, and kissed me. A slow, lingering kiss that promised much more.
She sat back down and picked up her coffee. “I’m glad.”
I knew I was blushing but I didn’t care, though I took a good sip of coffee as well, to compose myself. “Where to after this?”