by M. Z. Kelly
“If our suspect is using the card at an ATM, the transactions are all photographed,” I said.
“They’re working on trying to get social security to trace the card back to the ATMs where it was used. Now it’s hurry up and wait for the federal bureaucrats to get back to us.”
We spent the afternoon waiting for the feds. In the meantime, I worked on a backlog of other cases and assorted paperwork. Jessica and I did our best to avoid contact or communication.
Near the end of the workday, Bernie and I took some completed files to Homicide Special in Los Angeles. After I turned in the files, I stopped by the cold case unit so that I could thank John Duncan for loaning Pearl the murder files on my father.
Duncan, who was pushing sixty, closed his office door behind us and said, “Don’t suppose you found out anything we can use?”
I shook my head. “It just confirmed what I already knew. My dad was investigating Discrete and Sal Madden when he was murdered.” I exhaled, feeling the fatigue of the day. “I was there when it happened, but don’t remember anything.”
“Just so you know, we haven’t given up, we’ll never give up.” Duncan brushed a hand through his thin gray hair. “I guess maybe what I should say is that I personally will never give up.”
“I appreciate that. More than you’ll know.” My eyes held on the stack of murder books on his desk for a moment. “What about Jimmy Marcello, John? The original reports don’t mention him. Did you look into his ties to Discrete and possibly to my father’s murder?”
“Everything points to Marcello being behind the scenes, especially with Madden’s drowning and his own brother’s disappearance. We even called in the feds a few years back to take a look at Marcello, but they were never able to get anything to stick.”
I thanked him again. Bernie and I were headed for the door when something occurred to me.
“The others?” I said. “What happened to the other officers who were working undercover with my dad?”
“There were only two other officers. Guy named Billy Tompkins who died of a coronary a couple of years ago. We questioned him a few months before he died, but he didn’t give us anything useful. The other officer was Sam Weber. He wasn’t much help, either. He just confirmed what everyone has speculated, that Marcello might have been involved.”
“Is Weber still in this area?”
“Last we checked, he was living at one of those retirement communities in Palm Springs.”
I thanked Duncan again, thinking that Palm Springs in the winter sounded like the perfect weekend getaway.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Carina is docked off the coast of Catalina. The blue green water of the island cove shimmers in the afternoon sunlight. A cool breeze washes over the two men sitting on deckchairs as they sip their drinks. Above them, a lone gull hovers, riding a current of air as it scans the water for something to scavenge.
“I miss the old days,” Jimmy Marcello says. “Sometimes I wish I could go back thirty years; start over.”
“It was just the three of us,” The Wolf agrees. “Life was a lot simpler.”
They watch as the two cops come up from the yacht’s lower deck and join them. The younger of the two men has silver hair that ruffles in the breeze. His companion is shorter and thin, with a face that seems permanently pinched with anger.
Marcello’s dark eyes cut to a porter who is instantly at the table, pouring two fingers of Cutty. The Wolf accepts the same, but the two cops decline the offer.
“What, you two on duty or someth’n?” Marcello asks, then tips the glass up. “Lighten up.” He motions to the porter who pours the men drinks.
Marcello looks at The Wolf, raises his glass again. “To the good old days.”
The Wolf nods, downs the Scotch. Even though they all go back decades, he can see the apprehension in the cops’ faces. The boss has that effect on people.
Marcello sets his glass down. His eyes narrow on the silver-haired detective. “So, what did she say?”
“To hear Mags tell it, nothing,” the man says. “But we know Halstead gave up her ties to the business, who knows what she told the detective.”
“And what about us?” Marcello asks.
The angry looking cop says, “I think we’re in the clear for now, but it’s hard to say how much longer that will last. There’s been a change in Mags since her sister died. And Sexton doesn’t know when to back off.”
The Wolf sees the wheels turning, the mob boss considering his options. “I think it’s time to shutter our operations,” Marcello finally says. “We’ve had a good run, but it’s time to move on.”
“You sure?” The older cop’s eyes almost disappear into the folds of his weathered face. “It’s a shame to close everything down after all these years and the money we’ve made.”
“Sometimes you gotta take a step back to go forward. Discrete closes down tomorrow, the website, the offices, all of it.”
“And the loose ends?” the silver-haired cop asks.
Marcello sighs. “It’s a shame. Mags started working for me when she was just a kid. She’s been very loyal—a good employee, until now.”
“Loyalty doesn’t buy much these days.”
A nod. “She knows too much, just like West, only more. The client list alone could destroy a lot of lives, not to mention what would happen if she turned on me.” His gaze comes over to The Wolf. “I’m going to keep this one in-house. It could get complicated if we use you, considering the relationship issues. I’ll handle the matter personally. It’s the least I owe Mags.”
The Wolf nods. “I appreciate that.”
“What about Sexton?” the silver-haired cop asks.
“It’s a funny thing how people can operate under false assumptions. But, even a wrong assumption can make for a dangerous adversary. She’s persistent, if nothing else.” Marcello finishes his drink, looks at the silver-haired cop. “I’ll trust you to handle the detective.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Marcello gives the man a hard stare. “Make sure you do. Mistakes are not acceptable.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I spent the first day of my Sunday-Monday weekend driving to Palm Springs. I left Bernie with my mother, after warning her that my dog was not to be part of the Oscar waving demonstration scheduled for that evening.
Before I left home, I also checked with Pearl on our homeless murder cases. I learned that the feds had still not gotten back to us about the ATMs where Joshua Defoe’s debit card had been used. As usual, the feds were doing things in their own way, on their own schedule.
After checking with the department’s retirement division, I’d learned that Sam Weber lived just south of Palm Springs in Indio. As I drove through the retirement subdivision, I noticed that the houses all looked the same: brown stucco with red tile roofs, rock, instead of grass, in the front yards.
I found that Weber’s house was no exception. I stopped at the residence and learned from his wife that he was on the golf course.
I waited at the clubhouse until my father’s former partner came off the 18th green and introduced myself.
Weber gave me the once over and said, “A detective. Your father would be so proud.”
We found chairs on a patio, ordered drinks, and made small talk before Weber asked, “So what brings you all the way to my little desert paradise?”
I told him what I’d learned about my father’s investigation of Discrete, leaving out any of the recent details about the wedding murders and how the case might have a tie-in to his death.
“The escort company recently came up in a case we’re looking into,” I said. “Can you tell me how you and my dad were chosen for the investigation of Discrete and what you learned?”
Weber was in his late sixties with shaggy gray hair and blue eyes that seemed lively and interested in what I had to say. “Overtime—that’s the only reason we volunteered. There was a third officer that was also assigned to the investigation, Bill
y Tompkins, but he’s gone now. We were all young and poor and needed the extra money, so we volunteered for the assignment.”
“I can imagine. My dad was trying to raise three kids at the time.”
The waiter brought over our drinks before Weber continued. “As for what we learned?” He paused and shrugged. “Can’t really say we learned much of anything, except that powerful people make their own rules.”
“Can you explain what you mean?”
“Sal Madden was running Discrete back then, but everyone knew Jimmy and Tony Marcello were the power behind the business. Everyone also knew that Discrete was a front for prostitution. Rumor had it the business was being used by a lot of high rollers. The department was starting to get some complaints. I think a few of them were coming from the wives and girlfriends of the johns, so the three of us volunteered to go undercover.”
“You mean to act as johns?”
“Yes, but we had strict rules—especially back then. We wore a wire. The idea was to not pay for the date until the girls offered sex for money. We were supposed to make sure that they solicited us.” Weber sipped his drink. “Long story short, it didn’t go down like we’d planned. After a few dates, it was clear somebody was tipping off the girls that we were cops. They wouldn’t initiate anything.”
“You mean somebody with the department?”
“That’s what we thought, but we had no proof. Like I said, guys like Jimmy and Tony made their own rules.”
I studied him for a moment and decided to ask the question that I’d come all the way to the desert to ask. “Do you think Jimmy Marcello could have been behind my father’s murder?”
Weber’s blue eyes held on mine. I thought maybe he was deciding something. Finally, he said, “You want the official answer, I say no. You want my opinion...” His gaze moved away for a moment and came back. “Maybe your dad stepped in the middle of something. Rumor had it that Jimmy and his brother, Tony, were involved in a dispute over the revenues from Discrete. Tony disappeared one day. Your father went up the chain and said he thought Jimmy was involved. He also said he thought somebody with the department was dirty behind our investigation. Nothing was ever proved. So the case hit a dead end.”
“You said my father went up the chain. Who in the department did he talk to?”
Weber fidgeted with his watch, shrugged. “Don’t know. Before I could ask him, it was too late. We got a call to come to Griffith Park.”
“Did you ever mention this to the investigators?”
Weber’s gaze moved over to a water fountain next to the clubhouse before coming back to me. “Wouldn’t have made any difference. There was no proof. I have no doubt that Jimmy Marcello has killed a lot of people. But I don’t think either of us will ever know if he killed your father.”
I spent another half hour with my father’s former partner. I got the impression that Sam Weber had spent the remainder of his career, after my father died, being afraid. I just wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of Jimmy Marcello or someone in the department. All I was sure about was that, one way or another, I would find out.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The sun was setting by the time I got back to Hollywood. I’d forgotten about it being Academy Awards night. Some of the city streets were blocked off, so I had to take a detour to get home. Since it was getting late, I decided to leave Bernie at Mom’s house for the night.
I opened the door, bracing myself for Screaming Orgasms and Mr. Peepers, but found the house dark and empty. Then I remembered. Natalie had said that their band was supposed to be on a special evening edition of Hollywood Daybreak.
I made myself a cup of tea and settled in front of the television. I watched for a few minutes as the program cut away to interviews on the red carpet before the host of Hollywood Daybreak announced the upcoming performance of Electric hair.
Holly Sawyer said that the band’s last performance had gone viral on YouTube. Viral? What could Electric Hair have done to go viral over the last couple of days, other than leaving their audience dumbfounded and in a state of shock?
After a few commercials, Sawyer came back on the screen and said, “And now, with their hit single it’s Electric Hair performing, ‘Big Booty Bang-Bang.’”
I watched as the camera cut away to my roommates. They were standing in the courtyard of a hotel in front of a koi pond with their crazy hair and skin-tight costumes. At first, I couldn’t understand what had caused the Internet sensation. Then the music started, they began dancing, and I understood what all that fuss was about.
My roommates began to gyrate, keeping in time to the music, as they did the “Big Booty Bang-Bang.” The dance movement involved the performer slapping a hand on each butt cheek, then placing their hands on their waist, before finally making a sudden gyrating pelvic thrust.
I had to admit that when Natalie and Mo did the movement there was something suggestive, even sensual in their performance. But when the camera focused on Tex and Prissy, their difference in height and appearance made it look like that they were doing some ridiculous psycho-zombie version of the dance.
And then there was Nanadonna. In her skin tight, body-revealing garish outfit, the “Big Booty Bang-Bang” looked like some crazy nursing home nightmare where they’d put an aphrodisiac in the applesauce. I watched in horror as Nana continued to gyrate and dance and thrust until...
“Oh my God,” I yelled.
Prissy’s great-grandmother lost her balance, fell backward off her platform shoes, and landed in the courtyard’s koi pond.
The camera moved in for a close up as Nanadonna’s chicken legs flailed, then parted, and one of the fish swam up looking like a whacked out piranha that was headed for an ancient dark cave.
I closed my eyes after that. I’d seen a lot of ghastly things in my life, but the thought of seeing Nanadonna penetrated by a fish was more than I could take.
I heard Holly Sawyer announcing that Nana was being rescued as I headed for the fridge, now desperate for something stronger than tea. I found a nearly empty bottle of wine, but then spotted a bottle of Tex’s energy drink, Chica Loca.
“What have I got to lose?” I said, thinking about my crazy roommates as I reached for the elixir.
Ten minutes later, I was beginning to understand why my friends found Tex’s concoction so appealing. The drink seemed to give me more energy, but at the same time I realized I was getting drunk, very drunk, in fact. I continued to sip Chica Loca while Holly Sawyer made another announcement.
“We’ve just learned about a demonstration occurring over on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from the Kodak Theater,” Sawyer said. “Let’s go to our roving reporter, Jennifer Williams. Jen?”
I watched as an attractive young blonde woman appeared on the street with a crowd of onlookers behind her. “There seems to have been an unexpected development here, Holly. A group, calling themselves, Oscars for Peace, has just arrived in front of the theater. According to a spokeswoman, the group is going to—how should I put this delicately—wave their private parts in support of world peace.”
I gasped as the camera cut away to my mother standing on the sidewalk with a couple dozen men and women. They all began shouting out, World Peace Now, and then started shedding their clothing.
What happened next was a combination wardrobe and technical malfunction. As the camera continued to focus on the demonstrators, I heard the announcer’s frantic voice in the background.
“Cut away...kill the video now...we’re live, the delay isn’t working...cut, cut, cut…”
It was too late. The graphic images of my nude mother and a bunch of her weenie waving peace-loving cohorts had been broadcast live on national TV to millions of people
“God help me,” I said, tossing down the last of my Loca Chica before fumbling for the remote and turning off the TV.
I was headed for the bedroom when I heard a noise from somewhere upstairs. It sounded like something had been knocked over.
“Who’s there
?” I called out.
Silence.
I staggered over to my purse, feeling the effects of Chica Loca, and finding my gun. I suddenly thought about Bernie not being with me. I wondered what my mother had done with my partner while she’d bared her body for global harmony.
From the foot of the stairs, I called out again. Silence. When I got to the top of the stairs, I heard movement from somewhere down the hallway.
Somebody was in the house! I had no doubt about it now. I took a deep breath, trying to regain some of my sobriety and composure as I called out again.
“Who’s there? Come out now. I’m a police officer and I’m armed.”
There was no answer. I moved forward, working my way slowly down the hallway. I opened the first of two bedroom doors and did a quick check of the room, finding nothing.
Then I came to what I decided was probably Nana’s room. I wasn’t sure because I’d never been upstairs before. I yelled out again, before pushing the door open. I heard a high-pitched screech followed by sudden movement. I moved my gun up, my finger tensing on the trigger as I prepared to fire.
“Cats?” I said, watching as a stream of cats ran down the hallway past me.
I lowered my weapon, blowing out a long breath. I dragged a hand through my hair, turned, and realized there was a shadowy figure standing at the end of the hallway. My heart thumped against my ribcage as the figure crouched down. Then I saw a hand moving up, holding a gun.
He fired!
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Did you report it to the department?” Charlie asked. We were on his patio, drinking coffee. It was late morning, the second day of my Sunday-Monday weekend. Bernie was still with my mother and I planned to pick him up later. I’d explained about the intruder shooting at me and missing before he ran down the hallway and out the front door.