It wasn’t exactly a dead end for Brogan, but it was close. He picked up his cell phone, sighed, and called Jones for a report on what Mary Grace was doing. Even if Mary Grace wouldn’t talk to him or return his phone calls, he would know that she was safe.
But Jones didn’t answer and the cell phone rolled over to voice mail.
Brogan frowned as he pushed the end button.
•
Mary Grace heard someone moan loudly behind her, so she stopped. There was a wet sounding thump and she started to turn back when two little boys ran across the road in front of her. Neither paying any attention to her at all, one was a tiny brunette with blue eyes and the other was an ashy blonde with similar blue eyes. Both looked like they were under the age of three. They veered off, stumbling towards the house, giggling their little tushies off as they went.
A moment later, a harassed mother followed them yelling, “JOHNNYS! Come back here!” The mother, a tired looking brunette with ash streaks in her hair, didn’t even glance in Mary Grace’s direction because she was too focused on the two toddlers.
Johnny’s? Or is that Johnnys in plural? Mary Grace frowned. How many Johnnys can there be around here? She slipped into the wooded area next to the large house and followed a well worn dirt trek around to the north of the building deftly avoiding the mother and the two children. There were occasional toys on the path, showing that the trail was a well-used play area for the children who were in habitation. Wait a minute, she thought suddenly. DTM’s kid is named Johnny, too. She shook her head. Maybe she had misheard.
The dirt conduit rambled through a copse of thick oak and pine trees, over a dry stream bed, and up a short hill where it came back into the clearing that was the back yard of the big house. From the rear, the house didn’t look much more presentable. There was tons of peeling paint, shutters that were hanging loosely, and doors that looked like they barely were able to shut because of the foundation’s shifting in the heat and the cold.
The sun was ducking behind the tree line and caused a pattern of shadows that she used to cross the lawn, feeling a like a pitiable spy from an awful ‘B’ movie. Giggling toddlers had scrambled back around to the front of the house with the ash-streaked mother in hot pursuit. Mary Grace sidled up to a window and peeked into the corner. Inside she saw two women picking up toys in a large living room area. Another toddler was playing with a push along ball-popper. A baby was crawling across the room and attempting to eat the carpet at random intervals. Neither of the women was familiar to Mary Grace. Neither was the toddler or the baby.
She moved to the next window and saw a room set up to be a living area like the first one. This one had several play pens in it and lots more toys. A day care? Mary Grace really wasn’t certain. Women who like babies? A large extended family?
The third window was a kitchen where two more women were making a meal. They were methodically preparing what looked like enough food to feed an army. One of the women was close to her pregnancy’s end; her bulging stomach kept getting in the way and she grumbled good-naturedly about it. A fourth window was a formal living room that appeared unused; the furniture was covered with ratty sheets. Then Mary Grace ran out of windows. She peered around the corner of the house and saw several windows on the second floor. And, she was pleased to see, there was a way of getting up there. A rose trellis had been built at some time on the western end of the house where most of the sun shined in the afternoons. It ran up to the second floor and most of the roses had fortuitously been trimmed back in the past.
Mary Grace looked around for anyone who would blab on her and didn’t see toddlers, detectives, or No. 3 in residence. So she climbed. Her semi-regular jogging schedule didn’t prepare her for the ascension. Having broken three supports on the trellis and barely avoided a nasty fall, she was wheezing by the time she got to the top. Additionally, she was ready to take up mountain climbing in the future as a way to get into really good shape and completely bummed that she would going down the same way. She was, however, cheered that the window was cracked open. Without a qualm, she pushed it up with one hand and climbed into what was a child’s bedroom.
Standing still for a moment, she looked around. Nothing suspicious jumped out at her. I’m getting to be an expert at breaking and entering. I’ll have to put that on my resume.
Not hearing anyone approaching she moved quietly into the hallway and into the next bedroom, glancing around her carefully. There were several bedrooms on the second floor of the house. Most were plain and held cribs. One had a bible on a nightstand and a young child asleep in the crib. Mary Grace paused to look at the child and was surprised to see Johnny, the original Johnny, snoozing happily away. If he’s here, where’s Deep Throat Mommy? Out buying formula? Out warning other women? Hmm?
When Mary Grace went into the last room on the floor, expertly avoiding the staircases and any sighting from below, she halted dumbfounded. It was another bedroom but every inch of the walls were covered with photographs. Little 3X4 photos from a disposable camera. Larger 4X6 photos from a digital camera. Larger blown-up photos that someone could get at Kinko’s. And the big-mama of all photographs faced the king sized bed and was framed in golden oak. Mary Grace was looking at a blown-up portrait of her face, her hair whipped away in the wind, and a slight smile on her lips.
There was a noise behind her and Mary Grace jumped a little. She wasn’t alone anymore. I’m in deep kakapoodoo, she thought. Wonder how loud I can scream?
Chapter Twenty-Two – Saturday, June 25th
For those nights one will be having high excitement, minimal waterproofed foundation, along with waterproofed mascara, and eight hour lipstick should be used. After all who wants to worry about make-up when she’s having a blast? - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints
When Brogan’s cell phone rang, he anxiously extracted it from his pocket to peer at the name on the caller ID. It was Vic Bloodsaw from the Arlington PD. Disappointed that it wasn’t Jones returning his call or Mary Grace returning any of his multiple, apologetic, countless calls, Brogan flipped it open and said, “Yo, Bloodsaw. Have any other wrecking balls falling on my girl’s cars lately?”
“Ha, ha,” Bloodsaw said ironically. “I can honestly say that this is a first in the APD history. Attempted murder by wrecking ball and no one got a good look at the perpetrator. This case sucks. Your girl is a walking trouble magnet. I’ve never seen anything like it in fifteen years of service. She’s got three fruitcakes looking to kill her, or study her reactions in the one case, and the third guy is nearly unstoppable. I can’t wait to catch the guy and go to trial; he’s going to have a readymade scenario, the other guys did it. Really, he’s going to say that, no matter what. The other-dude-did-it defense in classic situation. That is, if we figure out who the third doer is.”
“Thanks,” Brogan growled. “It’s always to hear good news.”
“Okay, Mary Grace’s attraction to trouble aside, my forensics guy found something interesting on the Mazda Miata, which is why I’m calling you. You know, interagency cooperation and all that.” Bloodsaw paused and waited for Brogan to digest the information.
“You mean he found something on that metal pancake? A fingerprint?”
“No, but on the undercarriage there was something really neat,” Bloodsaw said. “A tracking device. Can you believe that? Real James Bond stuff. It’s about the size of hearing aid battery and about as thick, and my guy says it has a range of about a half-mile.”
Brogan frowned. “Like something the police would use? Or maybe the feds?”
Bloodsaw laughed. “That’s what I thought. The feds have no interest in Mary Grace, and I have an official report on that. And well, I keep up with police gadgets, and this thing is a little too whiz bang for us. The forensics guy said it cost over ten grand for one of these things. That’s just for the transmitter. It’s made in Germany and very high tech. So no police force around here has the budget for tracking Mary Grace Castilla with it, no matter how big her cup
size is.”
“Hey,” Brogan snarled.
“Sorry, you know what I mean.”
“So this tracking device is pretty exceptional?”
“Yeah. Only one distributor in the area. And I just got off the phone with him.”
Brogan waited impatiently. “And?”
“Okay, okay. He sold two of these babies in six months. One to a dotcom businessman from Houston who wanted to put it on his kid’s car. Kid’s sixteen and raring to go in her brand new Corvette. I talked to him after I talked to the distributor. I’ll have a Houston uniform go confirm that the tracking device is, in fact, on the Corvette, to eliminate him as a suspect. Regardless, I don’t think the Houston guy has any idea who Mary Grace Castilla is.”
“And the other one?”
“It was sold to a woman who didn’t say why she wanted it. She paid with a credit card with a company name and the address is in Grand Prairie. You want to meet me there?”
Brogan didn’t hesitate. “How soon can you get there?”
•
Ivan stood there in the doorway, looking at Mary Grace, surrounded by many, many photographs of Mary Grace. She blinked. It was actually Ivan Novokov, a Russian emigrant who she had dated on and off for six months before he had shortsightedly revealed his nefarious master plan to her which had indicated that his Slinky was ever so slightly kinked. It was the same plan that involved populating the world with little Ivan juniors with as many different women as possible. Since the break up, or the immaculate dumping as she liked to think of it, he’d call every once in a while and talk about all the women he was boinking. And the children he was propagating. The last time they’d talked, or mostly she had listened, he had three children under the age of two and two on the way. All of which were different women, and according to Ivan, they were all okay with the ongoing system.
Mary Grace blinked again. It was definitively Ivan. He was a solid six foot even. He had black hair and blue eyes, a perfect complement to her. He had chiseled features and a physique he kept buff with steady exercise and weight lifting. She hadn’t noticed particularly that he didn’t seem to have a day job so he had time to work on his personal appearance. He had charm, charisma, and he was willing to wait until Mary Grace was certain that she wanted to sleep with him. And doesn’t that make you look like an extra big slut with what happened with Brogan and how fast it happened? Not to mention how many times it happened?
Finally, it dawned on Mary Grace after the break up that he used women for money and sex, as well as for the furthering of his personal, strange ambitions. He had borrowed small amounts from her, but drove a recent model Mercedes and wore fairly nice clothes, the kind that didn’t come straight off a rack. She had been going through an is-it-ever-going-to-happen-to-me stage and Ivan had good looks and charm. Plus he didn’t seem to want to push her into anything she didn’t want.
Mary Grace had figured out even before Ivan had told her about his master plan that he wasn’t for her. There was too much time where he was off doing something he couldn’t account for and too much secretive activity on his cell phone. She had come to the conclusion that he was married and then he had let his reality bomb go. The upshot was that he hadn’t been married. She had declined to participate in his fantasy world and truthfully, Ivan hadn’t seemed overly upset. He’d even stayed in intermittent contact with her.
When it was all over, Mary Grace had been pleasantly surprised that she wasn’t overly upset. She had realized at that point that while Ivan was a charming, cute hunk with an attractive accent, he didn’t make her blood boil. Unlike a certain detective I could name. However, from his demeanor and actions, Ivan hadn’t seemed all that troubled that she had dumped him. He had been cordial and even friendly on subsequent phone calls.
But the walls around her testified to another truth. Was Ivan No. 3? Was Ivan the poorly disguised women/person in a cheap red wig and a trench coat? Had his so-called love turned to hatred? Maybe he was of the opinion that if he couldn’t have her then no one could? Was it all some bizarre coincidence that Trey first cut her brake lines, followed by Morgan’s explosive device attached to her rental car, concluded by the shooting attack by Ivan? Her hand surreptitiously slipped into the purse she had anchored over her head and body and found the handle of the Taser gun that Callie had given her. One finger moved the safety mechanism to the off position.
However, there was another reality. Ivan appeared absolutely flabbergasted that Mary Grace was standing there in that room at that time. He was sincerely amazed. She could see it in his face. Finally, he said with his agreeable accent thickening his words, “What the hell?”
“Hey, Ivan,” Mary Grace said politely. “You want to explain all of the pictures on the walls of me?”
Ivan stared at her. His mouth opened and then suddenly, he spewed out, “I knew you would come to me, my darling one, lyubimaya moya, solnyshko moyo, zaychik moy.” He opened his arms up wide as if to envelope her in them.
Mary Grace brought the Taser gun out and shot him with it. She was surprised that the probes sank into him right through his clothing. When he fell down with a big thud, she was astonished that it had been so easy.
•
Brogan was in his police sedan, halfway to the address that Bloodsaw had given him when the police radio went off, asking for him personally. He rolled his eyes and answered warily. “Brogan here.”
The police operator patched him through to a patrolman in Northern Dallas. “Sims here, Sir,” the kid said. “I’m out of the 9th.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got a public disturbance call here. She says she knows you and that I should call you for verification. She says you’ll explain everything.”
The radio crackled into silence. Brogan finally said hopefully, “Mary Grace Castilla?”
Sims said, “No, Ghita Rose Castilla. Are they related?”
Brogan tried to slump into the car’s bench seat and remembered he was actually in the process of driving. Son of a bitch, why me? “What has she done?”
There was a crackle and a grunt, and then Ghita said into the radio, “Detective, we were looking for the blonde haired mother, you know. The one Mary Grace calls Deep Throat Mommy.” The radio sputtered again and Sims said, “Ma’am, you can’t take that from me, and if you touch this mike again I’m going to have to arrest you. But first I might have to shoot you.”
Jesus above, he thought. She lives in Florida. Mary Grace told me that. She won’t be around most of the time. I won’t have to visit except once a year and I can stay on the beach if I have to, just to make Mary Grace happy. Brogan winced at the direction of his thoughts. Then he said, “Where’s your position, Sims?”
“Babies Я Us in North Dallas,” Sims answered promptly. “Sorry about that, Sir.”
Brogan groaned. “Ask her if she found the woman they’re looking for.”
Sims came back a moment later and said, “No, Sir. She was badgering the clerks in the store and the management called the police to remove her. But she says she can’t get in touch with Mary Grace…what’s that? Oh, you know, Sir, her daughter, the one you’re schtupping. That was her word, not mine.”
Brogan licked his lips and fought for control. “Sims, do you know what a public radio is? Do you know that anyone can listen to police bands? How long have you been out of the academy?”
“Two weeks, Sir, and sorry.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“Uh, he’s, uh, inside the patrol car, Sir. He’s, well, he’s laughing so hard that he can’t seem to catch his breath. Strike that, he’s turning blue now. Maybe I should call a paramedic for him?”
“Would you do me a favor, Sims? Let Mrs. Castilla go with a warning.”
Sims said, “Yes, Sir. We were going to do that anyway, but she started flinging your name around.”
Brogan nearly put the mike down but he said quickly, “Ask her if Mary Grace was looking for Deep Thr-looking for the blonde haired woman, too.�
��
There was a pause. Sims said, “Yes, Sir.”
He frowned. “Where was Mary Grace looking?”
The answer was nearly immediate. “Grand Prairie area.”
Brogan cursed under his breath and his foot made the sedan go faster.
•
It happened fairly simply. Ivan fell down on the floor with a large thud. His eyes rolled up in his head and various muscles started to twitch at random. A thread of drool began to wind its way down his cheek. Mary Grace looked at the Taser gun with amazement and said, “Wow.”
Mary Grace was standing there trying to decide whether or not to run for the window she had come into or to bluff her way down to a phone. Suddenly, a horde of rapacious mommy-women appeared on the threshold, twittering just behind Ivan’s convulsive form. One put her hands over her cheeks and did her best Macaulay Culkin impression. Another one looked with abject horror at Ivan’s twitching body and then up at Mary Grace still holding the Taser gun.
“She KILLED Ivan!” the woman shrieked.
“He’s not dead,” Mary Grace protested mildly. She held up the Taser as evidence. “See, stun gun. This guy was stalking me. He was about to eviscerate me. Maybe he had you all brainwashed, too.”
Mary Grace could see that she wasn’t communicating well with the five women. They were all glaring at her as if she were the anti-Christ. Apparently, they weren’t brainwashed or being chained to the stove, or some cases, the crib. She put her hands up warningly, still holding the Taser gun. “Hey, I’m armed. Don’t get any ideas and give me a cell phone.”
A mousy brunette said, “She’s lying. Those things only have one shot and she used it. She can’t do anything else.”
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