by Harper Kim
“Good, because I need gas in my Crown Vic.” His grin widens, almost child-like, showing off his pearly whites.
“You always need gas.”
He shrugs and grins sarcastically. “Hey, what can I say. Sometimes finding the perfect doughnut takes a bit of driving.”
The drive over to IMCON electronics is decorated with red lights, a malfunctioning trolley gate, and a couch deposited onto the middle lane of the freeway. Being frustrated, at least, means I am in the perfect mood to question Jim Kingsbee. Jim is the guy Tess has been secretly seeing.
“Apparently, Ms. Holmes’ receptionist wasn’t too happy with the union, seemed a little jealous if you ask me.”
“Oh yeah? How do you figure?”
“At first he was all hostile and guarded when I told him I was with the SDPD and wanted to speak to Ms. Holmes. I thought he was one of those guys that hates cops but then I figured he had a thing for Ms. Holmes and didn’t like the fact that I was probing. I told him that I didn’t care what or who she did her business with, all I wanted was to speak to her regarding her daughter’s murder investigation. He just gawked at me, open-mouthed and all.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“So apparently she was out. When I asked where she was he kind of did this weird jerky thing with his face. Anyways, eventually he spilled his guts out when I told him his pretty-boy looks wouldn’t sit too well in prison if he didn’t start talking.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Pickering laughs. “I sure did. Thought I’d have a little fun, considering this case is adding five pounds to my waistline and giving me a scorcher of a headache. Anyways, he cracked like a Cracker Jack.”
“Like a Cracker Jack?”
Pickering shrugs his beefy shoulders. “I thought it sounded good.”
“Man, I wish I was there to see that.”
I park in front of the building. IMCON Electronics is a Fortune 500 company that was founded on innovation, vision, and drive. The Victorian-style corporate office building blends in nicely with the surrounding restaurants, hotels, and theatres in the heart of San Diego’s historic Gaslamp District.
Walking in through the large rotating glass door to the reception area is like entering the lobby of some exclusive five-star hotel instead of a business. I have to stop myself from being impressed and looking like a kid stepping into Santa’s workshop. If it weren’t for the large metallic sign mounted seamlessly to the front of the gigantic curved receptionist’s desk, no one would know we just stepped into a technological firm. With its swirly marble floors, buttery leather couches, a fifty-inch flat screen airing headlines from the morning news, large vases filled with fragrant flowers, and glass tables that stand out like works of art, this looks more like Wall Street than Silicon Valley.
I give Pickering a slight nudge. “What does this man do, exactly?”
“He has his hands in many cookie jars, that’s what.”
“What’s with you and food references?”
“Hey, so I like food. Sue me. Or better yet, feed me.”
“May I help you?” A pencil-thin woman in a very revealing pantsuit walks over. Her flaming red hair is pulled back into a loose chignon that frames her oval face and large green eyes. Red lipstick paints the thin lines of her lips, which pull tight over her sparkling white teeth when she smiles.
If this is how much a receptionist makes, I’m in the wrong profession. Suddenly aware of my plain face and childlike ponytail, I clear my throat. “We’re here to speak to Mr. Jim Kingsbee.”
“Mr. Kingsbee is busy all day with meetings,” the redhead preens.
“That’s okay, we’ll wait. I feel a break coming on real soon for him.” Pickering eagerly takes the lead and strolls over to a buttery leather couch, settling his wide ass comfortably into it. Already making himself at home, he kicks off his shoes and picks up a random newspaper from the stack in the corner.
The redhead chews on her bottom lip and turns to me, eyes pleading. She has no idea how to handle a guy that doesn’t fall on her every word. “Who may I ask is waiting to speak to Mr. Kingsbee?”
I flash my best smile. “You can tell him SDPD Homicide is waiting to speak to him. My name is Detective Kylie Kang and that is my partner, Detective Sean Pickering.”
The redhead eyes me suspiciously, but when she sees the badge and Glock I casually reveal under my jacket she nods like a bobblehead and rushes to the intercom to page her boss.
I stroll over to Pickering. “Is it just me or does it seem like everyone is sleeping with their boss?”
Pickering eyes me and says, “Speak for yourself. I’m a happily married man. And my boss just so happens to be a happily married man, too.”
“You mean your boss’s boss. The Lieutenant isn’t married. Last I heard he was single.”
He shrugs. “I can’t consider that kid to be my boss quite yet.”
“Declan is thirty-four.”
“Oh, now we’re on a first-name basis?”
“Shut up.”
Choosing the leather sofa opposite Pickering, I pick up Time magazine from the glass table and flip through it. Sure enough the main article is about Kingsbee and IMCON’s newest tablet PC to be unveiled in time to hit the consumer market this holiday season; marketing at its best.
Not quite five minutes passes before the now chirpy redhead calls us over. “Mr. Kingsbee will see you now.”
“How accommodating of him,” I say.
We follow the redhead down a long, brightly lit corridor lined with photos of Kingsbee glad-handing alongside the honchos of the world, including the President. I can’t help but smirk. This man is so full of shit, it is high time someone pokes a few holes into him. Finally, the case is starting to get a little fun.
Opening a heavy vault-like door with the touch of her finger, the redhead steps in, briskly introduces us and closes the door smoothly behind her as she exits.
Kingsbee sits in an oversized orthopedic chair behind an enormous mahogany desk, fiddling with the keys of his IMCON computer keyboard and talking animatedly. A Bluetooth headset glows smugly from his right ear. He lifts a finger to let us know it will only be a minute, which in the corporate world means five, besides also meaning I-am-just-jerking-you-around-to-show-you-how-important-I-am.
We take this time to survey the room, keeping our unimpressed expressions fixed as we make our way to the low, booth-like seats in front of Kingsbee’s throne. Once seated, we are barely eye level with the ledge of his desk. Pickering gives me a slight nudge and mouths what-a-jerk. Although Pickering’s face remains unreadable, I know he’s uncomfortable in the hobbit chair. He’ll probably need help getting out of it.
After what seems like fifteen minutes, Kingsbee clicks off the Bluetooth and grins, his arms opening wide in a grand gesture of welcome.
“So, how may I be of service?”
Clearing my throat, I say, “Do you know a Ms. Tess Holmes?”
Making a pyramid structure with his hands, Kingsbee leans back in his oversized chair, and takes a moment before speaking. “Holmes…Holmes…Hmmm…” Shaking his head he says, “Can’t say the name sounds familiar, should it?”
“We believe the name should. She was your most recent real estate agent.”
He theatrically arches his brow and says, “Oh yes, Tess Holmes from Kimble Realty, yes, now I remember.” Shrugging he says, “I’m a busy man Detectives, I can’t be expected to remember every employee that’s on my payroll.”
Grinning, I say, “You should remember this employee, since you’ve been spending a lot of personal time together, off-the-clock.”
Kingsbee wears a smile of amusement. “And what are you inferring?”
“We have witnesses that can place you and Ms. Holmes entering the Keating Hotel multiple times during the past year.”
Color rises in Kingsbee’s cheeks as he grips his armrest, but his smile lingers. “What witnesses?”
“Sorry Mr. Kingsbee, but we don’t disclose our sourc
es. Privacy is of utmost importance to us. But, now that we have your attention, have you met this girl before?” I push a photo of Loral, taken after graduation, in front of Kingsbee.
As he peers into the photo, I catch a flicker of recognition that is immediately washed over by nonchalance. Suddenly it becomes obvious: Kingsbee has been expecting this interrogation. “Is this the daughter that got killed?”
I nod.
“And you guys think I’m a suspect? What nerve. Do you know who I am?” His grin becomes a bit wider and now looks too wide to be comfortable, as if his trained business persona ports anger and fear through the same channel as happiness.
“I think what you are trying to say is: ‘Do you know who I know?’ And the answer is yes, that’s why we are here in your office.”
Clenching his exposed teeth and narrowing his eyes, he says, “Here’s the thing. I have never met her before. Sure, okay, so Tess and I met outside the office a few times. Our social interest was strictly between the two of us and ended between the two of us. We were consenting adults.”
Raising an eyebrow, Pickering asks, “Ended?”
“Yes, if you checked with your sources, they would have told you that Tess and I haven’t been meeting at the Keating Hotel for some time now.”
Pickering gives a brisk nod. “We’ll check on that. But before we do, please enlighten us by telling us when and who broke the relationship?”
Clearing his throat, Kingsbee’s face reddens. “Like I said before, there was no relationship. It was just a mutual social interest. I got bored and called it off. I don’t remember when. That’s how insignificant the so-called relationship was.”
“I see. Where were you the night of June nineteenth between nine and midnight?”
“Well now, I’d have to check my calendar.”
I motion for Kingsbee to begin his search. I am not leaving until he gives us his whereabouts on the night of the murder.
Without an ounce of theatrical display, Kingsbee obliges by thumbing his smartphone, most likely a prototype of IMCON’s next big thing. “You said between nine and midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Oh yes, here it is. I was with Tess that night. Our arrangement ended sometime between eight-thirty and nine. It might have ended later if it wasn’t for the interruption.”
“Interruption?”
A more relaxed smile teases his lips as he says, “Yes, you see Brett, her husband, called Tess and she left in a panic.” He reads our instant reactions and grins. “Hmmm, that’s interesting; I guess Tess didn’t tell you about that little detail. Maybe you should question the parents more thoroughly.”
“And from nine to midnight?”
“Well, after things ended with Tess, Candy called and we were pretty much here well past midnight, which I’m sure she’ll corroborate if you ask nicely.”
The smug look he wears sickens me.
“Now if you will excuse me, I’m a very busy man. If you have any more significant questions, please leave them with Candy at the front desk and she can direct you two to my lawyers.”
“That’s fine.” I can feel the puzzle pieces crumbling. I rise from my kiddie chair and say, “Just one last question. You have a black pug, correct?”
Confusion returns to his heated face. “Yes, so? I got all the dogs after the divorce.”
“We’re only interested in the pug. Can you bring your pug to the station?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Kingsbee, you can either bring the pug to the station or we’ll bring a swarm of reporters to your front door and collect the pug that way. Your choice.”
Kingsbee clenches his jaw. “I’ll bring the pug along with my lawyers.”
“Great,” I say sweetly, “that’s all for now.”
HOSPITAL ROOM (V):
Thursday, August 16, 2012
1:20 A.M.
THE ROOM SEEMED TO BE SPINNING AT HORRIFIC speed. White dots stippled his vision until he blinked them away. I’m dying. I must be dying. Turning his splotchy, jaundiced face to his napping friend Sgt. Whimplestein, Joe smirked. Let me tell you partner, I would sure like to be in your shoes. Just skating by without so much as a simple thought, pain, or grievance. Me? I’m over here coughing up blood, feeling dazed, confused, and then once the dope wears off, I feel excruciating pain radiate through my gut and down my spine until I can’t breathe.
Do you feel pain? I don’t think so. But then again, you probably lived as easy as you’re going to die. What did you do that was so great? Huh? Invent some gadget? Teach? Whatever. Probably weren’t a politician or a mooch, I’ll bet. But look at you now, mooching off the State’s dime—my dime—to keep you ticking. And I’m no better…
Huh? Me? I thought I was a good person. My wife thought I was a good person. I saved her life, you know. I saved her life. (He beats his breast.)
I.
Saved.
Her.
Life.
I was trying to save her life again…but—(a tear welled up in his eye and he brushed it away)—I don’t know what went wrong…I don’t, I don’t remember so well, Whimpy.
Well, shit. Hey—were you a good neighbor, Whimpy? Did you keep your part of the sidewalk clear of trash, dog shit, and overgrown weeds? Did you wait to start any loud construction jobs until after nine in the morning and end ‘em before five at night? Were you quiet and respectful of others? Well, I sure as hell was. I was the best fuckin’ neighbor on the goddam BLOCK!
Joe’s voice reached a demented crescendo at this last word so it could be heard all the way down the hall at the nurse’s station desk. Nurse Freckles looked up, startled, and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing further, she shook her head and returned to her charts.
Neighbors are interesting though. You live next to strangers, practically, for a few months, years, maybe your entire life, and what do you really know about them? Their names? Where they work? Where their kids go to school? But do you take their word for it that they’re telling you the truth? If you ask me, most folks fabricate a plain vanilla, candy-coated cover story so you won’t get too close, won’t interfere in their private bubble and see the shit-stains inside that candy-coated shell.
Hmmm. I wonder about that sometimes.
Yeah, well I don’t know either. That’s why I’m asking you, you limp prick!
Anyways, it’s interesting. The fact that you live next to people and you don’t even know who they are or what they are. Have you checked the registered sex offenders website recently? I tell you my friend, it will knock your socks off how many of ‘em there are crawling around you. Way too many red dots for comfort. The dots almost cover the entire fuckin’ page. It’s like the website got infected with the chicken pox, that’s how many. Ahum! Gakm!
Wrapped up by his fifth coughing fit of the day, Joe pressed the call-button, upsetting his water cup in the process. Water spattered the sheets, beaded and dribbled down the side of the laminate tray table and puddled on the glossy white floor below.
Nurse Freckles scurried in, her face flushed. She seemed to have gotten stuck with the babysitting duties for Room 301 again. Joe felt a smidgen of pity, but not a lot, considering he was the sick one as he continued to hack up bloody specks into a tissue. She added a dose of morphine to his drip and within a few seconds the coughing fit subsided to a gentle gurgle. His lips peeled back as his lids grew heavy, letting a thin stream of bubbling mucus dribble out the side of his mouth. As she wiped his chin and watched him doze off, drifting in and out of consciousness, she prayed that he be taken soon.
Please God, please don’t let this man suffer anymore. Whatever his sins were, don’t you think he’s had enough? Let him go so he can be with his wife…
Chapter Twenty-One:
Friday, June 29, 2012
8:00 P.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
I watch from the two-way mirror as Brett paces the cold cement floor of the ten-by-ten interrogation room, or as the men and women in blue
like to call it, the box. He probably feels tired and dirty. He was coming back from a long run when he was taken in for questioning. He was denied a shower and fresh change of clothes, and left to simmer in fear for a couple hours. His sullen eyes zero in on mine and I flinch. It’s as if he can see me behind the stretch of dark wall that stands before him. After a while Brett relents and sinks into the metal chair.
Various monsters have sat in the same chair Brett is now sitting in, some spilling out their guts the moment guilt overrides their senses, others staying buttoned up to the end.
It seems everyone out there wants it to be Brett: the sicko stepdad strikes again. And he has no good alibi to prove otherwise.
According to Leila, after the incident seventeen years ago, Brett didn’t speak much. His appetite diminished until all he ate was plain oatmeal flakes drowned in cold milk. His normally jovial face and friendly demeanor were overshadowed with stoicism and bitterness.
The scandal was big news for a town as small and close-knit as Walnut.
Their father, Gary Ficks, like everyone else in Walnut, took Brett’s silence as a sign of guilt. When Brett left to attend UCLA in the fall, Gary hoped the rumors and passing jeers would diminish, or at least abate some. But when Brett returned home that Winter Break for good—he dropped out after failing all his classes—Gary snapped and told his son to get a life and leave his alone.
Brett walked out the door with a couple hundred dollars in his wallet and his Mercedes convertible.
No one understood what happened or what went on between Brett and me that day. If they had not been instantly so preoccupied with damage control, with preserving their personal and professional reputations—if they had taken even a moment out of their self-indulgent lives to actually try to listen to Brett’s side—they would have understood that Brett was the victim, not me.