by M. Z. Kelly
Brie turned into the Starlight Mobile Home Park. “Are you going to go?”
I nodded. “I think we need to put some closure on our past relationship and clear the air.”
Brie’s eyes held on me for a moment and she smiled. “Closure.”
“That’s all it is—honest.”
She pulled to the curb. “If you say so.”
I did my best to convince Brie that I had no ulterior motives in seeing Buck before we said our goodbyes. I then walked Bernie around the grounds of the Starlight, at the same time getting a couple of death stares from the elderly residents who were probably still worked up after the morning’s inquisition.
I was headed home when I saw Natalie and Mo talking to someone in front of their trailer. As I got closer, I realized they were with a man who was extremely obese. His rotund body and short arms and legs made me think about Humpty Dumpty in a dark suit. When I was a few feet away from them, I could tell the discussion was animated because my friends were using expletives they usually reserved for mortal enemies.
“I don’t care what your flippin’ notice says, get your fat ass off our property, or…” Natalie looked up and saw me and Bernie, “…or my friend’s dog will rip off your tiny tallywacker.”
“That means dick, dickhead” Mo said to the rotund man, “Just in case you want a legal definition of what you can’t find.”
The balding fat man laughed. “Your ad hominem attacks aside, you’ve been served with legal notice to vacate these premises within seventy-two hours.”
“What’s going on here?” I demanded.
Natalie said, “This here is Mean Gene…”
My friend’s comments were cut off by her adversary. “The suing machine.” Bernie growled as the lawyer took a bow and held out some paperwork. “I’m assuming you’re Kate Sexton. I’ve seen you on TV working some of your cases.” He stuck the wad of papers in my hand. “Consider yourself served.”
We all heard a yapping sound, turned, and saw there was a little dog in a car across the street.
“That’s Gene’s Chiweenie,” Mo explained
“Told you he had a little weenie,” Natalie offered.
Mean Gene scowled and regarded me. “Natasha might be small, but I would venture to say she could make dog food out of your mutt.”
Bernie growled. I wasn’t sure if he was sizing up the attorney or Natasha.
“Surely, there’s some way we can work this out,” I said. “We just moved in here and…”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve violated the terms of your lease by failing to maintain the high ethical standards set forth in the Starlight resident’s code. Since your names are all on the same lease, the eviction proceedings have been filed against all three of you.”
Mean Gene was headed for his car when Natalie called out, “We won’t stand for this. You’re gonna be hearin’ from our lawyer.”
Her threats seemed to have little impact on our slimy adversary. He laughed and asked, “Who might your lawyer be?”
“We’re represented by the legal defense team of Hermes Krump,” Mo said.
Mean Gene belly laughed. “Your lawyer sounds like a sexually transmitted disease. See you in court.”
After Mean Gene was gone, my friends insisted that I come by their trailer.
“I’ve only got a couple of minutes,” I said, wadding up my legal notice. “It’s been a long day.”
My friends’ home was a little larger than mine; a vintage coach in pristine condition that probably looked about the same as it had when it rolled off the assembly line—in 1953. I took a seat in their living room while Bernie got lots of love from Natalie. I noticed the news was on their TV.
“That crazy Reaper case you’re workin’s been all over the telly,” Natalie said. “They keep playing that tape of the girl’s body, but blur out the details at the last minute.”
“What’d he do to her?” Mo asked. My friend had a wig addiction. Tonight she was wearing something that reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Martha Washington. “According to Carmine Feckle, it was some kinda Day of the Dead murder.”
“Who?”
Mo cranked her head toward the TV. “He’s that crime guru. He just flew in from New York.
I released a breath, now remembering the reporter. Carmine Feckle was a little blowhard who managed to insert himself into every sensational murder case that came along, stirring up the public and the local politicians wherever he went. The little reporter was about forty, with brown hair, dark eyes, and the furtive expression of a small animal that bit you and then scurried off into the darkness.
Mo turned up the volume as Feckle talked about the crime, dragging out each syllable in every word he spoke for dramatic emphasis.
“Sources tell me this man they’re calling the Reaper is evil in its purest form. A corrosive substance, possibly acid, was poured on the girl’s body before she was dressed and posed.” He leaned in closer to the camera, his dark rodent eyes growing wider. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most inhumane and brutal attack I’ve ever encountered.”
I sighed. “Turn it off. I’ve heard enough.”
Mo killed the sound. “What about it, Kate? Is what he sayin’ true?”
I saw no reason to deny it, now that it was being broadcast to a nationwide TV audience. “I’m afraid so.”
“Why do you suppose the Reaper dressed her up and painted her?” Mo asked.
“Cause he’s some kinda psycho freak,” Natalie answered for me. “It’s like something from a Halloween slasher movie.”
“Except Halloween is about four months away,” I said. I looked at Mo. “We don’t know his motives. We’re just beginning to work the case.”
“I’ll put the lobe on the globe.”
“Huh?”
Mo rolled her eyes, like I was a clueless ninny. “I’ll put my ear to the ground, see what people on the streets are sayin’ ‘bout the killin’.”
Since Mo was a former pimp, she had lots of contacts and sometimes got worthwhile information from her sources. “I appreciate that.” I stood up. “I’m beat. See you both tomorrow.”
They both came over to me as I walked to the front door. “Don’t suppose you got us a mouthpiece today?” Mo asked, waving their eviction notice in my face.
“Sorry, no. I had the day from hell.”
My hefty friend looked at Natalie. “I guess that means we really do gotta go with Krump. You better give him a call, see if he can meet with us tomorrow night.”
Natalie agreed, adding, “I think our attorney needs a catchy slogan like Mean Gene’s.” Her hazel eyes widened. “Something just popped into me head. What about, ‘Don’t take a dump, call Krump’.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Maybe he can advertise on the side of porta-potties.”
I was almost out the door when I remembered something. “I’m not sure I can make it tomorrow night. I’m supposed to have a drink with Buck.”
“You two gonna saddle up again?” Natalie asked.
“I thought you and Noah was serious,” Mo said.
“It’s just a drink for old time’s sake, nothing more.”
Mo looked at Natalie like I’d just committed murder, but then went back to the topic at hand. “What about the eviction? If we don’t do somethin’, Mean Gene’s gonna kick us so far down the curb, we’ll end up in Pacoima.”
I sighed. “See if Krump can come by tomorrow night at nine. I’ll try to make it.”
TWELVE
I got a late start the next morning thanks to hair that didn’t cooperate, a dog that wanted to have sex with an old lady’s poodle, and a long line at the local Starbucks where I waited to have my brain infused with caffeine. To make matters worse, when I got to the station, Leo was waiting for me and said we were wanted at MRS, the department’s Media Relations Section, in downtown Los Angeles.
“From what I know, Commander Miles wants an update on our case because the national media has picked up on everything,” Leo said
as he drove us. “We drew the short straw, so Ozzie chose us to do the briefing.”
Sherry Miles had recently been named the head of MRS. She was a no-nonsense administrator, but also a survivor in a sometimes thankless job where power and politics prevailed.
“We can thank Carmine Feckle for this,” I said.
“Who?”
I sipped my coffee, then said, “He’s that little worm who does crime stories on one of the cable networks. He’s got everyone stirred up.”
As he waited for a green light to merge onto the freeway, Leo glanced over at me. “Long night?”
“It’s that obvious?”
My partner always had a smile. “You seem a little…preoccupied.”
“Mean Gene and his little weenie served us with eviction papers last night. Unless our lawyer pulls a miracle out of his hat, we’ll be living on the streets.”
“You can always stay with Lil and me, if it comes to that. We’ve got a spare room.”
“Thanks, but I couldn’t impose. If it comes down to having nowhere else to go, I guess I can stay with my mother.”
Just the thought of living with my new-age, adoptive mom sent a wave of depression through me. We’d had issues ever since I learned that she’d kept the truth about not being my biological mother from me. In the intervening months, I’d also learned that she and my love-dad had issues when they were married and she’d even been involved in a relationship with Ryan Cooper, the man who had murdered him. I knew that Cooper had used her to get back at my love-dad, but it was an act of betrayal that I didn’t know if I could ever get past.
Leo and I chatted about our case as he drove, the conversation eventually turning to my personal investigation into the death of my love-dad as we got to downtown Los Angeles. “Anything new on Kellen Malone and his ties to the Revelation?” Leo asked.
“I’ve been so busy with work and moving that I really haven’t had a chance to look into things further.” I finished the last of my coffee and cracked the rear window so Bernie could get some air. “I have a feeling that one of these days I’m going to need to have a conversation with Mr. Malone.” Not to mention, Oz.
“Just be careful. We’ve heard a lot of bad things about him.”
Almost everyone who knew Malone, including his own father, had said he was dangerous and would stop at nothing to control and manipulate those around him. It was rumored that he’d been involved in the Revelation at the highest levels. The secret organization was said to control much of the power in Hollywood and what went on in the studios.
As we pulled into a parking space at the Police Administration Building, I said, “For now, everything’s on the back burner.” I opened my door. “Let’s go do the bureaucratic waltz.”
We met with Commander Miles and her new assistant, Melvina Peters, in a sixth floor conference room down the hall from Chief Bradley East’s office. Mel, as she preferred to be called, had worked at Section One for a brief period of time before she’d been promoted. At that time, the department was looking into possibly opening an investigation into the death of Jean Winslow and reopening the murder case on my love-dad. While that decision was being reviewed, Peters had befriended me and asked a lot of personal questions about my dad’s life and death. I was convinced that she’d used our friendship and what I’d told her to help kill the investigation before it started. It was a betrayal I would never forget.
After a little small talk, Miles told us why we were there. “I’m going to brief the press on your case this afternoon and want an overview of our crime and the investigation.”
Leo and I took a few minutes going through what we knew, touching on the way our victim was posed and painted, the injuries she’d suffered, the horrific nature of her cause of death, and the possible ties to Day of the Dead rituals.
I finished up by saying, “We have a probable photo of the victim that was left at the crime scene, so a decision needs to be made on whether or not to release it to the press in the hope of identifying her.”
“We already know who she is,” Peters said.
Miles’ new assistant was tall, with dark hair and sultry eyes. If I was being generous, I’d have to say Peters was an attractive woman. If I wasn’t feeling generous, I’d have to say she was a skanky bitch. I wasn’t feeling generous today.
I looked at Miles, ignoring the bitch. “What can you tell us about her?”
Miles was short in stature, with a solid build that gave her an air of power and confidence. “A reporter has been in contact with a woman whose daughter went missing in Long Beach. She could be our victim.”
“What makes you think that?” Leo asked.
“She saw the video clip on the Internet and says it’s her daughter.”
“Because of the eyes,” Peters added. “Even though the victim was painted, she’s sure it’s her daughter because of her eyes.”
It seemed like a stretch to me, but I’d worked cases where the parents of murder victims had identified their children’s remains with very little physical evidence, so I couldn’t discount it.
Commander Miles ignored her new protégé and went on, “We’d like you to meet with…” She checked some paperwork in front of her, “…Gloria Lacroix and the reporter this morning, and show her the photograph before I talk to the press.”
I glanced at Leo, then back at the commander. I was about to agree to the request, when Peters said, “Just so you know, the victim’s mother is with Carmine Feckle.”
I groaned, something that caused Miles to chuckle. “I know Mr. Feckle can be difficult. That’s why I’m sending Detective Peters with you.”
“Why don’t you just bring a guillotine into the office and cut off my head.”
***
The truth is, I was fantasizing and hadn’t asked to be beheaded, but an hour later I wished I had. As it turned out, Leo had forgotten about having to appear in court on an old case. That left me at the mercy of Mel Peters as she drove Bernie and me to Long Beach to meet with Gloria Lacroix and Carmine Feckle.
“Maybe the victim’s mother knows who attacked her daughter,” Mel said as we turned off the freeway in Long Beach. “We might even be able to break the case open before the commander meets with the media.”
“Maybe,” I said, at the same time knowing the odds of that were about the same as me winning the lottery and taking a spaceship to Mars on the same day.
Peters went on. “The truth is, I kind of miss working the streets.”
I glanced at her. “Then why did you take the promotion?”
She looked at me, displaying a mouth full of white teeth that looked like Chiclets. “I plan to be running this department someday. It’s a step up the ladder.”
I should have kept my big mouth shut, but said, “Why would you give up real police work to become an administrator?”
The Chiclets went away and she glared at me. “Managing the department is real police work. It’s just that some people don’t realize that.”
I sighed. “If you say so.”
“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”
I played dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re angry because the department refused to give into your vendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
The glare and a stare came back. “It’s your personal mission to prove the department failed to properly investigate the death of Jean Winslow and your father. Everyone knows it.”
What she said was complete nonsense, but gave further credence to my belief that she was out to sabotage my attempt to get to the truth and further her own political aspirations at the same time.
It was my turn to glare at her. “Let’s get something straight. We might have to work together, but I have nothing to say to you about Jean Winslow, my father, or anything else in the known universe—ever!”
“Are we a little touchy?”
We turned into the neighborhood where Gloria Lacroix lived. “Do the world a favor. Keep y
our mouth shut and your idiotic opinions to yourself.”
“Just so you know, Commander Miles will get a full report on what you said.”
“Just so you know, I don’t give a shit.”
Twenty minutes later, we met with Gloria Lacroix and her reporter friend in a small apartment near a commercial district just outside the Long Beach city limits. After exchanging hellos, we took a seat in her living room, where Carmine Feckle wasted no time raising our expectations.
“Ms. Lacroix has no doubt that the girl shown in the Internet video is her daughter.” Feckle brought his hands together and wiggled his fingers like a nervous squirrel fingering some nuts. “She reported her daughter missing less than forty-eight hours ago.”
“She is my baby,” Lacroix whimpered. “Who would do this?”
“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Peters answered. “Is there anyone your daughter was having problems with lately, maybe someone who was angry with her?”
“Surely you’re not suggesting something this disturbed was the work of someone the girl knew,” Feckle said, his gaze sliding over Peters, then his companion.
Lacroix, who looked to be around forty and was heavyset, shook her head, then blew her nose. “My baby was a good girl. It makes no sense.”
“It’s my understanding that you have a photo to show us,” Feckle said.
Peters nodded and removed the photograph from her briefcase. I realized someone from the department must have tipped him off about the photo.
“Is this your daughter?” she asked, showing Lacroix the picture.
There was no verbal confirmation that it was Lacroix’s daughter, but we had no doubt that it was, based on the woman going into hysterics. It caused her reporter companion to scurry around like a rat trapped in a maze. Feckle got her a glass of water, more tissues, and even some cookies in an attempt to calm her down.
A half hour later, when there was a moment of composure, Feckle pulled out his phone and said, “I’m going to bring my camera crew in.”