by Tristan Vick
“That’s why they call it a mystery,” Julie stated with her edgy grin and a dash of sarcasm.
Jersey made a sour face at Julie and was about to come back with something equally as snooty when a hitherto unheard voice announced from the back corner of the room.
“A snake-man!”
Startled, Jersey Blair screamed in fright. Spinning around, she saw a living, walking, talking scarecrow gazing at her with a giant grin on his face. She screamed again.
Baudrillard winced from all the shrieking and eyed Jersey as if he was quietly judging her. Which he was.
“What the hell is that?” Jersey demanded to know.
“It’s a scarecrow,” replied Dr. Baudrillard with the clinical dryness of an astute diagnostician.
“Are you sure you’re qualified for this job?” Julie asked Jersey in a snide tone. “Raggedy looking ragdoll with a burlap sack for a face. I mean, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what it is.”
John simply stood grinning at Jersey without saying anything, which made her even more uncomfortable. Turning back around to see the scarecrow, Jersey suddenly found him standing directly in front of her face. The unexpected surprise of his sudden proximity elicited another scream from her.
“For God’s sake, don’t do that!” Jersey Blair exclaimed.
“Many pardons,” John said in his most sincere tone.
“Go on,” Julie said as she looked at her partner, John Scarecrow. “You were saying something about a snake-man?”
“Yes, well, if she has no punctures of any kind, then the only reasonable explanation is she kissed something that was immune to the venom.”
“Are you suggesting she made out with a mongoose?” Jersey asked with a half laugh, amusing only herself.
“No, that would be ridiculous,” Scarecrow replied. “But once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
Growing impatient, Jersey got to the point, and asked, “Well, I’d say a snake-man is pretty damn improbable, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Scarecrow answered. “But not impossible.”
Jersey Blair laughed out loud, then brushed her golden bangs away from her eyes and gazed curiously at John Scarecrow for a moment. John suddenly became aware of her intense stare and became fidgety.
“Okay,” Jersey said as she turned back to face Julie. “Herbert George here thinks we have a crazed snake-man on the loose. What does your super intellect tell you, Lieutenant Kingston?”
“Well, Special Agent Blair, my intellect says we can’t rule out the possibility no matter how farfetched. Not when all the evidence seems to suggest it and all the other possibilities are exceedingly more absurd. Therefore, we follow the evidence and see where it leads. You know, like real detectives.”
Jersey finally had had enough of Julie’s snide remarks and stormed out through the swinging doors of the morgue. Julie turned toward the boys, winked at them, and then followed after her.
Scarecrow looked over at Dr. Baudrillard who, without returning his glance, grabbed his jacket off the rack and pushed past the swinging doors as he made his way out into the hall.
Scarecrow followed the doctor out and stopped beside him in front of the elevator. As the doctor hit the button to go up, he looked at Scarecrow from under his furrowed brow and, in his trademark brusque tone, asked, “Is there something I can help you with, Detective?”
Curious as to where the doctor was going, Scarecrow asked, “So where are you headed?”
“Cigarette break,” Baudrillard replied in all seriousness.
13
PROVOCATION
John Scarecrow returned to Julie’s office. Glancing up at the newly-displayed photo of Beckensale next to the Declaration of Independence, he pulled the folder out from under his arm and handed it to Julie.
“You’ll be most interested in page thirteen,” John informed her. Once Julie had flipped to the appropriate page, John continued the briefing. “As you can see, in the past two months, seven call girls have either gone missing or turned up dead. All of them have worked for the madam, Ms. Mulholland Monroe. The interesting thing is that these girls are not random abductions.”
Julie continued to read along as he spoke. “There’s a pattern?”
“Not just any old pattern either,” John continued. “Apparently, the girls share a connection, not just with Senator Durrell but also with a specific date on which they met him. For the past five years, they have always met on Memorial Day weekend and always in Vegas, for obvious reasons.”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“Exactly. But five years ago, the Miss Universe Beauty Pageant booked all the hotel reservations, and the girls’ meeting was relocated to L.A. That’s where the first girl was found dead. According to the coroner’s report, it was listed as an accidental suicide.”
“That’s a crock. Obviously the coroner was paid to falsify the report. Blame the whore for some obscure paraphilia, meanwhile the senator’s record remains clean instead of having to take the rap for manslaughter. Do we know who she was?”
John fiddled with his tie. “That’s where it gets interesting. I’ll give you three guesses who he possibly could have met with.”
“Kateland Rameses Beckensale?”
“I knew her name would come up first, but it wasn’t her.”
“Really? Not her? Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
“Have any other guesses?”
“Not a clue.”
“The girl’s name, according to the agency’s registry, was Tiffany Blair.”
“You mean as in … any relation to Jersey Blair?”
“I checked the autopsy report,” Scarecrow said as he leaned up against her desk, “and found that she was the only girl who died of causes other than being poisoned. It seems strangulation was involved. That, along with the name thing, got me curious. So I had her genetic profile sent to me and, as you guessed it, sisters.”
Julie leaned back in her desk and took in a deep breath as she contemplated what to do next. John watched her think.
“John,” she said, “I need you to find out everything that happened between Senator Durrell and Tiffany Blair five years ago. I have a hunch you just found our motive. Also, get me the low down on the significance of that date.”
John offered a silent salute in response to Julie’s orders.
“In the meantime,” Julie added, fetching her jacket from the coat rack, “I’m going to go interview Ms. Mulholland Monroe since she’s obviously the dealer, not to mention the best lead we’ve got.”
“I beg your pardon?” Scarecrow inquired, not following Julie’s analogy. “Dealer?”
“She’s the madam. She whores out the girls and deals them, like a deck of cards, to the high rollers. It’s the only explanation for why she’d still be alive.”
Slapping his forehead, John groaned.
“What is it?” Julie asked.
“It might be too late to mention this, but, about that interview, Jersey Blair said she’d handle it.”
“What do you mean, handle it?” Julie asked, irritated.
“Well, you know, the whole senator dying thing falls under the jurisdiction of the FBI, so she said she was headed out to Beverley Hills to talk to Ms. Mulholland Monroe about the senator’s numerous affairs personally. She left about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Dammit,” Julie cursed, checking her watch. “If she’s out for revenge for the death of her little sister, we may have just handed her the final victim.”
14
GLAMOR AND DECEPTION
Squealing to a halt, the gray Chevy Camaro rudely cut off the blue Carrera GT which was just pulling into the driveway of a large mansion in Beverly Hills. Julie stepped out of the car only to get an earful.
“What the bloody hell, Lieutenant? You cut me off!”
“Special Agent Blair, haven’t you ever heard of the saying the early bird
catches the worm?”
“Yes. But as I recall,” Jersey said thumbing her chest, “this bird has jurisdiction here.”
“True, you have jurisdiction over the senator’s case, but as you will recall, several other homicides took place as well. Homicides involving nice young girls who have all worked for Ms. Mulholland Monroe at one time or another.”
Julie Kingston and Jersey Blair walked briskly side by side up the front steps as if it were a race to see who would get to the door first, but Jersey edged Julie out and was able to ring the doorbell before her rival. Not being one to take defeat easily, Julie rang the bell again just for good measure. Jersey merely sighed and rolled her eyes in response to Julie’s overly competitive show of pigheadedness.
Soon enough, the intercom came on, and a woman’s voice in broken English, heavily saturated with Spanish inflections, asked, “Who’s-it?”
“It’s Special Agent Blair of the FBI and Lieutenant Kingston of the L.A.P.D.,” Jersey stated. “We have an appointment with Ms. Mulholland Monroe.”
“Just a minute, please.”
After a few moments, the large twin doors of the mansion swung open, and a stout Mexican-American maid with cherub-like arms, wearing an apron, motioned for them to enter. “Madam’s out back on the patio sunbathing. Please follow.”
As they passed through the foyer, it opened up into a larger living room with a fireplace so big you could walk into it. Ornate paintings hung on the walls encased in golden frames, and the furniture consisted of deep burgundy sofas and matching chairs, all of them embroidered with gold thread and certainly as lavish as all the rest.
Above the fireplace were three black and white glamor photos of the leading actress, Kateland Rameses Beckensale. Shaking her head in dismay, Julie followed Jersey who, in turn, followed the maid through the living area and through sliding glass doors out onto the back patio.
Walking along the pool’s edge, Julie saw the long, tan legs of Ms. Mulholland Monroe lounging on a beach chair by the pool. Yet her face was masked by the angle of her chair and the added shade provided by a large sun umbrella.
“Excuse me ma’am, but are you Ms. Monroe by any chance?” Jersey inquired.
Looking back over her shoulder, Julie jerked her thumb back toward the house and said, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask, are you a fan of low quality, B-rated, Hollywood rubbish, or do you just like Kate Beckensale’s tits?”
Ms. Monroe threw her creamy latte-tan legs over the edge of her chair and sat up to properly greet her guests. “Actually, I’m a huge fan of Beckensale’s tits,” the woman said grandly. “Considering they’re mine.”
Julie’s head snapped back around to lock eyes with a familiar face. “You?!”
Jersey glanced at both women in surprise. “You two know each other?”
“It’s a long story,” Julie grumbled. “Besides,” she continued, turning back to address Beck, “only you would be narcissistic enough to decorate your own home with pictures of yourself!”
“Figures,” Beck replied in turn, “that the holier-than-thou Julie Kingston would find problems with being confident in one’s accomplishments.”
“What? That’s not even…” Julie’s aggravation caused her to trip over her words as she tried to figure out how best to phrase her frustration. With a dismayed gasp, she continued, “Being beautiful is not an accomplishment! It’s goddamn random genetics.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Beck said, brushing aside Julie’s comment. “Keeping up appearances isn’t easy.”
Interrupting the rhythm of both women’s perfectly in-tune bickering, Jersey Blair let out an obnoxiously loud sigh just to let everyone know she was impatiently waiting for them to wrap things up.
“Never mind any of that, what the hell are you running a brothel for?” Julie inquired.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Beck said as she brushed her hair back and turned her nose up at Julie as if to deny all allegations of prostitution. “I’m a legitimate businesswoman.”
Julie raised her voice. “In case you didn’t know this, procuring people for sex in the state of California is illegal.”
“And in case you didn’t know, I’m not actually running a brothel. It’s a call service for assisted dating and relationship consolidation.”
“What?! Assisted dating? Relationship consolidation? Admit it, you’re just an over-glorified pimp with tits!” Julie nudged Jersey’s arm. “Come on, tell her.”
Not wanting to enable her, Jersey Blair looked at Julie with a blank expression. “You must be thinking of your other partner. You know, the one who gives a fig. Now if you two are done bickering?”
Julie raised her hand and motioned for Jersey to hold her horses for a moment. Jersey huffed and stepped back, realizing it would be useless to persist.
“So how the hell do you and your courtesans get tied up with the assassination of a U.S. senator?”
“We prefer relationship consultants,” informed Beck as she motioned for the maid to fetch them some drinks. “But it was never meant to be anything more than a part time gig, at least until I could get my career back on track. But when business took off, I couldn’t abandon my girls or the clients. My business had simply grown too big. Too much was at stake.”
“Did you have any direct contact with any of the customers?” Jersey inquired.
Without thinking, Beck answered, “Rarely if ever. As you can imagine, many of my clientele prefer their anonymity. They usually set up their meetings through my office by requesting a girl on a certain date. All fees are paid in advance straight to Madam Monroe’s Relationship Consulting Service, so as to avoid any unwanted attention should they get questioned by the police. In which case, they would deny any monitory transaction of any kind and would simply be lovers having an affair, and since no money transactions occur directly between my girls and their clients, well, that’s technically all they are. Clandestine lovers.”
“Of your regulars, were any of these ‘high rollers’ government officials?”
“I’m simply not at liberty to disclose that information, ladies. You know how it is.”
Jersey grabbed Beck by her arm and twisted it behind her back. Slapping on a pair of handcuffs, she informed her, “I’ll tell you how it is … I’m arresting you for suspicion of murder regarding Senator Mark Durrell.”
Beck’s eyes nearly popped out of her head in alarm, partially from shock and partially from the pinch of her arm being bent in an unruly fashion. “What do you mean you’re arresting me for suspicion of murder?”
Julie was equally caught by surprise. “Based on what evidence?”
Jersey replied, “If all our suspects have been eliminated, all but for one, then chances are they’re the one we’re looking for. Process of elimination. It’s fairly standard procedure, Kingston. You should look into it sometime.” Without another word, Jersey escorted Kateland Rameses Beckensale away.
“Procedure my ass,” Julie huffed under her breath. Julie knew two things. The first was, Beck wasn’t smart enough to assassinate anyone, let alone pull it off in the way the senator and his girls died. And second, she knew that Beckensale was direly afraid of snakes. She wouldn’t get caught within a mile of one even if her life depended on it.
The only question that lingered on Julie’s mind was why now? Why, all of a sudden, was Jersey Blair trying to derail the investigation? Was it just a ploy to score brownie points with Langley in an attempt to one up Julie and make her look bad, or did she know something Julie didn’t? Julie had a thousand other questions, but before she could consider them, her cell phone started buzzing.
Pulling out her golden iPhone 5s, Julie saw a text from her partner, John Scarecrow. It read:
Meet me at the usual spot. Found something you’ll be interested in.
Julie walked back into the mansion, but instead of heading back out the way she’d come, she made a detour past the kitchen, down the adjoining hallway, and followed it to the door that led into th
e five-car garage.
Upon entering the garage, a large smile broke out across Julie’s face. Beck had an Aston Martin DB8, an Audi R8, and a hot pink Jaguar F-type. “Well, she’s got good taste,” Julie said to herself. “I’ll give her that.”
It was no big secret that Julie had a thing for cars. Probably because her father had been a grease monkey. And when he wasn’t busy fixing other people’s cars, in his spare time, he’d fix up his own hot rods. He was a major gear head. The smell of an oily garage, the sound of engines revving, brought back fond memories of her father when she was a child.
Cars were the only thing still connecting her to the memories of her father—she had been too young when he died to remember much else. Which is why, standing in Beck’s garage, Julie couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia. More than this, she felt a huge temptation.
Julie had always wanted to drive an Aston Martin. It was the choice car of all super agents from James Bond to Johnny English. A large grin crept across Julie’s face when she opened the key rack on the wall next to the door. She found all of the keys for each and every vehicle neatly on display.
“I’m sure she won’t mind me borrowing it to come save her sorry ass,” Julie said aloud as if finding a valid reason would make grand theft auto morally justifiable.
Outside, the maid returned to the poolside with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses, but nobody was there. She glanced around, wondering where they could have gone, when the rumble of a V12 engine roared in the distance. She shrugged and figured they had simply gone out for lunch.
As the car drove off and vanished into the distance, the maid put the lemonade down on the patio table. Plopping herself down into the lawn chair, she snatched up the Vanity Fair magazine sitting on the glass coffee table beside her and thumbed to the featured article. It was a showcase piece about the epic return of fan favorite starlet Kateland Rameses Beckensale.
The maid, whose name was Carla Rodriquez, although nobody ever cared to learn it, rolled her eyes, took a sip of lemonade, and muttered in Spanish the same advice she had been giving Beckensale for years.