I’ve found my place with the octogenarians. I don’t mind listening to them talk about their ailments with anyone who will listen. And it appears that to this group, Trader Joe’s is also a spectator sport. I’ve had to learn how to navigate around the old men who walk about with their hands clasped behind their backs and peruse the shelves like they are visiting a wing of the Louvre. If you see someone with no list, no bags, and no cart, go hit another aisle.
I get my fish and meat for the week, explore the cheeses they have gotten in, there is a certain Camembert from Petaluma that is stinky and delicious either sucked off a cheese knife, which Bardot and I have been known to do in private, or spread over a slice of Granny Smith apple. And let’s not forget the wines, if you give yourself the time, you are bound to find some reasonably priced gems. Look for the Pancake Cellars Big Day White Wine, the Hogue Riesling, only slightly sweet with peach, apricot and tangerine flavors. And the Laurent Dublanc Cotes du Rhone is a steal and doesn’t disappoint.
I wheeled my cart back to my car, satisfied with my haul and happy that I would be back at work by eleven a.m. at the latest. I noticed a van parked facing me with two people in it, and thought, “Yes!” They are pulling out so I can drive straight ahead and not even have to deal with backing out. That is the one drawback to shopping when the seniors do, you have to deal with them being behind the wheel. Avoidance is the best policy.
My phone rang and I saw that it was Augie.
“Hey, thanks for calling me back. Any news on the list of suspects I texted you?”
“I’m not a magician, I can’t pull murderers out of a hat.” He chuckled.
“Why not?” I laughed back. Jocularity breeds allegiance, I hoped.
“That was a long list of names which was very short on evidence. But, before you start yelling, let me tell you where we’re at.”
“Since when do I yell?” I was about to say that he was confusing me with his aunt, but caught myself just in time.
“You’re right, I’ve never heard you, but I could sense the frustration over the phone. We’re still working on tracking down the ex-husband. I seem to remember that he is doing time, but that’s not confirmed. The brother, Ray, is around but we have nothing to pin on him. Yet.”
“I didn’t ask you to make me look like a stronger suspect, Augie, tell me you’ve got something.”
“A few things, this clown Musso, he sure lives lean and clean. Very little paper on him, no mortgage, no car payments, claims a very modest income.”
“But what about all the bling his girfriend’s sporting?”
“That’s what we are looking into. If we can tie him to any kind of crime, then we can go to town on him.”
“Well, he’s not going to call you before he commits one, what’s your plan for catching him?”
Augie ignored me and continued.
“The two guys at the strip mall, who you think are dealing drugs, probably are. Vice is watching them, they’ll need to find something bigger than a bag of dope. But we’re not looking at them for the murder, really no motive.”
The van facing me started up. The glare of the sun made it difficult to make out the people in the front seats, but this boded well for my car getting out of the lot unscathed.
“Also—you’re not going to like this—one of guys in our division turned up a report on you from a couple of years ago. Did you really throw a Römertopf oven at your husband? An oven?”
“It’s actually just a clay pot, he’s my EX-husband, and it didn’t even come close to him. With a coq au vin inside, it was too heavy to get up any kind of velocity!” I shouted.
“Okay, okay, I’m just telling you that this gives Marquez one more reason to keep you as a suspect.”
“And not look for the real killer! How about Musso’s girlfriend, Tala? She has a hot temper.”
“She’s on an extended visitor’s visa, she’s going to have to return to the Ukraine and reapply unless someone pulls some strings.”
“So Musso has a clock running on him, huh?”
The sun had moved slightly and I could see the driver of the van put it in gear. I started my car ready to pounce. Just before backing out, the passenger door opened and out stepped a tall guy dressed all in black.
Musso!
“Augie, I’ll call you back.” I disconnected and fumbled with the camera on my phone; I needed to get a shot and hopefully capture the license plate of the van.
Musso looked in my direction through mirrored aviators. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it. By the time I had the camera app up the van had pulled out. All I caught was the sign on the side:
NIGHTHAWK FILM PRODUCTION CO.
Chapter 11
I spent the next few days hidden in my house and not answering the phone. If the cops needed to get to me, then they’d have to knock on my door. It depressed me to think that I might very well have to put my life on hold to fight for my freedom.
Each time I sat at my computer to work, I found myself instead doing online research and developing an elaborate matrix of possible suspects in Rosa’s murder. I had started an archive of search results for Musso, this Nighthawk Film Company, Ray, and out of curiosity, Tala.
It was slow going and I reminded myself that I also had to get out and do “actual police work” if I had any hope of success. I also decided to enlist the help of the Wine Club.
The first part of my plan was hatched “off campus” at Aimee’s birthday lunch. She was on a total health kick, she told us that she’d gained ten pounds since January. I figured that it was all stress, although a thought about binge eating after smoking pot did enter my mind....
She chose an organic sandwich shop named Fennel, which we reluctantly agreed to go to when we found out that they had a wine and beer license. Cassie was in charge of ordering the wine; on her unlimited budget she offered to treat because she “wanted something good.”
Cassie and Sally arranged for tables to be pulled together to accommodate all of us. This was no small feat since the place was very popular among the yoga and protein shake crowd. We were tucked toward the back, but I could still feel cold eyes on us, resenting the fact that they would have to enjoy their fat free, gluten free, meat free, taste free food in their cars.
Everyone was on a lazy afternoon time schedule but me. We didn’t start until after one p.m., and with two bottles ordered from the start, and the insistence that there must be cake for the birthday girl, I had already conceded that I would have to go home, take a nap, and work through the night. Not to mention that Cassie had chosen an excellent Grüner Veltliner.
When everyone was settled, I threw down the challenge to the group.
“Someone needs to follow Musso for a day, see where he goes and who he deals with,” I said, knowing that I was going to take the night shift. “How about you, Peggy, you have the most inconspicuous car.”
“I’m game, but someone needs to come with me so I can keep my eye on the road,” said Peggy, ever cautious at eighty-seven.
“I’ll go with you and take pictures, we’ll be a regular Cagney and Lacey,” said Cassie, miming a two-handed pistol hold.
She clearly hadn’t watched TV in a while.
“Carl has a great camera I’ll use. I’ll have to sneak it out, he doesn’t like me touching his photography equipment, but I’ll put it back before he even knows it’s gone.”
I am going to work on getting a look at that SD card.
“That’s a good start, you guys comfortable doing this? You’d better have an excuse prepared if he catches you.”
“We’re pretty good at making up stories on the fly and carrying them out to get what we want,” Peggy said, and they all giggled.
“Like we did with Freddy,” said the birthday girl who was sporting a glittery tiara that we’d given her for the occasion.
“And Freddy is?”
“He’s my cutie nephew, he helped us when we needed to get rid of those squatters who had taken over the house behind me, they were grow
ing pot in back of the garage,” Cassie explained. “Like they didn’t think we’d notice when they put up this really ugly chimney on the roof that doesn’t go at all with reclaimed wood siding?” Cassie laughed at the ridiculousness of this.
“Is Freddy a cop?” I asked warily.
“Hell no,” said Peggy. “Young Freddie is a brave, good sport and we had him pose as a building inspector and we went along with him to that house.”
My mouth dropped open wide enough for planes to land.
“Bastards wouldn’t let us into the property, but sometime in the middle of the night they bugged out. That was a good plan I thought of,” Peggy reminisced.
“What?” They were all talking at once, claiming ownership of the ruse and bickering back and forth.
I had no idea the Rose Avenue Wine Club was a cover for a group of oenophile vigilantes.
“Okay, so Musso is the prime suspect?” I asked, hoping mostly to shut them up.
They paused and I could see the wheels turning.
“He’s the prime suspect to us. I know whom the cops like,” I said, pointing to myself.
That got a unanimous nod. It was time to tell them about Musso and the film company van, it could only help them in their investigation.
“Well, you’ve just knocked me naked,” Sally declared. “I never would have pegged Musso as a Trader Joe’s guy, he’s much more Whole Foods to me.”
“Uh-uh,” said Peggy, “Costco. He’s got to save money so he can afford that girlfriend.”
I was afraid that the wine was getting the better of them.
I made some notes on my pad. “With each connection we are getting closer to the truth, but we better get digging because I am running out of time.
“Let operation ‘Nab Musso’ begin,” Cassie proclaimed with a toast.
“You all, I don’t know about this,” Aimee pleaded. “I’m afraid, sometimes he talks with the vacuum repair guys when he leaves my shop, and I don’t want to get them in any trouble. They’re good kids.”
“Why are you protecting those bums, Aimee? And if they’re so clean, then why would you worry about getting heat on them?” Peggy got right to her point.
“I’m not saying they would; sure, they can be a pain sitting at my tables all day, but they love the yogurt and they actually pay for it. They also give me a hand from time to time if I need some heavy lifting.” Aimee was now getting teary as she often did when the least bit of emotion was involved. Her cheeks were growing purple.
“Are you crying?” asked Cassie, wiping away a tear from Aimee’s face with a recycled Fennel paper napkin.
“But we’d be following Musso, not your guys, child,” reasoned Sally. “So stop looking as nervous as a pig in a bacon factory.”
“We need to find out what they are up to and go to the police. For Halsey’s sake,” said Cassie.
“I can keep tabs on Rosa’s brother, Ray, since I live right across the street. I’ve already seen him nosing around the house, but I’m pretty sure he’s harmless.”
There Sally goes again, protecting him.
“What about her ex, was he with him?” I asked, and Sally shook her head.
“He’s up in Tehachapi, serving out an assault and battery charge, according to Siri,” Cassie said, holding up her latest iPhone.
“One less to worry about,” I said.
“With Musso, all we’re going to do is stir the pot a bit, see what comes out of it, and pass the info along to the authorities,” Peggy soothed Aimee.
“Sure, piece of cake,” said Sally gently patting Aimee’s hand.
Speaking of, from behind them, I saw a glowing cake being brought to our table.
“Okay, we’ve got a plan in motion,” I announced while squeezing the last drop of wine out of bottle number two, “anything to get those detectives off my back. I can keep tabs on Marisol, as wily as she is. With all her shenanigans, we could discover that she’s running a billion-dollar online casino out of her garage.” I wasn’t kidding.
I’ll also keep an eye on Peggy and Aimee, but I’ll keep that to myself.
Chapter 12
A general search for Nighthawk Film Production Company, returned lots of variations:
Moonrise Nighthawk Films
Shanghai Nighthawk Movies (a porn site)
Nighthawk Birds Productions
And lots and lots of Nighthawk companies peddling everything from shipping to energy to bird watching blinds.
But I found nothing local and nothing with those exact words. I started realizing that anybody could have a sign made and stick it on a van, and knew that I would have to enter a deeper level of search parameters.
I started with the Los Angeles County Registrar and found the search engine for Fictitious Business Names of DBAs. It came up with “Name Not Found.” Rats. This means that I am going to have to broaden my geographic base.
I tried another few counties and got the same results, or lack thereof.
The office door opened and Bardot, who had been humping her doggie pillow since she realized my attention was solidly on my computer screen, suddenly sat politely, like a show dog.
“Gooood girl,” cooed Jack, commanding my dog with his focus and then with a slight nod, getting her to drop down on all fours. “Hi.” He grinned at me. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check in on Bardot.”
Lame but cute excuse . . .
“Hi,” I responded, a little too high-pitched. “Just finishing with a program,” I explained, and then winced with guilt at the lie. White as it was.
I decided to wait on the business name search, I could write a simple program to automatically search the entire United States and archive the positive results.
Jack quickly and politely gave me my space, and sat at the small conference table in the center of the room for rare client meetings. He busied himself with absolutely nothing, sitting straight-backed. I was starting to appreciate that California Zen.
I moved on to Musso’s security system. I really wasn’t going to be happy unless I found something to move the ball forward today.
My first step was to confirm that his security cameras were wired to the Internet, as I suspected. I entered the make and model numbers I’d gotten by sneaking a shot on my phone while picking up Bardot’s poop. I was in luck his was a basic WiFi-enabled system from a box store. These cameras run on nondefault ports that are well documented and fairly easy to find on the Internet. I was going to have to look for those ports to find Musso’s cameras, and believe it or not I could do this with Google. But since this was technically hacking (for a good cause!), I figured I’d better wait until I was alone.
* * *
I looked over at Jack in his sleep state and wished that I could shut the world out and just Zen like that. Instead I roused him and asked, “You hungry? Since you wouldn’t let me replace your watch, least I can do is buy you dinner.”
Smooth or what?
Typhoon is a Pacific Rim restaurant that sits right on the runway at the Santa Monica airport. I had read about it and kept promising myself to walk over for lunch, but somehow always ended up having boxed miso soup at my desk instead. It was now close to sunset, which meant catching the last flights that were landing for the day, and it meant it was time for those two delightful words, “Happy Hour.”
The restaurant looks like it is modeled after an air traffic control tower. It is sort of a half moon shape with windows all along the runway side. Across is an open kitchen where pots steam dumplings, chefs concoct with speedy hands, and whole catfish sit perched in a glass case, waiting to be fried. And it has a real bar, something I take for granted coming from New York, but I’ve learned is more of a rarity here.
We decided to start with martinis and later have hot sake with our meal. Once that plan was hatched, there was no doubt how the rest of the evening was going to play out. Jack had visited Viet Nam so was happy to order from the eclectic pan-Asian menu. I was game for most of it, but when the fried c
rickets arrived, I drew the line. Instead, I dined on sumptuous Chinese crispy duck and pineapple fried rice.
I decided that it was time to bring Jack into the fold—better to hear it from me—so I roughly outlined Rosa’s murder, glossing over the fact that I was the cops’ prime suspect.
“Whoa,” he said, shaking his head, “who would do such a thing?”
I returned the head shaking.
“Want me to have some people check it out?” he asked. “I do work training a number of private detectives and their animals.”
Good to know.
“Wait a minute, they don’t think you had anything to—”
“They kind of do, just because they haven’t been searching properly for any other suspects.”
“I’m going to talk to my detective friend; he’s a narc but there’s always all kinds of crossover. That’s crazy that they’ve stopped looking.”
“I meant to ask,” I quickly interrupted, tired of the subject. “Why’d you come by today, not that I’m sorry you did.” I watched him pick up the last bug between his chopsticks.
“The truth, or the truth,” he asked, saying the second “truth” in a dragged out, playful way.
“Okay, gimme both truths,” I said, having fun with the word myself.
“Well, I keep thinking about Bardot and her underwater diving skills, and I wanted to see if I could persuade you to take her to a CARA training demo, just to see what it is all about.”
“Sounds like fun, although I told you before there’s no way I’ll have the time to devote to really doing this.”
“Understood,” Jack replied.
“And the other truth?”
“Let’s head back to your pool, and I’ll show you.”
* * *
This time Bardot wasn’t the only one skinny-dipping. She couldn’t believe her luck that her two favorite people were sharing her pool. We discovered that we could keep her occupied by just throwing a sinkable toy down to the bottom. But when she cut her retrieve time down to less than ten seconds, we decided that it was time to head out for dry land.
Full Bodied Murder Page 6