Tears fell from his eyes and made big splatters on his desk calendar. I stared at them for a moment in a strange disbelief.
“When Autumn asked me to make her a film star, I was hurt, I admit, disappointed. I thought she was an opera singer. What was with this actress thing all of a sudden? For me it was a cold hard slap, and I reacted by being an ass. I was angry, I guess. But I didn’t kill her. Did I love her? I don’t know. I wanted to.”
•••
WE PULLED INTO THE Costco parking lot in Marina Del Rey. It didn’t take long to spot Mason Jones helping a woman put several massive cases of Diet Pepsi in the trunk of her car. Everything at Costco comes in family-size or bigger.
“Will you look at that?” I said to Gus. “I bet that’s not in his job description.”
“Quite the gentleman, ain’t he?”
After the female shopper pulled away, I approached Mason. He was six feet two, with jailhouse muscles and a blond crew cut. Mason was successful as a molester because, in spite of his formidable appearance, he’s very charming and personable. He’s from Alabama, and he plays on his backwoods appeal. His blue eyes are engaging and his manner is that of a Southern gentleman.
A tattoo of a voluptuous woman in baby-doll pajamas, her tits and the bottom of her ass peeking through, was inked across his right peck. The baby-doll tattoo was clearly visible as he was wearing a sleeveless tank. It had been that very tattoo that had led to his arrest and conviction. Several of the young victims described the baby-doll tattoo and later identified him in a lineup. Thank God most criminals are stupid. Apparently, Mason had been a model prisoner, and now he was, for all intents and purposes, a free man.
I slid up and walked in step with him. His white T-shirt was actually a dingy gray, and his light freckled skin was smeared with dirt and grime. The jeans he had on were worn and filthy. A thick chain was double-wrapped around his waist.
“Hey, Mason, what’s going on?”
He turned to me with a smile on his face that dropped into a grimace as soon as he recognized me.
“Oh, shit. What do you want? I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do what, Mason?”
“Leave me alone.”
Gus got in step on the other side of Mason. Mason stopped walking.
“I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t wanna know.”
“Mason, what’s the chain for?” I asked.
“I collect the shopping carts, okay? I have to string them together. I need this chain to do my job. This is not right what you’re doing. I’m going to get fired ’cuz of you. Leave me alone.”
He searched around making sure no one had spotted us.
“I got my eye on you Mason,” I said. “You better not do wrong. You better not.”
“Don’t put your eye on me. I’m clean, sober, legal, okay?”
“Where do you live, Mason?”
“On Brooks, why?”
“In an apartment?”
“I rent a room.”
“What’s the address?”
“Seven-forty-two, but don’t go there and fuck up my thing, okay?”
“Don’t they know you’re a sex offender there?”
“No, they don’t.”
“Any young girls in the household?”
“No, no girls.”
“How ’bout on that block?”
“Not really, but check it out if you want. Just don’t fuck me up. Do not fuck me up. I’m trying to do good here, and you… You’re going to ruin my life, aren’t you?”
“Why would we want to do that?” asked Gus. “You being an upstanding citizen now and all that. Let’s see, how many little girls did you ruin before you went to jail and learned the consequences of your actions?”
“I did my time. I paid. Aw, man, this ain’t even right. Shit.”
We left Mason to his shopping carts and took a drive over to 742 Brooks, not far from there. It’s an area that used to be known for drive-by shootings and drug trafficking. Now, it’s quickly becoming a high-end real estate investment. Some of these bungalows are getting re-fabbed and going for four and six million. An older man sat on the front porch in an aluminum chair. He looked a little misplaced, like he was posing for an urban-style American Gothic portrait.
“The old man could be in it with him,” said Gus.
I stepped up onto the porch. Gus walked around to the side of the house. The front door was open, but I didn’t get the feeling that anyone was being held hostage inside. I showed the old man the flyers of the missing girls and asked him if he’d seen any of them. He hadn’t, but said his eyes weren’t that good. I asked him if anyone else lived with him, and he mentioned Mason but didn’t seem to have any complaints. No, Mason had never brought any girls home, not to his knowledge anyway, but his hearing wasn’t that good either. When I asked if Mason was home most nights, the old man said he believed that his tenant was taking classes.
“What kind of classes?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly know. Never asked, to tell you the truth. Now that you mention it, I guess I’m curious, too. I get the feeling he’s a serious boy, wants to make something of himself.”
“Are there many kids in this neighborhood, sir?”
“Kids? Maybe, but you don’t see them about much.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you oughta know. You two are cops, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there used to be a lot of shootings in the area. Drugs and things. Kids don’t run loose ‘round here.”
“Doesn’t stop you from sitting on your front porch.” I smiled at him.
“No, and nuthin’ will, lessen they shoot me dead. Maybe I should git me one of those bulletproof vests like you all wear.”
I called surveillance and put a stakeout on the Mason Jones residence and the Marina Del Rey Costco.
As we were driving away, Gus got a text from the office with a lead from an anonymous tip. The night before she died, Autumn had been seen at a strip club on Sunset Boulevard. Reportedly, it was amateur night, and Autumn had won the strip contest. “What’s a nice little opera singer doing in a strip joint?” asked Gus.
“Winning money and making friends?”
We drove over to Hollywood. That address on Sunset Boulevard was the neighborhood known as the wet dream of the billboard artist. All the big blockbusters buy billboards, and even whole sides of buildings, to advertise in that section of town. Major studios pay big bucks for that sign space. Several elite hotels and restaurants are in the same block. We pulled up in front of the address. The place was called The Body Shop.
When we entered, the driving beat of Michael McDonald singing “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” greeted us. Always liked that song. A top-notch security guard nodded, allowing us entrance, and Sapphire, a petite brunette with bright blue eyes in a see-through harem outfit introduced herself after prancing over to us on what looked like high heels made out of glass. I noticed that her toenails were painted gold. She hooked her arm in mine and with her other hand squeezed my bicep, her golden fingernails catching the lights. Her manner was casual and inviting, making it hard to put up much of a fight. She was such a tiny thing. It brought out some sort of protective thing in me. The blue glitter on her eyelids created a hypnotic effect. You couldn’t help but look at her. She pressed her breasts against me, and I felt my breath catch. Her nipples had been graced with the blue glitter as well. She ushered us deeper into the dark cave of the club. I was taken off guard when she asked me if I wanted a lap dance. Normally, I would straight-out refuse, but I found her immediate intimacy difficult to reject. I bet most men had the same response. Naked women seem so vulnerable. Gus grinned at me, enjoying my discomfort.
“Maybe later,” I said.
She pulled away from me, and I started breathing a little easier. Her pretty blue eyes reproached me with hurt and rejection but then she broke into a smile.
“Okay, later.”
She gave me a lascivio
us grin that held much promise and did a swooping gesture with her arm, indicating that we could sit anywhere we pleased.
“Do I look like I want a lap dance?” I whispered to Gus.
He chuckled. “Maybe she likes lady cops.”
The place was small and dark with the most miniscule bar I had ever seen. Beveled mirrors were on all walls including the ceiling. There was a shadowed section with cubicles for lap dancing that struck me as more than a little perverse. A strut stage jutted out into the middle of closely packed chairs filled with men, their faces turned up looking at a dancer. On stage, a full-bodied, completely naked Latina shimmied her tits, then turned around to wiggle her butt. Then she bent over, reached back with her hands and opened her cheeks. She looked over her shoulder at us. Gus nodded at the woman, and she flashed him her pearly whites. I stood beside Gus in the dark room of men and dancing naked women feeling odd and vaguely angry.
From nowhere, Sapphire’s golden fingertips lightly touched upon the arm of my jacket, then stroked my forearm as if I were a cat. “Have a seat, why don’cha?” she said.
“Hey genie,” said Gus. “Can you direct us to the owner?”
The request caught the beautiful harem girl off guard. Her body language asked what it was we wanted with the owner, but she decided she’d be pleased to lead us to the office. It did give her an opportunity to show off her best asset. Her full buttocks rocked back and forth underneath the transparent harem pants. She peeked back at us to make sure we were following and, I guessed, to see if we liked her wares.
“Nice ass,” said Gus.
“Oh, thank you. Remember, my name is Sapphire if you want to request me for a lap dance or anything.”
“Sapphire,” said Gus.
“Yes, Sapphire, like the precious gem. That’s me. But if you really want to, you can call me Genie, I don’t mind.”
The owner, Don, was a plump Armenian man in his late forties. His office was a little larger than an outhouse. Pictures of naked women covered the walls. His voice was loud and boisterous as if he were used to having to speak over loud music. He recognized Autumn’s picture immediately and told us that she had won the amateur dance contest Monday night. “What did she do to win?” I asked.
“She took off her clothes,” he barked.
“But don’t they all do that?”
“Oh, yeah, but she was something. She really knew how to work the crowd. She’d zero in on the guys, you know, with those green eyes. She had a way of taunting the men, challenging them, and they ate that shit up. When she won the thousand bucks she bought everybody drinks. I offered her a job but she refused. Said the crowd was too easy and cut out. Anything else?”
“When she left, did anyone go with her or follow her?”
“No men follow the girls from my club. We have high-tech security in this establishment. There are security cameras on the inside, and on the outside. We got top security personnel on the doors and in the parking lot. The girls don’t ever have to worry, never, ever, you don’t even need to go there.”
“So she left by herself.”
“She was with a friend, a skinny blond. The friend competed, too, but she didn’t win.”
“Can we see the videotape of that evening? Perhaps we could identify the blond.”
“I said we had security cameras, not videotape. We keep it very confidential for our clients. We got top-notch businessmen here. Our patrons are famous actors, studio execs, investors, the whole Hollywood tamale, and they know we respect their privacy. If you got a picture of the blond, I’d be happy to ID her. If you need any further information, I suggest you get a subpoena.”
Gus and I thanked Don and made to leave. Without our asking, Sapphire escorted us back to the door and invited us to come another time, promising me a very special lap dance. Gus said he’d be back. When she insisted on more of a commitment from me, I politely demurred.
Sapphire’s spell vanished as we walked back into the bright of day. Although the sign indeed declared live nude girls, it didn’t quite convey the experience. I must have had a dumbfounded expression on my face ’cuz Gus looked at me funny. It’s not that I’d never been in a strip club; I’d been in plenty, but I’d never been “worked” like that. Usually, the strippers save that action for the male cops. Gus and I walked towards the car, the sun’s glare warming our heads.
“She just wants your money,” Gus advised me. “Always remember that.”
“Aw jeez, I thought she really liked me,” I said with a half grin. “You get the feeling that Don has been through this drill before?”
“He’s got his ass covered.”
“Can’t say the same for the live nude girls.”
•••
IT WAS CLOSING IN on five o’clock and we hadn’t eaten all day, so Gus and I drove over to Harry’s, a cop bar, for a sandwich. The décor is heavy on department paraphernalia with about twenty tables and several booths in the joint. The bar runs down the wall of one side of the room with plenty of space to place your elbows. Above the bar is a display case with hundreds of badges. Several police batons hang on each end of the display case. Flyers are always posted around announcing retirement parties. It’s a dive, but the food is good. We took a seat at the bar for quicker service. I slid my ass up on the red leather stool and planted my feet on a perfectly placed ledge under the bar. Some places just feel like home.
“So how was New Orleans?” asked Gus.
“It was nice. Great food, incredible music, nice people. I found it hard to leave.”
“Meet anybody special?”
“There was a teacher’s convention, lots of ladies in T-shirts drinking daiquiris. No, nobody special.”
Gus gave me a knowing look. “For you, the world is full of nobody special.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do. You experience love, you’re lucky.”
“Maybe love is in the eyes of the beholder.”
“That’s deep coming from you.”
“Yeah, well, you might not know me as well as you think.”
“That’s highly unlikely. Not to change the subject but, you pretty sure that was a voodoo doll in Autumn Riley’s place this morning?”
“Yeah. But crime lab needs to find something in it to be sure,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, frog’s toenails, or blood, strange stuff tied together with needles or nails stuck through it on the inside or something like that.”
“Where do you get this information?”
“The Cubans,” I said like he ought to know that.
“Right, right.”
“And the Internet.”
“You didn’t get any good gris-gris or mojo while you were in New Orleans?”
“Nope. I did get some free advice, though. No, I take that back, had to pay twenty bucks to get the old gypsy to leave me alone.”
“What kind of advice?”
“It didn’t make any sense. Something about my mother.”
“What about her?”
“Anybody ever tell you that you’re nosy?”
“Some. Most people just answer my questions, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’re a hard nut to crack.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I think that Autumn Riley was into something the producer wasn’t aware of.”
“Yep. It feels like she wasn’t completely on the up and up with him. What I don’t get is why Addams wouldn’t take her for a walk on the beach,” I said.
“Autumn Riley was a hardhead, demanding. That’s what he liked about her and that’s what he wanted to resist.” Gus was doing his style of profiling the victim and the suspect.
“Yeah, well, he’s a cold bastard in my book,” I said.
“You weren’t touched by his show of emotion?”
“Not much.”
“You believe what he said about Autumn?”
“Sure, why not? Autumn wanted a man who could make her a star. Otherwise, why not
stay in St. Louis, sing opera, be adored, and marry the most eligible bachelor? That seems like a better choice to me, especially since all she got was dead. Addams had her all set up like a mistress, it probably went to her head. She was just a kid, for Chrissake.”
“From St. Louis, Missouri, like you.”
Our meatball sandwiches arrived. Gus and I ate in silence. Technically, I’m from the Ozarks, but St. Louis is my old stomping ground. My juvie officer, Donna Paynt, took me with her when she moved from the Ozarks to St. Louis. She was the first woman police officer in St. Louis. If not for her, I would have spent my youth in a quasi-prison for girls. Later, she made arrangements for me to be taken in by a Cuban family in Venice, California, while I studied at the police academy. I hadn’t thought much about St. Louis lately, but with Autumn Riley being from there, it made me remember things.
In Officer Donna Paynt’s blue and white, I came to know the ins and outs of St. Louis like my own soul. You could say that Donna started training me as an investigator way back then and you’d be right. It gave me an edge as a female investigator. Not many females worked Special Section and no one—man or woman—in Specials was as young. I turned thirty-three this year and I was pleased with my career, though admittedly I walked a thin line. I was known to take what I called calculated risks that paid off. The rest of my life was a shambles, but I was used to that, and besides, you have to be grateful for what you can hold onto. Gus says police training during my adolescence meant that my development as a human being was thwarted.
Maybe so, but it sure beat sitting in prison with a whippin’ stick.
I thought of the sand on Autumn’s bare feet and the young woman’s hunger for a simple loving gesture. Perhaps in a desperate moment, Autumn had tried to return to a part of herself that was less worldly, more authentic. She must have misjudged something, someone, and somehow it had killed her.
“Who do you think took Autumn for a walk?” I asked. “Maybe she went by herself.”
“And the strain was so great she had a coronary?”
“It’s a quandary. Maybe Autumn died of a broken heart,” I said.
“Yeah, sure. You know, I heard those Hollywood producers die of that a lot,” Gus said, his voice dripping with irony. “And that,” he added, “brings me to dessert.”
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