BLACK in the Box

by Russell Blake

  Black reassessed his take of Larry. Most didn’t have the connections to get crime scene photographs hot off the press. He filed the point away for later consideration.

  “Here we are. It’s small, but it works,” Larry said as he opened a door on his left. They followed him into a snug office with a mammoth desk and sat where Larry indicated as he made his way around the monstrosity and took his seat.

  Bobby gave Black a summary of the case, nothing new added from what he’d told him over the phone. Larry handed Black a color printout of several photographs, and Black studied them without expression. When he was done, Larry cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, so that’s it. They’re trying to pin it on Bethany. But she’s as gentle as a kitten,” he said.

  Black tossed the photos back on the desk. “Sounds like you know her pretty well.”

  “I try to know all my back office staff,” Larry fired back. Black knew a rehearsed line when he heard it, but let it go when he caught the warning look on Bobby’s face.

  “How many stores do you own?” Black asked.

  “Got six now. Keeps me busy.”

  “And you know all your employees well enough to want to hire a detective if they get into trouble?”

  Larry sat forward, his face a mask of ambiguity. “Mr. Black, this is about a young girl who’s being accused of a grisly crime. There’s no way Bethany did it. Which means the real murderer is out there and got away with it. That’s not going to happen on my watch. If you have a problem with it, scram, and I’ll find someone else to do the blocking and tackling. But I won’t be interrogated about my affairs. Do you read me?”

  Black didn’t flinch and held his gaze. “Larry, if you want me to get anywhere, don’t bullshit me. Anything you tell me stays in this room, as long as it isn’t felonious. But I need to know the whole truth, or I’m trying to run a race with only one leg.” He rose. “Maybe you should find someone different, who’s satisfied to take your money and tell you he couldn’t come up with anything. I’m going home.” Black put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You owe me a hundred bucks for gas and travel time.”

  Larry held up his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Just cool your jets, tough guy. Sit back down. I’ll answer your questions. But anything leaks out, you’ll be walking on sticks. Got it?”

  Black stared hard at him. “I also don’t respond well to being threatened. Price just went to four grand.”

  Tension hung in the air like toxic fog, and then Larry laughed heartily. “I like you, Black. You’re a ballbuster. Fine. Four. Now ask away.”

  “Are you having any kind of nonemployee relationship with Bethany?”

  “You mean am I screwing her?” Larry shrugged. “Sure. I’m human. She’s attractive. We hit it off after she caught my eye.”

  “A twenty-four-year-old,” Black said flatly.

  “Twenty-three,” Larry corrected with a hint of pride. “So what? Once the lights are off, age melts away.”

  “Uh-huh. Do the police know about your…situation?”

  “Larry hasn’t been questioned. He wasn’t here,” Bobby chimed in, his voice playful, trying to diffuse the tone of the discussion.

  “But he has keys. Access. Who else does?” Black asked.

  “Well, all the managers,” Larry said. “And the security guys, in case there’s an emergency when nobody’s here.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Um…six, total. Four managers, and two people at the security company.”

  “So that’s seven, right off the bat, who had access that the police haven’t questioned. There’s your first hole in their case,” Black said.

  “She was found with the murder weapon in her hand, Black. Did you miss that part?” Larry asked.

  “Right. But let’s assume her story’s true, and she pulled it free to try to limit the damage or whatever. Someone else put it there. This gets to a jury, the more uncertainty there is about who could have actually committed the crime, the likelier she’ll walk.”

  Bobby nodded, his expression suddenly serious. “Noted. The guy who I referred Larry to for defense does this all the time. He’s good.”

  “You can expect the cops to get around to this sooner than later. When they do, tell them the truth. But don’t volunteer anything. Only respond to their direct questions,” Black warned.

  “Yeah, got it. We done?” Larry asked, peeking at his watch.

  “Where is Bethany? I’d like to start with her,” Black said.

  Bobby sat back, a smile locked in place. “Larry doesn’t know.”

  “I can give you her number,” Larry offered.

  “Have you spoken to her since the murder?”

  Larry’s eyes darted to Bobby and then back to Black. “Yeah. She called.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Larry frowned. “Why, Mr. Black, I’d have thought you’d have known that harboring a fugitive is against the law.”

  “I didn’t ask if you were hiding her. And technically, until she’s charged she’s not a fugitive, she’s a suspect,” Black fired back. “Let’s stop dancing. I need to talk to her. If you want me to do my best, make it happen.” Black paused. “I’ll need half the fee up front.”

  Larry looked him up and down. “You take Visa?” he asked, then laughed and pulled a fat wad of hundreds out of his pocket and counted off two grand. Black gathered the bills and stuffed them into his jacket.

  “Fine. For starters, I want to interview everyone who was here last night.”

  “Right. I asked Mary Allenston, the night manager and bookkeeper, to come in a little early to meet you. She’ll ensure you get whatever you need.”

  “You close pretty soon?” Black asked.

  “At nine. So in about half an hour. You want me to stick around and grease the wheels?”

  “No, if Mary knows why I’m here, that’s fine. I’d rather not have anyone looking over my shoulder.”

  Bobby stood. “Anything else you need, buddy?”

  “A list of everyone with a key, and to talk to Bethany. Does Mary have access to the personnel files?”

  “Sure. So do I,” Larry said.

  “Let’s start there. I can read up on the staff and the victim while I wait for everyone to get here.” Black paused and leaned back. “So the big-box thing’s been good to you?”

  Larry laughed again. “You could say that.” He rounded the desk and led them out of the office, to another room with a computer monitor. He typed in a password and a few commands, and then moved from the screen. “That’s all the personnel stuff. Read away. I’ll call Mary and have her come get you when she shows up. I already told the security guy you’ll be in here, so he’ll leave you alone.”

  “That reminds me. How many security guards do you have at night?”

  “Just one. We’ve never had any break-ins, so it’s more about insurance than anything.”

  “Got it. All right, then. Who do I call if I learn anything?”

  Larry flipped a card onto the desk, next to the monitor. “Cell’s on day and night. Call anytime.”

  Black nodded. “You understand that I may not make any big discoveries? Fee gets paid either way, right?”

  Larry pursed his lips. “Sure thing, hot shot. But do your best. I hate to see Bethany put through the grinder. She wouldn’t do well in jail. She’s not…hard. That’s why I know she couldn’t have done this. She’s really sweet.”

  Black kept his face unreadable. “Right.”

  They left Black to his reading, and he was finishing up the victim’s file when Bobby returned. “Store’s going to close soon, so I’m out of here.”

  “I thought you already were.”

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to tell you to cut Larry a little slack. This is tough for him.”

  “You realize that if they charge her, his little roll in the hay is going to be public, right? No way to hide it.”

  Bobby nodded. “That might also play into why he’s so hell-bent on trying to cl
ear her before the process starts.”

  “It occurred to me.”

  Bobby smiled. “Yeah. I bet it did before you upped the ante to four grand.”

  “Nah. I just don’t like him.”

  “You should have been an attorney.”

  “Ouch.”

  Chapter 8

  Los Angeles, California

  Music thundered from towering speaker stacks as Roxie made her way through a crowd of music industry bigwigs, celebrities, and wannabe stars assembled at an iconic Hollywood hotel ballroom, drawing surreptitious stares from many of the men. Her neon pink hair, black latex pants, and full-sleeve tattoos commanded instant attention even in a room filled with beautiful people. She absently toyed with her navel piercing and scanned the area for her date – Carl Weathers, a producer who owned a studio a few blocks from Sunset who’d hinted that he might be able to fit Roxie’s project in between albums for major labels.

  At least that was the pretense. She was fully aware that the promise was intended to get her into bed, which she’d so far managed to avoid without pissing him off too much.

  A young woman with the sides of her head shaved to better reveal the ink on her scalp approached carrying a tray of drinks. Roxie snagged what looked like a martini, tried a cautious sip, and then made a face and looked around for someplace to set it – she despised gin, the medicinal taste of which triggered her gag reflex.

  Carl spied her from across the room and waded into the fray as she slid the glass onto an empty side table. He looked somewhat like a leather-clad toad in his biker outfit and long dyed-black hair; the getup did nothing to make his forty-something years of hard living face appear any younger, but Roxie beamed a heart-stopping smile at him and leaned in so he could kiss her, turning away at the last second so it landed on her cheek rather than her lips.

  “Roxie, you look breathtaking,” he said, his breath heavy with fumes of alcohol. “Let’s get you a drink.”

  “Thanks, Carl. This is quite a shindig.”

  “Yeah. The appetizers are incredible. Reminds me of the good old days, when the labels had more money than God.”

  “Damned interwebs.”

  “Exactly!” Carl laughed as though Roxie had cracked the funniest joke in the world.

  She smiled engagingly and wondered what he was on tonight, and then decided it didn’t really matter. She agreed to Carl’s constant invitations because he was on the A-list party circuit, and in L.A. it was important to see and be seen.

  “What are you drinking?” Roxie asked.

  “Jack and Coke.”

  “That sounds good. No. Wait. Maybe a seven and seven?”

  “Step this way, young lady. The bartender awaits.”

  They pushed through the throng of perfumed, pierced humanity toward the terrace area, where a bar stood, the mob in front of it three deep. The music changed to something vaguely cemetery techno, the vocals an exaggerated baritone with a pronounced Cockney accent. Carl grinned, and he resembled nothing so much as a hungry rat. “I produced these guys.”

  “Really?” She listened for a few seconds. “Who is it?”

  “Black Mass Holiday. All the rage over in England. Sort of Sisters of Mercy crossed with Depeche Mode, with a little White Stripes thing going on with the guitars.”

  “It’s…interesting.”

  “Yeah. Pays the bills. I get sick of churning out these prepackaged pop acts for the labels. A team of guys in Nashville writing all the songs and kids that look like outtakes from Glee singing the crap.”

  “This is quite a departure.”

  “I like it raw every now and then.”

  Roxie let that go in favor of edging closer to the bartender. She felt a hand on her lower back but ignored it – being groped was part of the price of admission in places like this, although if it went any further than what could be passed off as a polite “Would you mind if I passed through here?”, she’d clock whoever it was. Fortunately it didn’t escalate, and soon she was next in line.

  A tall bartender who could have done covers for Playgirl offered a crooked smirk, his blue eyes dancing in the flashing lights. “What can I do you for?” he asked, his tone playful.

  “Sex on the Beach,” Roxie said, spur-of-the-moment.

  His eyes widened at her deadpan delivery, and he nodded. “Right. Coming right up.”

  He mixed the drink and slid it across to her. Carl’s paw set a ten-dollar tip beside it, and he rested his glass on the bill. “Another Jack and Coke,” he said, standing too close to Roxie for comfort.

  “Carl, sweetie, is that you?” a woman’s voice brayed over their shoulders. Carl’s expression changed to one of fatigued annoyance and he turned.

  “Monique, fancy meeting you here,” he said. Roxie spun and found herself facing a hatchet-faced woman whose plastic surgery would have made Michael Jackson blush.

  The woman looked at Roxie like a viper eyes a mouse. “Who’s your…friend?”

  “Oh, sorry. This is Roxie. Roxie, Monique Duval. She’s also a producer. Although nowhere near as good as I am.”

  Everyone laughed at the ribbing. Monique Duval was an R&B legend, responsible for a decent percentage of the Top 40 any given year. She also had the reputation as a witch, as demanding as she was in demand, and was considered extremely difficult to work with. Getting her for your project made the odds of being a hit very high, but the price could be severe, and even at Roxie’s lowly level, she’d heard stories.

  “Is Roxie talent?” Duval asked Carl, as though Roxie wasn’t standing beside him.

  “We’re friends,” Roxie said, cutting him off.

  “Mmm. I see,” Duval said, her eyes narrowing. “And what do you do, Roxie?”

  “Porn, mostly. I’m a fluffer.” She smiled and turned to Carl. “Where’s the bathroom? I need to freshen up.”

  “Over there,” Carl stammered, pointing to a far wall.

  “Nice meeting you,” Roxie said, giving Duval a finger waggle before setting off to find the ladies’ room. She momentarily regretted her acerbic comment, but figured Carl could deal with it. Duval didn’t know her and wouldn’t touch her music even if she did, so Roxie had nothing to lose by being a brat. Plus she’d been banging her head against the wall in the music scene for six years now, and felt like she’d paid her dues – or at least enough of them to not put up with being talked down to like an object.

  She felt the bartender’s eyes on her as she crossed the room and smiled to herself. She’d definitely have to circle around and find a few moments to have a chat. She’d been single now for coming up on a year, and she came from the school of thought that if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  With the way her luck had been going lately, he probably lived with his boyfriend. Who knew it would be so hard to find someone compatible in a city with millions of eligible men? But everyone she’d dated was an imbecile, a freak, or an aspiring actor who wanted a mommy.

  Roxie sighed when she entered the bathroom and interrupted three women younger than she was doing lines off a pocket compact mirror. That was so eighties. She waited for a stall to free up and spent the time studying her phone, wondering what the hell she was doing there anyway. The answer was more depressing than the question, so she downed the rest of her drink as the door swung wide. A statuesque blonde in a micromini skirt stepped from inside with a drunken expression and giggled meaninglessly. Roxie let her by and slid her phone back into her pocket, resolved to make the best of things and have a good time no matter what, even if the party and everyone at it totally sucked.

  Chapter 9

  Los Angeles, California

  Bethany’s car eased into a slot in front of a six-story condo building near Robertson Boulevard. She shut off the engine, slid her purse strap over her shoulder, and drew a calming breath. I can do this.

  She stepped from the vehicle and reared back as a gray cat darted from the hedge and took off down the street at a dead run. Her pulse thudded in her ears and she waited for
it to calm before proceeding to the building, where she pressed a button on the exterior intercom and waited for someone to respond.

  “Yes?” The voice was male and heavily Russian accented even on the single syllable, the intonation unmistakable.

  “Rudi? It’s me.”

  The door buzzed. She pushed it open and stepped into the marble lobby past the dry wall fountain with streaks of calcium running down the surface like icicles. She walked to the elevator and, when the stainless steel door slid open, stepped in and stabbed the button for the top floor.

  Bethany hated elevators – likely a throwback to her childhood, when her mother had instilled a fear of heights in her, passing on her own defect to her daughter. She couldn’t help but envision something going wrong and the contrivance plunging with her inside, a steel coffin dropping at the speed of gravity, carrying her to her death. She understood it was irrational, that she was in far more danger of dying in a car accident within a few blocks of her house than in an elevator or a plane, but the knowledge did little to quiet her anxiety, and she was relieved when it slowed to a jerky stop at the penthouse level and the muted bell chimed to announce her arrival.

  She made her way to the far door and knocked. Seconds crawled by, and then came the sound of a bolt sliding open and a chain being unclasped. The door opened and a tall man with a mop of black unruly hair cascading down his white silk shirt glanced at her, lingering for only a moment before roaming the hall to confirm nobody else was there.

  “Come in,” he said, and stood aside.

  The condo was lavishly furnished, deceptively opulent considering the neighborhood and the building. The odor of cigarette smoke and marijuana permeated the walls, and she waited as the man relocked the door before joining her in the living room.

  “Sit,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  Bethany did so and cleared her throat. “Rudi, I have another set of numbers for you. But you need to pay me, and not the usual way.”

  “I saw the news.”

  “Yes, it was awful. But that doesn’t change anything, Rudi.”