Both men studied the body, and then Black turned away and perused the apartment. Modest furnishings, Ikea art on the walls, a few throw rugs for color. Black moved to the side table by the entrance and eyed the stack of mail resting in a large clay bowl. Stan joined him.
“Got an extra pair of gloves?” Black asked.
Stan pulled two more from his pocket, and Black donned them before rifling through the mail. He stopped after several minutes and looked at Stan. “Lot of unpaid bills. Some going back a few months. It appears Mary had some money problems.”
“That makes sense. She had some meth in her bedroom.”
Black stared at him in disbelief. “You were waiting for Christmas to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to interfere with the workings of a great mind.”
“You think this might be about drugs?”
Stan shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”
“Any boyfriend? Or girlfriend?”
“Not that we’ve turned up.”
Black shook his head. “How’s that for an existence? Living in a craphole, working nights, doing speed.”
“Most meth addicts don’t have vibrant romantic lives. And judging from what’s left of her, she wouldn’t exactly stop traffic.”
“The meth explains how jittery she was.” A thought occurred to Black. “Run a tox screen on her, just in case it’s a plant to throw us off the scent.”
“Which scent is that?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Which already occurred to me.”
“You check her garage?”
“We’re just finishing up here. Took me a while to get to Carson from the station. The manager said she’d mark Mary’s unit for us.”
“Why are you working so late?”
“Too many stiffs, too little time,” Stan quipped.
“You should write greeting cards.”
“I know. It’s a gift.”
Stan and Black removed their booties and descended the steps. Stan led the way to the row of garage doors stretching into the gloom. “That’s it,” Stan said, pointing at one halfway down with a piece of paper taped to it. He pulled the note off and read it, and then crumpled it up and stuffed it into his pocket. “Good thing the manager has a master key. It’s unlocked.”
Black pulled on the handle, and the heavy wooden door hinged up. Stan flipped on a penlight and found the light switch. A single bulb illuminated the stall. There was no car inside, and Black took a cautious step into the space, instantly feeling claustrophobic. Stan followed him in and they looked around.
“I don’t know. Anything catch your eye?”
“Not really,” Black said. “Although it looks like something was sitting here until recently,” he said, gesturing to several dark rectangles on the floor in the film of dust. “Do these look like a woman’s shoe?”
Stan peered down at the footprint in the coating and nodded. “Little big, don’t you think?”
“Might be the perp. Could be she had something she was holding for him?”
“Possible. Looks like we’ll have to question everyone in the damned apartment block now to see if they spotted any vehicles back here.”
“All in a night’s work, right?”
“How do you see it fitting in with the store, if it even does?”
“Maybe she was stealing stuff? Or she was in cahoots with Alec and the perp, who were stealing stuff? That’s what addicts generally do, right?”
“Alec?”
“The victim. It would fit with what a few of the workers hinted at – that Alec also did drugs.”
“Lots of people smoke a joint now and then. Hardcore meth fiends don’t usually hold down jobs.”
“Maybe they were dealing it, and they stored the stuff here?”
Stan considered Black’s face. “You’re not just a bad empty suit after all, are you?”
Black fingered one of his lapels. “This one’s headed for the dumpster, so mock me all you want.” He checked the time. “I need to get back. Roxie’s at Home World, and I still have to question one of the workers.”
“This help you at all?”
“Sure. I mean, it gives us reasonable doubt for Bethany, doesn’t it?”
“Unless the prosecution uses it as motive. Which you can bet they will.”
Realization dawned on him that Stan was right. “Drugs or theft are just a theory.”
“Which is all motive generally is. That sword cuts both ways, homeboy.”
“What did McCarthy say?”
“That he’s working his own case and will call when he calls.”
Black shook his head. “What a crappy night.”
“Look at the bright side. The suit goes.”
“Now you sound like Roxie.”
Stan grinned. “Better get some sleep soon. You’re hallucinating.”
“Later, big guy.”
“Toodles.”
Chapter 30
A paunchy furry form waddled along an aisle, sniffing occasionally at the merchandise. Mugsy was refreshed after several hours of slumber, brought on by the strenuous napping on the drive from Los Angeles. Driving always made him sleepy, as well as hungry, and now that he’d rested sufficiently he was ready for action, or at least food.
He peeked around a corner and spotted a doorway by the loading dock. His nose twitched and his pupils dilated as his tail swished like a cobra preparing to strike. He listened with his head slightly cocked and, hearing nothing, darted toward the gap, the gloom masking his movement.
Inside, the object that had drawn his attention hung from the back of a swivel chair – a leather multicolored racing jacket draped casually over the backrest. The porcine feline looked at it like a vagrant eyeing a rum bottle, and then trotted to the chair and rose on his haunches.
The first swipe of his paw did little damage, and Mugsy put more effort into his shredding, pulling downward with his claws until the sleeve was little more than tatters. He soon lost interest, the effort of his project draining his reserves, and plodded around the office until he came upon a bundle of cables leading from a junction box on the wall to the back of a server. Intrigued, he swiped at one of the cables. It barely gave, but Mugsy rose to the challenge, some part of his cat brain recalling similar black spaghetti at the office that he’d flayed to bits.
Two minutes later, three of the blinking monitors on the desk above flickered and went dark. Emboldened by partial success, he accelerated his clawing and chewing until most of the displays were off.
Mugsy yawned, bored now that he’d exerted himself, and teetered a few steps before rolling over on his side, partially beneath the desk. His eyelids trembled and shut, and within seconds he was out cold, his soft snores rumbling in the small space.
Ten minutes later, approaching footsteps woke him, and he fixed his attention on a shadow by the door. He slunk into a dark corner, his eyes glowing in the gloom like orange coals, ears straight overhead, the tip of his tail twitching like a banker’s polygraph.
“What the hell!” Henry roared when he caught sight of his prized jacket. He sped across the room to the chair and then stopped with his mouth hanging open in amazement at the bank of darkened screens. “How…?”
His expression changed from surprise to disgust as he sniffed the air. “Jesus…” he whispered, waving one hand, and coughed, the odor unbearable. His eyes narrowed to slits as he slowly scanned the office, his fingers balled into fists, blood flushing his thin face.
Mugsy, no stranger to outraged humans, yawned and stretched as the clumsy biped stomped around the room. He watched in quiet amusement until the man drew close, and then propelled himself like an obese raccoon toward the doorway. The man sensed something, but by the time he could try a kick, he’d missed his opportunity, and Mugsy was free in the store again, making for the wall-mounted racks to his right like a sprinter in the last stretch of a winning race.
The man’s howls of anger behind him faded as Mugsy burrowed between a s
ofa display and a pile of throw pillows. He slowed at the appealing proposition of more opportunity for destruction, but lost interest when the couch and pillows offered little challenge for his skills. Ignoring the running footsteps sounding from the office, he scuttled further along the back side of the rack until the annoying clamor was too far off to care about. He spied a stack of dog food stacked on the shelf at the end of the aisle and sniffed dismissively. It smelled terrible.
But then again, this was an emergency, and it wouldn’t do to let his strength fade with unknown challenges ahead.
Mugsy leapt up with the agility of a trapeze artist, and two swats with his claw split the nearest bag open. The clatter of hard pellets hitting the cement floor beneath him drew his attention, and then he tried a bite of one of the pieces.
He blew it out in disgust, and the pellet arced through the air, covered in cat saliva. Having confirmed his worst suspicions about the appeal of the food, he made his way along a crossbeam and jumped to the next shelf.
After several more minutes of navigating the displays, he found an area that appealed to him at the top of one of the carpet racks, where dozens of the floor coverings were stacked two stories above the floor. He curled up contentedly, his delicate disposition unmarred by the excitement.
Chapter 31
Bethany’s car groaned like a drunk with the DTs before starting just as the headlights were dimming. “Piece of crap,” she complained, waiting for the irregular idle to smooth out, and then put the transmission in gear. Her head was spinning, but she’d driven hammered enough times to believe she could make it; and at this point, after her tantrum at the house, she didn’t have much choice.
Soon she was crawling along the road that led to the highway home, to her roommates, who thought she was a stuck-up bitch, she knew. Whatever. She didn’t need the two of them to love her, just pay their share of the rent.
“Lying bastard,” she spat, the reminder that rent would be due in another week and she was destitute fueling her anger to new heights. With no Larry to give her a few bucks, she’d remain broke, and it was probable now that he’d arrange to have her fired. Of course, two could play at that game, and he owed her. She’d talk to an attorney about suing him – or maybe just telling the wife. The prick would be willing to cough up to make her go away, she was sure. Maybe even thousands. You never knew.
Her front fender barely cleared the gate, and she slowed to a near stop to text Larry’s cell. After typing in a series of expletives, she pressed send and resumed driving, her right hand over one eye to stop the alarming double vision that had popped up out of nowhere.
Oncoming headlights blinded her on the two-way road down the hill, halos of light that seemed bright as twin suns in her compromised state. She gritted her teeth and fought to stay in her lane, the road seemingly as treacherous as black ice, and gasped in relief when the car passed her.
“Maintain, girl. You can do this,” she said, and accelerated to fifteen miles per hour, which seemed like breaking the sound barrier to her.
She was on the boulevard that led to the freeway when a surge of nausea hit, nearly causing her to black out.
“Oh God, oh God,” she wailed, choking back vomit as she twisted the wheel and applied the brakes.
Bethany pulled to the curb and barely made it out of the car before the night’s festivities came back to haunt her. She retched, the effluence reeking of tequila, and then a second set of spasms set in and she expelled the remainder of her liquid dinner.
When she looked up, gasping for breath, she saw the strobing lights of a police car rolling to a stop behind her. Bethany tried to straighten up as the cop got out of the car, and then her stomach twisted again and she was dry heaving, leaning against her car for support.
The officer waited until she was finished to speak.
“Looks like quite a party,” he said.
“I…I think I got something bad to eat,” Bethany tried.
“Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around these days. License and registration?”
Bethany fumbled with her purse and closed her eyes when her pipe dropped out on the seat. The cop smiled like it was an early Christmas. “Looks like you’re done, young lady.”
She handed him the license, her vision blurry. “You don’t understand.”
“I never do. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
She started crying, the tears flowing freely, like a burst dam. “I…I found a friend dead this morning. And now my rat-shit boyfriend’s cheating on me.”
“For the record, how much have you had to drink tonight?” he asked, unimpressed.
“Maybe a few beers.”
“A few beers. I’m going to breathalyze you. If it was only a few beers, you might be under the limit.”
Ten minutes later backup had arrived. Bethany had been breathalyzed and blown a whopping 2.3, and a female officer had seated her in the rear of her car after a perfunctory search and reading the Miranda rights. The officer slammed the door on her and turned to the male cop.
“Smells like she took a bath in tequila, doesn’t it?”
“Pretty amazing she’s still conscious.”
“Want to bet she barfs all over the car?”
“You may get lucky.” The male officer paused. “She said something about finding someone dead this morning.”
“Yeah. Right. Well, we’ll run her through the system. She’s not going anywhere. Probably won’t even remember the bust when she comes to in the tank.”
“They never learn, do they?”
“That’s why we get paid. See you back at the station.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
Chapter 32
Black mulled over the possibilities that Mary’s murder and the stash of methamphetamine had introduced as he drove back to the store. Stan was right – if the prosecution could, it would theorize that Bethany had been involved in the drug business with Alec, and the killing had been a lethal disagreement. Any decent defense attorney would get it thrown out absent any proof, but Black knew that juries, even if instructed to disregard something, would often continue to add the weight of the theory to their deliberations. It was human nature – if you told someone not to think of a panda, the first thing that would pop into their mind was one of the black and white beasts, where it would stay for as long as they tried not to think about it.
Nancy had refused to discuss Alec’s drug use. A refusal to discuss could be just as good as an admission, he knew, in the right hands. She’d be forced to answer questions about it in court, and her answer would be the nail in the coffin for Bethany.
The glowing lights of a convenience store beckoned to Black, and he drifted into the lot and parked. Several youths loitered outside, and he rethought his impulse until a police cruiser parked next to the Cadillac. The boys suddenly discovered someplace else they needed to be, taking to their BMX bikes like roaches scuttling when the lights came on.
Black followed the cops in and bought two cups of coffee, barely resisting the urge to toss in a pack of Marlboros. But with Roxie there, he didn’t dare. He’d already taken enough of her crap, and didn’t need to give her an open invitation to berate him further.
He pulled around to the back of Home World and took a slot near the employee entrance. As he meandered to the door, he noticed there were a few more cars in the lot than when he’d left, and another big rig was backed into the loading dock, the driver standing by the hood as workers emptied the trailer.
When Black reached the office, he struggled to open the door with both hands holding coffee, and managed only after two failed attempts. Roxie looked up from where she was working.
Black smiled and approached her. “I got you coffee,” he said.
“Coffee’s poison. I guess after almost three years, it’s hard to remember who on your huge staff does and doesn’t drink what.”
Black flushed. “Sorry. Forgot. It’s been a long day.”
“Did you find Mugs
y?”
“No. But he’ll turn up when he’s hungry. Which is every hour on the hour, judging by his girth.”
“I can’t believe you let him escape. There are forklifts in here. He could get hit.”
“We’ll find him. Make any progress?” Black asked, sipping one of the cups as he set the other on a file cabinet.
“I hit an all-time personal best for online poker.”
“I was thinking more about the case.”
“Oh.” She returned to the screen.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so worried about Mugsy…”
He frowned. “You’re F-ing with me, aren’t you?”
“You’re like psychic or something. You see through me like you’ve got X-ray vision.”
Black took a calming breath. “So?”
“It’s eerie. Can you see through my clothes?”
“What have you got for me, Roxie?”
“I got in.”
“Really?” Black asked, moving closer to her.
“Of course. Did you have any doubt?”
“Not for an instant. And?”
“Nothing much. I mean, nothing that didn’t look work related.”
Black’s shoulders sagged. “So much for that.”
“Although…” Roxie turned back to the screen.
“What?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing.”
“Are you enjoying this? Surely there are some flies you can pull the wings off, or some ants you can step on.”
“Well, it’s weird. Someone accessed his files after he was killed.”
Black tilted his head. “After?”
“Exactly. So either he’s got a hell of a story to base a religion on, or someone else has his password and was snooping around.”
“Any way to tell if they deleted anything?”
“Not if they covered their tracks. I already looked in the file allocation tables and the recycle bin. Nothing.”
“Do you know when they accessed them, or from where?”
“Yes. Yesterday at four in the morning. From terminal six.”
BLACK in the Box Page 13