Kimmie Sue Beauford's traveling companion had a couple of inches and twenty pounds of solid, gymrat muscle on David. The deep-tanned, dark-haired Goliath dressed in a spandex wife beater and jeans introduced himself as Rocco Jarek. Two seconds and a snarl from Marlin elicited his real name: Rodney Windle.
In the months since her father's funeral, Kimmie Sue had transformed from a striking, green-eyed brunette to a blond, pouty-lipped Barbie doll. David's conservative roots might be showing, but a skintight halter top, denim miniskirt and high-heeled sandals weren't what grieving, overnight orphans usually wore to a walk-through.
"David?" Her aqua contact lenses glittered in the streetlight's halogen glow. Feigning disappointment, she said, "I've told Rocco so much about you, he's jealous, and you don't even remember me, do you?"
"Of course I do, Ms. Beauford. Allow me to extend my and the department's condolences about your mother."
She flinched, as if he'd slapped her. David had a feeling he'd be buying his own coffee with that five-spot Marlin owed him.
As they proceeded to the front door, Marlin angled his notebook, so David could read the line under Kimmie Sue's boyfriend's address, driver's license, social security and tag numbers: Rocco Jarekhired dick.
David murmured, "He's a private investigator?"
Considering the source, he should have expected "Uh-uh. Porn star. Grade B, jumbo," Marlin grunted. "Don't ask how I know."
The air temperature inside the house was twenty degrees warmer than that morning. Most of the postmortem odor had dissipated and the stench of stale nicotine and cigarette smoke prevailed. Despite the lights and lamps Marlin switched on, there was the perceptible, indescribable emptiness that four people, or four hundred, couldn't dispel.
Kimmie Sue hugged her bare arms tight to her chest and nestled against Jarek. "I've changed my mind. I can't do this." Peering up at him, she said, "Please, take me back to the motel."
"It won't be any easier tomorrow, Kim," he said. "Might as well get it over with, then we can kick back and relax."
Marlin and David exchanged a look. Any remark was open to interpretation. Trust two cops to hear implications where none might exist.
Kimmie Sue gripped Jarek's hand as they moved into the living room, then the dining room. As Marlin opened drawers and cupboard doors, she surveyed the contents and shook her headno, nothing appeared to be missing.
From there, they trooped into the utility room, circled Bev's car in the garage, then backtracked to the kitchen.
"Everything seems like it always was," Kimmie Sue said. "Little things are differentthe dish towels, that tacky compote over there. But gosh, you know, I moved to L.A. a long time ago."
David was watching her, gauging her reactions, while Marlin concentrated on Jarek. So far, detached was the best description David could conjure. If it was a game face, Kimmie Sue's was the best he could recall. Evidently, fingerprint powder strewn on every horizontal surface and a goodly share of verticals didn't count as different, much less a little thing.
And he knew for a fact, that compote had belonged to Bev's mother. The first time he was a guest in this house, he'd told Bev that his grandmother had one exactly like it. Depression glass, she'd called it, because during the thirties, movie houses gave away all sorts of cheap knickknacks to help sell tickets.
Bev might have stored it away for safekeeping when her daughter was growing up, but if David had seen it, surely Kimmie Sue had, as well.
As she entered the family room, Kimmie Sue's eyes widened and darted from the damaged coffee table to the carpet flattened and trampled by gurney wheels and a dozen pairs of shoes. She shrank back against Jarek. "Oh, God. This is where Mom " Her stiletto heels digging into the floor, she pushed against his chest. "No, please, IDon't make me go in there. I can't. I can't."
Sobbing into her hands, she said, "Damn it, why are you doing this to me? Anybody can tell nothing's gone. She didn't have anything worth stealing."
Jarek glowered at Marlin. "This is bullshit. I'm getting her out of here."
The detective shifted his weight and the gentle, sympathetic tone he'd used on Kimmie Sue. "It's like you said, Rodney. It ain't gonna be any easier tomorrow." A shrug, then, "You'd think you'd want to help us find whoever did this to your girlfriend's mother."
"I do," Jarek blustered. "I just can't handle seeing Kim upset like this. First you hit her with the news her mother's beenuh, that she's passed on, then you expect her to take inventory? It's fuckin' cruel, man."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Jarek," said David, the designated good guy. "I realize how hard this is for both of you, but Ms. Beauford is the only one that can tell us what we need to know."
"Oh, yeah? What about neighbors? Friends?"
Bending down, David looked into Kimmie Sue's eyes. A trifle bloodshot but dry. He wanted to be surprised. "A few more minutes is all I'm asking for. Okay?"
Sniffling, she swiped the pad of a taloned finger along her lower lids. "Okay." A brave smile. "Thanks, David. For understanding."
Marlin smoothly separated her from Jarek. Cupping her elbow, he escorted her through the family room. Jarek stayed close behind, David now bird-dogging him.
They paused in the foyer where the stairway led to the second floor. Marlin said, "Go on up, while me and Ms. Beauford take a breather. Master bedroom's next."
David gestured after you to Jarek. The carpeted plank treads creaked under their respective weights. Beyond the landing were four doors, all of them closed. On the right, Kimmie Sue's old bedroom was now a guest room. The spare room nearer the end of the hall had been converted to Larry Beauford's home office and den. The first door on the left was a full bath.
Jarek strode directly to the second door. Reaching for the knob, he pulled back his hand, glancing at David. "I, uh, I almost forgot I'm not supposed to touch anything."
Not yet, you aren't, David thought. He took out a handkerchief and wiped off the powder residue smudging the knob. "All clear. You can go on in now."
Jarek hesitated, exhaled, then turned the knob. Once inside the master bedroom, David stationed himself at the door, forcing Kimmie Sue and Marlin to sidle past him. Nothing and nobody were going to lay a finger on that doorknob, until after she and Jarek vacated the premises and Marlin redusted it.
Kimmie Sue broke down for real at the sight of her mother's jewelry and clothing strewn across the bed and floor. Marlin recorded descriptions of a missing diamond cocktail ring, a pearl solitaire and earrings, a ruby brooch, a diamond pendant and Larry's horseshoe pinkie ring that he'd kept in Bev's jewelry box.
Kimmie Sue refused to enter her father's office. "I couldn't after he died," she shrieked. "I can't now. I won't." She cut and ran down the hallway, stopping at the stairs just long enough to kick off her shoes, sending them flying into the foyer.
"Kim" Jarek shot Marlin and David a hateful glare and chased after her. Seconds later, the door slammed hard enough to rattle the doorbell's chimes.
Marlin's mouth formed a lowercase O. "That went pretty well, don'tcha think?"
An engine roared outside. Tires squealed on the pavement. Chafing the back of his neck, David said, "I honestly don't know what to think about either one of them."
"Slick work on that doorknob." Marlin hitched a shoulder. "Could be, I'll be buying you a beer before the night's over."
Twenty minutes later, Josh Phelps greeted them back at the Outhouse with a grinning "Guess what?"
Marlin said, "You got a hit on AFIS."
"Yeah, but get this"
"The print on the rearview matches Rodney Windle aka Rocco Jarek, current known address, Los Angeles, California."
Josh and David looked at each other, then at Marlin. He held up the tape strip lifted off the doorknob. "What the hell are you two staring at? Phelps said guess what, so I guessed."
Handing over the strip to the rookie, he said, "Well, what are you waiting for, Sheriff? Let's go pick up the drone."
David drove this time, h
is cruiser having an accessible back seat. "What about Kimmie Sue?" he asked. "How do you think she figures in?"
"Takes two to tango." Marlin lowered the window and hung over the ledge to smoke. "Jarek's been in that house. I don't know who shut all the doors upstairs after we processed it this morning. Phelps, probably. But when I said 'Master bedroom,' damned if Jarek didn't lead you straight to it."
"Bev's jewelry, though. It doesn't make sense that Kimmie Sue would say what's missing if she was in on the murder."
"Maybe she's stupid. Maybe the guilt got to her." Marlin drummed a rat-a-tat on the door panel. "Maybe Jumbo Dick paid himself a bonus for doing her dirty work."
David didn't want to believe any of it; the burning sensation licking up his breastbone said one or all of the theories could be true.
The Wishing Well began life as a motor court, in an era when motel was synonymous with sleazy. Its age showed in the red shingled roof, clapboard siding and fieldrock trim, but for under fifty bucks a night, guests got a clean room, a pool, basic cable TV and free local calls.
"No Jeeps," Marlin noted.
"There's less traffic noise around the back," David said, and circled the L-shaped building.
The Wishing Well was his temporary home, after he took the chief deputy's job. The owner was delighted to have him and knocked a chunk off the weekly rate. The room he'd occupied was in the rear corner, so prospective customers wouldn't spot David's patrol unit and assume a raidor a rendezvouswas in progress.
Good ol' room 23 appeared to be vacant. Farther down were nine lighted windows with the drapes closed. Nine corresponding vehicles nosed the broad cement walkway. None of them was a Jeep.
Marlin hammered the window ledge. "Shit."
Pulling around toward the office again, David said, "Maybe Kimmie Sue's buying Jarek that cup of coffee."
"There're coffeemakers in the rooms" sufficed as the detective's exit line, before the cruiser rolled to a complete stop.
David didn't recognize the night-desk clerk. Marlin's yank on the office's glass door was anything but sociable. While he made a new friend, David did a one-eighty to survey the Wishing Well's street entrance.
Marlin stormed out of the office, his face redder than his necktie's diagonal stripes. Hurling himself into the passenger seat, he bellowed, "Fuckers checked out two hours ago."
Marlin snatched the mike from its hook. "Baker 2-03."
Dispatch responded, "Go ahead, 2-03."
"Get me a statewide APB, Tony." Marlin's finger inched down a page in his notebook, as he supplied the vehicle's make, model, description and tag number. "California registration, Rodney Windle, also known as Rocco Jarek. Probable secondary occupant, Kimmie Sue Beauford. Got that?"
Static, then, "Larry's daughter?" A lengthy pause. "What's the charge against them, 2-03?"
Marlin looked at David. His voice caught when he answered, "Suspicion of homicide, Tony. Both of them."
7
Malcolm whimpered as Cruella De Vil's henchmen loaded the dalmatian puppies into the truck. Hannah hugged his neck and set the popcorn bowl between his paws. Poor guy. He'd been depressed for days after she rented Old Yeller.
"It's okay, Malc. I promise this one has a happy ending."
A skeptical moomph averred that happy for a human could fall short of a tail-wagger for him. Even giant Airedale-wildebeests had trust issues, it seemed.
Malcolm was so riveted on the TV screen, he didn't twitch a whisker when the doorbell rang. Hannah zapped down the volume with the remote, as though the uninvited visitor might assume any overheard snatch of soundtrack was an auditory hallucination.
David wouldn't, but he was occupied with the Beauford homicide. The first forty-eight hours were critical. From what he'd told her earlier on the phone, the ten that already elapsed hadn't generated any revelations. Which was why Hannah was dressed for watching a kid flick with her dog, not for David, or for company. And honestly not in the mood for it, either.
Then again, the usual suspects never failed to bring refreshments along with them: ooey-gooey luscious refreshments that put the pie she'd eaten that afternoon to shame, let alone the bologna, mustard and crushed potato chip sandwich that sufficed as dinner.
Sure enough, the gumshoe gang stood in the glow of the porch's bug light. All five beamed at Hannah as though it were Halloween and word on the street was, she was handing out full-size candy bars.
To the first in line, she inquired, "What, did you leave the lock-pick gun in your other pants?"
The ones Delbert was wearing were solid navy-blue. His dress shirt, plain white. A braided leather belt matched his lace-up oxfords and attaché case. He pulled open the screen door, saying, "You told me not to use the lock picker anymore when you're home."
She'd told him not to use it, period. But concessions were rare, so must be appreciated while they lasted. As for Delbert's world's-oldest-Catholic-schoolboy attire, something was up and it wasn't his fashion-consciousness.
Marge Rosenbaum was the Mod Squad's recording secretary. A visor banded her cropped gray hair, as if a round of moonlight golf was planned after the meeting adjourned. She regarded her own white blouse and dark slacks, muttered, "I feel like a Bobbsey twin," and headed for the office nook to retrieve the extra chair they'd need in the breakfast room.
IdaClare Clancy's cotton-candy hairdo, jersey knit palazzos, tunic and the poodles hugged to her bosom were variations on her cottage's paint job and the lacquered baby grand in her living room. For Jack's mother, "in the pink" was an attitude, a lifestyle and her entire wardrobe.
She bobbled the Furwads, who appeared to be stoned out of their tiny, vicious minds. "Say hello to your aunt Hannah," she cooed, wiggling one of Itsy's, or Bitsy's, little paws.
Switching to a nonpoodle voice, she said, "I know I should have called, dear, but I couldn't leave them home by themselves. Good heavens, what if the house caught fire while I was gone?"
Jack would revert to an only child, but even he wouldn't wish a horrible, painful death on the teacup terrors. Just a sudden, natural, premature one.
Hannah waved toward the couch where Malcolm was lapping up unpopped kernels from the bottom of the bowl. "The snack bar's pretty much closed, but 101 Dalmatians is now playing at Garvey's Bijou. He can fill in Itsy and Bitsy on what's happened so far."
The last two through the door were newlyweds Leo and Rosemary Schnur, whom Hannah had affectionately nicknamed Mr. Potato Head and the Vamp. Leo, a postwar German immigrant, bore an uncanny resemblance to the former, while Rosemary, his bride of three months, was a vision in plus-size lamé stirrup pants, huge gold hoop earrings and a cleavage-intensive, V-necked top.
Considering the massive baking dish lidded in aluminum foil Rosemary was carrying, it must have been her turn to bring the refreshments. Tonight's edible extortion smelled as fattening as ever, but wasn't the typical cake, cheesecake, cobbler, cinnamon rolls or cookies.
C-food, Hannah thought, as Leo held up a bag of tortilla chips. Talk about a revelation. Everything she loved most, apart from Malcolm, David and the gumshoes, began with a C.
"The eight-layer dip it is we're having." Leo's jowls quivered in anticipation. "Only the seven layers, my darling Rosemary used to make, but on the beans she put the spicy meat and now it is eight."
"More like a big taco," Rosemary said. "I just hope it isn't too greasy."
Two things were guaranteed to fog Leo's thick hornrimmed glasses: an unobstructed view of his beloved's bazooms and cuisine with a high sugar or grease content. In combination, the retired insurance executive's visibility descended to zero.
Hannah led him by the hand into the breakfast room, where Marge was brewing a pot of decaf. Hannah despised the stuff, but acknowledged her elders' caffeine sensitivity. Nursing a cup of weak, no-octane was preferable to letting the five of them loose after a meeting wired to the gills.
IdaClare was setting the table with a serving spoon, paper napkins and bowls. Physical therapy had res
tored dexterity to her right shoulder, but muscles and tendons ripped by a bullet wound mended, rather than healed.
She'd insisted that becoming a semi-southpaw had improved her golf swing and that she'd simply forgotten to sign up for this year's club championship tournament. "I was thinking about skipping it, anyway, dear," she told Hannah. "After coming in second so many times, Marge deserves that first-place trophy. What do I need with another dust catcher cluttering up my house?"
"For crissake, IdaClare. Quit fussing with the dishes," Delbert said. "We ain't having high tea at the Waldorf-Astoria."
"Ha. You wouldn't get past the doorman, Shorty."
"Ha, yourself." He removed six file folders from the attaché case and a tattered copy of Trade Secrets from the Masters of Criminal Investigation. "You couldn't get your rump through the goldurned door."
Halfway to Half Way Page 8